Come Be My Love

by Diana Brown

  He laughed. "Punning at such a time, Althea."

  "Not anymore," she sighed.

  I had to do something and I had to do it immediately before they—even in my own mind I couldn't elucidate that thought further, but I knew I must do something before any­thing else happened. There were indistinguishable sounds—I could not tell whether the panting breaths were theirs or mine. My face was hot, my hands clammy. I had to act; I could not be a silent party to their intimacy.

  Abruptly I coughed and cleared my throat. Then I sat up.

  The sight that met my eyes did nothing to alleviate my acute embarrassment and humiliation. Lady Brentwood was reclining on the bearskin rug before the fire. It was well that fire was lit, for her clothes were in complete disarray. The bodice of her gown was open and pulled back to reveal full, white breasts. The reflection of the firelight danced across her pale skin and her long, blond hair, which was loosened and hung softly down her back. She looked like Helen while beside her lay Paris, coatless, his frilled shirt open, in the act of strok­ing those soft, exposed breasts with their pink, upraised nipples.

  Darius must not have heard me, nor was I in his line of vision, but his companion certainly had. I saw her eyes widen abruptly until, recognizing me, she laughed. Whether it was her laugh that made him look around or the fact that her body had stiffened in his grasp, I do not know, but he, too, caught sight of me and his face darkened in embarrassment.

  "What the deuce are you doing here, Alex?" he de­manded, rising hastily and straightening his clothing. Then, as Lady Brentwood made no effort to move, seeming to enjoy my all-too-obvious discomfort, he bent over to pull her dress across her still-exposed bosom.

  My face was burning as I stood up. I wanted to run from the room, but my legs refused to obey my command, and I stood gazing stupidly from one to another.

  "Excuse me, I'm sorry to intrude. I didn't mean to, really I didn't. I was reading and I fell asleep. I only just woke up," I added hastily, unsure of how long they had been there. "I had no intention of transgressing on your . . . your . . ."

  "Lovemaking," Lady Brentwood supplied with a low laugh.

  It was that laugh that at last gave me back the power of my legs. As I ran from the room I could hear it follow me down the hall, out into the twilight air. I continued to hear it long after I slammed the heavy front door shut. Down the path through the orchard it echoed. Accompanying it was the intimacy of their embrace.

  I could not obliterate that scene from my mind. It would never leave me. I lay in bed long that night, unable to sleep, my hands crossed over my own firm breasts, thinking how it must be to lie with a man, to be kissed by a man, kissed in the way I had heard them kissing. I did not think of just any man. I thought only of the man I had seen that night, and he had been doing all those things to that—that—that vixen. How I hated her! My sense of shame at witnessing such an intimate scene gave way to a sense of hopeless jealousy. I felt I could never trust myself in the presence of that woman again for fear I might tear my nails across her beautiful, mocking face or grasp that white throat of hers to silence that low, tinsel laugh.

  My vituperation horrified me. I must be a demon to be capable of such malevolence.

  Two days passed before I could bring myself to return to Charteris. Even then I might not have done so had it not been for Crumpet. I could not bear to face either of them again, though Darius I must see at some time, for he would return. By then, though the memory would not be forgotten, I hoped that its sharply etched image would have faded.

  As I entered the library, my heart pounded, sending the blood flooding to my face, for there on the long settle sat Darius, reading the newspaper.

  Had it been possible, I would have left, but he had seen me enter. I was forced to greet him, my flushed cheeks betray­ing my embarrassment. His own, I noticed, reddened slightly on seeing me.

  "Alex, I'm glad you came today. I've been waiting to talk to you before I returned to London." He folded the newspaper and made to set it down on the bearskin rug until, seeing my eyes follow its course, he seemed to read the thoughts that rug brought to my mind and he put it, instead, on the table beside him.

