Come Be My Love

by Diana Brown

  "Oh, Cassy, it will. Don't do it, please don't."

  "But there is nothing else I can do."

  I sat up in bed. "We could run away."

  "Where could we run to—and on what? We have no money; we have no one who will shelter us. No, no, it is useless."

  I sat with my head in my hands. There must be someone we could go to. Aunt Maud wouldn't take us in, that was sure. We didn't know any relatives on my mother's side; I think most of them were dead. But there must be someone who would take us.

  "We could work as governesses," I said at last.

  "Without training and without references? You might know enough to teach, but I certainly don't. And where could we stay until we found a situation? Be practical, Alex; we can't run away."

  "I'd sooner lead a life of sin than marry against my will," I said fiercely.

  Cassy sighed. "Some man might take you for a mistress, but I doubt anyone would want a dumpling like me."

  "Oh, Cassy, if only you knew how beautiful you are to me, you wouldn't talk of yourself so."

  "If you were a man and unrelated to me, my problems might be solved. But you are my sister, my dearest sister to be sure, but equally as helpless as I am." She came over and took me by the shoulders. "I've come to ask a favour of you. I want you to come to the church tomorrow. I know you don't wish to, but it is my wedding and I want you to be there. Will you come?"

  "Of course I will, for you, but I shall have to hold my tongue when the priest asks for those knowing reasons you should not be joined. I know a hundred at least."

  "No scenes, promise me! It won't help anything, and it can make matters very much worse for both of us. Remember you are of marriageable age. Don't make things harder for yourself."

  "Can I run away to you if father makes me marry against my will?" I asked.

  "Of course you can, and I'll hide you in a cupboard or under the bed . . ." She flushed suddenly and then said softly, "I must go now. I'll see you in the morning." She kissed me quickly and was gone.

  The next day they were married. I held my peace and did not speak; in fact I said not two words the whole day. I never wished to see another wedding at St. Mary's. I wondered why such a beautiful church existed to bear witness to such dismal ceremonies. No wonder women cried at weddings. They knew what they were about.

  XIV

  Life was bleak indeed after Cassy left. Twice I broached the subject to father of allowing me to see Crumpet, or to ask that he be brought to see me. On all counts he was adamant in his refusal. I expected protests from Lady Bladen, but I discov­ered that father had written to Darius informing him of his decision. Darius, in reply, had called on father. I was, of course, not allowed to see him, nor was I told what passed between them, but since I was still precluded from visiting Charteris, it was evident that Darius had not succeeded in changing father's mind. Had he come at his mother's urging, I wondered, unhappily all too sure it was so. I cursed myself for continuing to love him when he never looked on me as a woman. He had Althea Brentwood to comfort him, in a rela­tionship of pleasure, perhaps, a brief and shallow thing com­pared with the gash Philomena had left in his soul, but, nevertheless, one all too real.

  I missed Crumpet terribly, but though I was willing to defy father to see him, I had little opportunity to do so. Mother made me responsible for those household duties that had been Cassy's, and she followed me everywhere, whether to be sure I carried out my tasks properly or whether from loneli­ness I could not say, yet it was too late to attempt to close the gap between us. She had let Cassy go without a murmur. I could never confide in her.

  That time before spring passed on feet as leaden as the skies above us. With Cassy gone and Paul back at Oxford, I had no one. Of course Thomas was there at father's side, as James was at mother's, while Netty preferred Eugenia's com­pany—but then I had had little in common with any of them.

  When I thought I could no longer bear my isolation, fa­ther showed me a note from Charteris, in Darius's hand. My initial reaction was joy until I read it, and then I discovered that Lady Bladen was ill, very ill it would seem, and wished to see me.

  "I suppose you should go in this instance, but don't think I am relaxing my decision. I shall not allow you to be a habitué of that house again, you understand that?"

  I nodded, but I barely heard him. My thoughts were all with Lady Bladen and the fact that I would see Crumpet again, and Darius, whom I had not spoken to since parting from him in anger.

  I found Darius in attendance at his mother's bedside and he greeted me with a mixture of happiness and relief.

  "Alex, thank goodness you came. How good to see you. All of us have missed you."

  "Had I had my choice, I would never have stayed away, but you must know that."

  I scarcely recognized Lady Bladen. Her face was thin and gaunt, her eyes sunken, without life or lustre. I took her hand— it was weak and lifeless—and I was not at all sure she recog­nized me. When Darius left us alone, I talked to her softly, reassuringly, struggling to hold back my tears. It was only at the mention of Crumpet's name that I was sure I had her attention, for then, feebly but insistently, she returned the pressure of my hands clasping hers.

  "Dear Alex. It's about Crumpet—I must speak to you of Crumpet. He's been on my mind so. He loves you dearly, and he has missed you so, the poor little chap. I shall not be here much longer—no, don't be sad, because I am not, except for those I leave behind, most particularly that child. I will not have him left to the vagaries of domestics. He needs care, for I fear he's a frail child, but more than that, he must have love, and we both know that Darius is not—is not yet able to show the love I know he must have for his son. But it will come, it must." She sighed heavily.

  "Please, don't strain yourself to talk now."

  "I must. I want you to promise me that you will stay near him, watch over him—at least until Darius provides him with a mother. Promise you will do this, for me."

  Her hands gripped mine convulsively. I would have promised her anything; to promise to watch over Crumpet was a matter of joy, though how I would persuade father to allow it, I had no idea.

  "Gladly, gladly—as long as it is within my power, I shall care for him," I promised. "But we shall do it together, as we have always."

  "No. My time on this earth is rapidly passing. I am con­vinced it is so, and in truth it is a relief, for I have had very little wish to live since Septimus died."

  I began to protest, but she shook her head, smiling weakly. "If I am not sorry, you should not be either. I've had a good life. I've enjoyed it, but I don't regret leaving it. You meant a great deal to Septimus, Alex, and you have been more than a daughter to me. I had hoped . . ." She looked intently into my face. "But I think you know what I hoped. I have learned by this time that it is impossible to plan the lives of others for them. Perhaps it is even wrong to wish to do so. Darius must make his own decisions—and yet this is one I wish I could make for him."

  It was strange to learn that Lady Bladen had cherished the same hopes as I had myself. I wished she had had as few scruples as father in planning the lives of others, but that wish died aborning. If Darius were to offer for me, it must be for myself, not to fulfill a duty to his mother or to provide care for his child.

  "I trust he will do nothing foolish, for I am convinced that his place in the history of our country is assured."

  "Darius will never act foolishly, Lady Bladen, have no fear of that."

  Two days later Lady Bladen was dead.

  I found myself in a predicament. I wanted to carry out the promise I had made to her, yet I was forbidden to go to Charteris. Following the funeral I received father's permission to pay my respects.

  I discovered that Lady Bladen had already communi­cated her wish to Darius and he was as much in a quandary on the matter as was I. "Your father is adamantly set against your coming here. He believes we have made a freethinker of you, and perhaps he is right. Was it your visit to Holland House that upse
t him?"

  I shook my head, going on to explain, coldly and quite factually, the details of Cassy's marriage and my opposition to it. I did not think I could speak of it without obvious con­tempt for Mr. Pomeroy, though I tried. Darius heard me out without a word. When he did speak, it was with calm, infu­riating male logic.

  "Yet surely it is a father's duty to do what is in the best interest of his daughter."

  To think Darius of all people should side with father! Or was it simply that all men thought alike?

  "Best interests! To marry her to an addlepate simply be­cause he has the means to support her and his demands for a settlement are to father's liking!"

  "But what were your sister's views on the matter?"

  "She despised him."

  "If that is so, why did she give her consent to marry him?"

  Darius would never understand a woman's lot, her lack of freedom to choose, I thought bitterly. But then I realized that his question to me was the very one I had put to Cassy, and my reply to him echoed hers.