  "The fact of the matter is that I want to apologize to you for the scene you witnessed the other evening. It was certainly not the sort of thing any young girl should have been a party to, let alone one such as you who has led such a sheltered life. Obviously I had no idea you were in the house, let alone in the room. It embarrassed you, as well it should. It embarrassed me—and the lady. For our part, I can only say that we—we know one another well, we are adults and are both free, and though it may appear conduct reprehensible to you, we are both of a passionate nature—we allowed those passions to get the better of us. I do not intend to apologize for the conduct itself. It was, or should have been, between that lady and myself. I do, however, hope that you can put it from your mind."

  I said nothing; I could think of nothing to say. I could not bear to look at him. Not the scene for a young girl to witness, he had said. How long before he could understand that I was no less a woman than Lady Brentwood, that I had all the passions of a woman even if I had yet to experience them. I could understand their conduct. If I could not condone it, it was not because I considered such conduct reprehensible in itself, but only that I considered it reprehensible because he to whom I had been for so long devoted should indulge in such passions with a woman other than myself.

  My silence made him uncomfortable and he went on awkwardly, perhaps to change the subject, "The Edinburgh Re­view came yesterday. I set it aside for you. I know that you enjoy it."

  I walked over to the small Louix XV desk at which I usually worked, and, picking it up, I leafed through it, not thinking of the magazine but only of what to say. Suddenly my eye was caught by the words Sum of Glory, the title of my own book! Hillaby had actually published it and Sydney Smith was reviewing it—he liked it, or, on closer scrutiny I should say that he did not dislike it, for he was a discriminat­ing critic who rarely praised highly. He had found that the hero was perhaps too perfect; he preferred the character of the heroine with her human frailties, which, he felt, exhibited more sympathy and understanding. His comments were per­ceptive for I was at that moment finding the model for that hero, then standing behind me and looking over my shoulder at the part of the Review that had my attention, somewhat less than perfect for his passionate attachment to a woman I dis­liked.

  "Ah, Sydney's review of Sum of Glory," he com-mented. "It is strange, but for some reason, I cannot imagine why, I was sent an advance copy by the publisher."

  I knew well why. It had been one of the instructions I had attached to the manuscript left so hastily at Hillaby's. I won­dered what Darius would say if he knew the book was mine but I was too unsure of myself to own to it; all I could say, as casually as my beating heart would allow, was "Then you have read it?"

  "Yes, I have."

  "And do you agree with Mr. Sydney Smith?"

  "To some extent, yes, the hero was entirely too idealized. No man is such a paragon of virtue. The author, in my opin­ion, has much to learn of men, for by creating such a hero he is robbed of his humanity. It is the heroine, with her failings, who truly conveys love."

  "Byron has said that love is of man's life only a part while it is a woman's whole existence. I take it, then, that you agree with him."

  "I believe I understand his meaning. Men lead far more active, varied lives. Their minds are crammed full of a great many things, while women are usually confined to domesticity and social happenings, a life that allows for greater reflection on the emotions. But there my agreement with him termi­nates, for he leaves the impression that love is less important to men than it is to women. I believe that a man, should he love, may feel the emotion quite as deeply, with passion equal to that of a woman. Perhaps even greater." The last words were added slowly, thoughtfully.

  "Perhaps it is the fact that a woman has written the book that gives it that bias," I
commented.

  "You are indeed astute, for I don't remember Sydney bringing that fact out in his review."

  Quickly I turned back to the magazine. He had not.

  "I suppose it is only women who think men—some men, that is—perfect. That, perhaps, is why I surmised it to be writ­ten by a woman."

  "It does, in fact, on the title page indicate that it is writ­ten by a lady, an unnamed lady, so you are right in your supposition. I feel that since a copy was sent to me, it should be some lady of my acquaintance, yet I can think of none with the acumen or the patience to write it, for I enjoyed the book. If I had been critical about this one aspect of it, it is only because I feel lack of experience of the nature of men to have caused it. She has, perhaps, yet to love."

  "Or to be loved," I said, half to myself.

  Darius had returned to his seat, to his paper. Yet as I glanced over at him, his body relaxed in casual elegance, his cravat perfectly tied, his coat of blue superfine immaculately fitting his shoulders, I suddenly saw him as he had been that evening, coatless, in disarray, consumed by those passions my hero lacked, passions I myself had yet to taste.

  "What does it feel like, Darius?" I ventured on an im­pulse.

  He looked up. "What does what feel like?"

  "Making love."

  His face reddened. "Really, Alex, just because you caught me in a compromising situation the other day doesn't mean that I should or will discuss such things with you. I have al­ready apologized." He flicked the paper he was holding impa­tiently, keeping his eyes upon it though I knew he had stopped reading. "If you want to know about such matters you must ask your sisters. You have two of them married now, don't you?"

  "I am quite sure Cassy would never talk of it."

  "Is Cassy the one who married the tutor?"

  I nodded.

  "But your older sister, the pretty one, she is married to Ramsey, isn't she? Why don't you talk to her?"

  "I would never talk to Eugenia on such a subject because I have never been able to talk to her about anything. She knows a great deal, at least she is always pr—always with child, though it seems that her husband spreads his passions quite liberally in the neighbourhood. And don't suggest my talking to mother, for I never would." How was it, I won­dered, that I had the courage to speak of it to Darius? I had had no intention of doing so, yet I had been unable to prevent myself from putting the question to him. Was it, perhaps, because I yearned to learn from him and from him alone about love?

  "Don't allow Ramsey's exploits to disillusion you about marriage; not at your age." He paused, then went on uneasily. "If it is the intimate aspect of marriage that worries you, I can assure you that it is not unpleasant."

  "I didn't ever suppose it was."

  Our eyes met and his embarrassment increased. He got up and walked over to the bookshelves.

  "Turn to poetry if you really wish to know how it feels. A poet can put into words things a politician can never explain. Read the sonnets of Donne or Spenser, or even Shakespeare. All the poets who have written so inspiringly of the passions are men. Unfortunately no woman has yet done the same for her sex. It is a grave omission. A favourite poet of mine is an Indian, a Brahman, who wrote this marvellous liturgy of love before his execution."

  He handed me a slim volume entitled Black Marigolds, by a man called Chauras. I remembered having seen it on his bookshelf when, as a child, I had explored his room.

  "Why was he executed?" I asked.

  "He fell in love with his king's daughter."

  "Was that so bad?"

  "It was if you were a poet."

  I opened the book at random and read:

  Even now

  I remember that you made answer very softly, We being one soul, your hand on my hair,

  The burning memory rounding your near lips.

  "I wonder if he would have been executed had he been a politician instead of a poet," I mused.

  "Chauras wrote in the first century, but I suspect there were political factions even then. He might, perhaps, have been allowed to marry the princess instead of dying for his offence had he belonged to the right one."

  Our eyes met again and we both laughed.

  "She could have run away with him."

  "Princesses don't run away with either poets or politi­cians."

  I wondered. I thought of his remark about women poets.

  "Perhaps the writer of Sum of Glory will turn to poetry and write of love from the woman's viewpoint," I suggested.

  "Perhaps she will. She would probably meet with success, but I would hope when next she puts pen to paper, she will allow entirely human passions to members of both sexes."

  "Undoubtedly she will correct that failing as her own experience increases," I assured him.

  XV

  It was hot that summer. I felt as lonely as the sun, which daily followed its appointed, solitary course across our cloudless Wiltshire skies. That Darius was always in my thoughts added to my sense of solitude, for I never saw him alone but always as I had seen him that night with his devastatingly attractive countess. How I loathed her as her image rose before me time and again, ruining my daydreams, even as she seemed to be ruining my life. I had assured Lady Bladen that Darius would never make a fool of himself, but might he not over a woman, over that woman?

  Paul had taken the orders and had been requested by Mr. Pomeroy's relative to assist at a church in a remote village in Northumberland. He was unhappy at the prospect but re­signed to the inevitable. I reminded him of my talk with Sydney Smith, and he promised, though without great enthu­siasm, to see him when he went north. Other than that he said little to me or to anyone else.