  "To understand," I concluded, "it is necessary to under­stand father. When he decides on something, that is the way it will be. That is the reason I fear he will never allow me to come to John."

  "I am not convinced that it is impossible, but first I must know you wish to spend your time with the boy. He is grow­ing and quite rambunctious. To watch over his care is hardly exciting for a young lady of your tender years."

  "Of course I wish it," I replied vehemently. "The hap­piest days of my life have been spent here with John, and father is well aware of that. That is why in denying me Char­teris, he knows he takes from me my greatest pleasure. In asking this your mother did not seek to burden me. She knows I love the child as though he were—" I stopped short, sud­denly, embarrassed, "as though he were a member of my own family," I finished lamely.

  Darius scrutinized my face, and I felt my cheeks flush.

  "Then you really want it?"

  "I really do."

  "In that case I shall speak to your father. It may be, however, apart from his other objections, that now my mother is . . . is no longer living, he may be more inclined than ever that you should stay away."

  "But why?"

  "I am alone here. For that reason he may feel it improper that you should come. I shall explain to him that I shall be living in London, though I suppose I shall visit Charteris from time to time."

  My face fell, though he misunderstood the reason.

  "I reminded you once before: you must not give up before the battle has been joined. I am beginning to understand your father more. I cannot promise to be successful, but I think the argument I have in mind may win the day."

  I had little hope of his success, but I discovered that Darius did understand my father far better than I thought. It was much later, however, that I discovered that the permission I received from father to carry out Lady Bladen's dying wish had literally been bought. Darius put it to him in the form of a bequest made by his mother on her deathbed but not en­tered in her will, the bequest to be given only on the condition that I provide company for his son from time to time. If father thought it odd, he did not question it; the money, of which I saw nothing, must have assuaged his doubts. For my part, I was satisfied. I was allowed to return to the surroundings and to the child I loved.

  Thus I was relieved of the tedium of Seton Place and my daily tasks to resume that pattern of delight, caring for Crum­pet and writing. The great house was eerily quiet and lonely, but spring came with all of its promises, allowing Crumpet and me to spend most of our time outside and, while he napped in the afternoon, I wrote of the new Cassandra, the wise woman whom nobody would believe, or else long out­pourings to my own Cassandra of those things I would tell no one else, though even to my dearest sister I could never men­tion my greatest secret.

  Her responses, however, were dismally brief. They told me nothing of her life, but I presumed that, being able to write so little, she must be busy.

  Darius had left orders that my every need was to be sup­plied. Thus my letters were franked and dispatched without father's censoring. It was a freedom I relished. I started many a note to Darius, telling him little things that happened—Crumpet's progress, the bluebells in bloom, the sickness of Mrs. Stuckney, the birth of Eugenia's second child—yet I put them in the desk drawer, unsent. He in return sent no mes­sages. None, that is, until June, when the housekeeper received word that he would come with a large party—she was to have the guest rooms in readiness and to take in provisions for at least twelve.

  Though the annual spring cleaning had only recently been completed, another round began. I was curious to know who might be coming, but nothing was said and I asked no questions. They were expected daily, but the month was al­most out before I arrived one morning to find that the party from London had come the previous evening.

  I was encouraged to find that Darius had been in to see Crumpet on his arrival, even though it was late. Now that only the two of them remained, surely the bond between them must strengthen.

  As we returned from our walk, I saw Darius coming towards us accompanied by a tall, fair lady whom I had no trouble recognizing, even from so great a distance.

  Darius, in presenting me, reminded Lady Brentwood that we had met before.

  "Oh, to be sure. Delighted to see you again." She smiled very sweetly, clearly not remembering me, and directed her fixed smile to Crumpet. "So this is your son, Darius."

  "This is John," Darius replied. "And how has the young man been treating you, Alex? Not running you ragged, I trust?"