  Arthur Harrington, who had been with Paul at Oxford, was staying at Ramsey Manor. He came frequently to Seton Place, sometimes in the company of Eugenia, but more often alone. I presumed it was to see Paul, though Paul cared as little for his company as he did for anyone else's. Harrington had not changed. He was still the maladroit youth of the election ball. It was hard to believe he was older than Paul. His stutter had become more pronounced, perhaps because his father was insisting that he enter politics, something for which he was little fitted and had even less inclination. I felt for his predicament; it was one with which I was familiar, and I tried, as I had with Paul, to help him adjust to the inevitable.

  I had become positively addicted to poetry, reading al­most nothing else since that last talk with Darius, and I en­joyed reading aloud, though I felt affected if I did so alone. Arthur provided a splendid audience, for he listened without interrupting, in fact he said very little at all, though his fatu­ous expression, which I sometimes caught as I finished, was disconcerting. It was when I became aware of father watching us, that look of assessment in his eye, that I discontinued these readings. Nevertheless, Arthur Harrington remained a con­stant guest at our dinner table, and though I did not dislike him, I had no intention of being cast into Cassy's predicament and saddled with that lamentably awkward young gentleman. I therefore adopted a cool, even callous attitude toward him, hoping he would refuse to come as often, but though cowed and hurt by my indifference and changed manner, he was faithful in attendance.

  I heard little from Cassy. Paul had seen her in Oxford. She was well, he said, as well as could be expected though perhaps even quieter than usual, which must have been quiet indeed. He had had little chance to be alone with her so he was unsure of the true state of her feelings. I knew her to be unhappy, for after those few dry notes she had sent in reply to my voluminous epistles, she had sent a letter delivered to me by Paul, a letter she had smuggled to him when her husband was not about, requesting that, though she loved to read all I had written, I write in future bearing in mind that hers were not the only eyes that perused her correspondence, both the letters she wrote and those she received. She loved me too much to have my fervent hopes and wishes become public knowledge, something she knew I did not wish any more than did she. I thought of her situation with pain and pi
ty in my heart, which served to strengthen my resolve never to fall into a like situation and be forced to marry against my will. This resolve made me keep a safe distance from Harrington.

  Eugenia came often. Now the mother of a boy and a girl, she was pregnant again and she complained bitterly and con­stantly of the fact to mother. I had never been close to her when she was at home. Now she was a pouting though still-beautiful matron, and I felt further removed from her than ever; she, in turn, showed the same indifference and contempt she had ever felt for me. There were times when I had the impression she resented my freedom and lack of entanglement, which was ironic after all the pains she had taken to entrap her husband.

  My youngest sister, Netty, had inherited Eugenia's classic beauty and with it had earned Eugenia's place in father's af­fections. Though we were the last two girls at home, no inti­macy developed between us, my fault as much as Netty's, for all my interests had been at Charteris while she was growing up. She was seventeen, and in my opinion an empty-headed flirt. She, I knew, thought of me in equally unflattering terms—I once overheard her describe me to Eugenia as a stuck-up bluestocking.

  James—"my baby," as mother continued to call him—to her profound regret was bound for Oxford at Michaelmas, designated by father for a career in law. I wondered how fa­ther made his decisions on our destiny—was it with a toss of the die, or did he open the Bible at a random page, seeking divine guidance. To me, it seemed quite obvious that Paul would have better served as an attorney in London with the Fanshawes than he ever would on parish business in the wilds of Northumberland, yet, against all his remonstrances, he had been forced to take orders. James was still malleable, so per­haps he would adapt to his chosen profession with greater ease. In the meantime I was concerned for my own interests and was determined to avoid Seton Place, Harrington and father's scheming.

  I spent as much time as I could with Crumpet. He was growing and enjoying the stories I spun for him, stories with characters who became almost real as they moved daily from one adventure to another. Sir Crumpet Carruthers was the hero who won out against all odds; his archenemy being the dreaded Lord Boris Blackguard, who was always in the wrong and who, though it seemed that he might triumph, always in the end failed to gain the day.