  "You are his governess, then." Lady Brentwood seemed relieved to have placed my role in Darius's household.

  It was Darius who hastened to reply that I was a neigh­bour and close friend of the family.

  "How sweet and unselfish of her to devote her time to someone else's child," Lady Brentwood purred, smiling complicity at me, her eyes cold and calculating. At once I was sure that she, of all people, had guessed my secret. I cannot say how I knew it to be so—whether it was her shrewd scrutiny of me or the way she put her arm possessively through that of her companion as she spoke—but I was convinced that in those few minutes, she had grasped the fact that I loved Darius, that I had long loved him. I felt suddenly naked, vulnerable, ex­posed before her whom I liked least. I left them quickly with­out another word, nor did I reply to Darius's invitation to lunch with them.

  I hated and feared her with the instinctive reaction of an antelope finding a lion in its thorn thicket. Like the antelope, I wanted to run. I stayed away from her, in fact away from all the gathered company while they were there. The fortnight of their stay was spent in a round of fishing, riding, dining, card playing and inevitable political discussions, which I gathered went on long into the night.

  Repeatedly Darius sought me out to talk to me, but I was uncommunicative. I was concerned that she might have told him of my devotion. I could imagine how she would make light of it, how she might tease him about his conquest; per­haps they might even laugh together about it. My cold, aloof attitude caused him to ask whether I was finding John a bur­den; when I replied negatively to that, he went on to ask whether I was experiencing difficulties at home. Again I shook my head and he retreated, puzzled, leaving me to dwell on my provincialism and my utter frustration.

  Their departure was planned, and I found myself glad when Darius bade me farewell. The house was quiet when I arrived the following morning to discover that all the carriages had left early except for that of the master of Charteris. He, I presumed, had chosen to ride beside Lady Brentwood's coach, or perhaps inside with her. I put the thought of them together from my mind, yet it persisted.

  Though I had longed for them to leave, all day I felt oddly dispirited. I did nothing, I wrote nothing and, when the time came for me to return home, I did not want to give up my solitude. I took up the Meditations of Marcus Aurelius and settled in the high-backed sofa by the window at the end of the library, overl
ooking the sloping back lawn. I read,

  Time is a sort of river of passing events, and strong is its current, no sooner is a thing brought to sight than it is swept by and another takes its place, and this too will be swept away.

  Was that how it would be, I wondered. Would this pass? Would the countess be swept away? I put my feet up and let my attention wander from the pages up to the clouds that floated by, silent as time, soft as a spirit's sigh. Drifting end­lessly across the endless summer sky, they were without weight, without substance. How would it be, I wondered, to be there among them, floating, fluttering, soaring without a care. Gravity loosened its hold of my body, my cares, my de­pression left me as I became one with them—free.

  The next time I looked out across the lawn I was aware, with a start, of the long evening shadows of the cedars and the darkening sky behind them. The afternoon had come and passed as I slept. I heard the crackle of a fire in the hearth and idly wondered why it had been lit.

  Apart from the fire, as I awakened I realized there were other sounds, muffled voices, one soft, the other a male voice. Could that be Darius, those mellow, seductive tones? The other I knew could only belong to one person—Althea Brent­wood.

  "You're a sensuous woman, Althea, a thoroughly wonder­ful, sensual woman, and you revel in that sensuality, as you should. You know just how to use every charm, every curve, every breath to bewitch me—more than that, to drive me to distraction as you do now."

  I was horrified at the words, but more so at my position as eavesdropper on such a scene. My whole body flushed at the predicament in which I found myself.

  A soft sigh was followed by a rustle and then a muffled sound—bodies, lips pressed together, I did not know nor did I wish to speculate. I looked for a means of escape but could see none. I lay still, desperately hoping they would leave.

  "Now who is being driven to distraction," I heard my pet aversion purr. "Let's not go upstairs, Darius, it is much more pleasant here in front of the fire, your bare skin against my bare skin on this bearskin."