Come Be My Love

by Diana Brown

  "I do hope that this event will not be too much for you," Mrs. Hillaby worried. "If that is the case, the plan must be cancelled, for though I know Alistair is excited over it, as I am myself, yet your health comes first with both of us."

  It was a tempting offer, one I would readily have taken, yet the Hillabys had planned it with such great care. It was to be the most sumptuous entertainment they had ever given, and they put much store by it. I could not disappoint them.

  "No, no. It was a passing thing, nothing more. I have rid myself of my malady. I am quite cured of him—of it."

  Yet I was not entirely cured, for even as I had run from him there had been an absurd wish deep within me, a wish to turn back, to throw myself in his arms, to hold him. It was nothing but nostalgia, I told myself. Never would I allow my­self to submit to such madness again; I had overcome it. That was all past. I had a new life, one in which he played no part. Yet I was glad that Chelsea was a safe distance from Great Stanhope Street, and I resolved not to venture into Mayfair again.

  By the following week the Hillabys' usually quiet and decorous home was in an uproar, with a flurry of caterers and merchants scurrying hither and yon. Mrs. Hillaby was in trep­idation. She confided in me that she had never before enter­tained quite so grandly; she only hoped that their rooms would not prove too incommodious for the numbers expected, and she worried about every little detail. It was too late to cancel it, but I did protest the trouble they were going to and the expense, for they were not wealthy. Mr. Hillaby would not listen.

  "It's not every day that I have the chance to introduce a talent such as yours to this land of shopkeepers, as Napoleon would have it. All of this gives me pleasure, and Mrs. Hillaby also; she frets, but that is her way. There is, however, one concession I would ask of you. It is perhaps not the time—I had meant to talk to you of it later—yet I would like to make announcement of it on that occasion. It concerns the work you brought with you when you arrived. I have gone through it; there are many items that have merit. I would like to an­nounce publication of another work, or I should say, of a selec­tion of your short works."

  "But those were fragments I brought with me, of uneven quality. I don't believe—"

  He cut me off. "Would you allow me to be the judge of its merit?"

  I hesitated. "There were some pieces that should not be published."

  And again he insisted, "Will you not trust to my judge­ment? I promise that I would publish nothing unworthy of you, nothing better left unwritten, nothing from the private pages of your journal that I can assure you, I have not read. I only ask for those pieces that intrigue and interest. It would be the perfect occasion to announce this new work, with the liter­ary world under our roof and yourself the guest of honour."

  It was a persuasive argument, for it was a world to which I very much wanted to belong. I gave him my consent, though I again cautioned him against publication of any personal material.

  "Let me be the judge," he again assured me. He had judged so well in the past, I could not doubt him. "I shall choose nothing to your detriment."

  By evening the uproar had calmed to a steady hum, which was broken intermittently by the discordant strides of the chamber musicians as they tuned their instruments. The drawing room, never large, now overflowed with flowers and potted plants of every description. Footmen fell over one an­other in the hallway as they scurried back and forth with punch bowls and champagne buckets. Mrs. Hillaby hovered over the groaning buffet table with its sumptuous spread of meats, cheeses, cakes and petits fours, exotic fruits and that pâté de foie gras which Sydney Smith, in all solemnity, had assured me that had he heard trumpets as he ate it, he would be convinced he was in heaven.

  I donned Madame Fanchon's dress, duly delivered that afternoon—how different from those I had taken with me to Salisbury, but then, how different my situation. Now I wanted to be admired, and as soon as I saw the Fanchon creation I knew that I would be. The skirt flared at exactly the right point, from a waist that seemed smaller than usual; the design was a masterpiece of understatement except for the elegance of the brocade itself. I had no jewellery, yet I needed none. I still wore the signet ring, which had been on my finger since the day Darius had given it to me. I had tried to remove it after that last abortive meeting, but it refused to come off. My short curls brushed loosely around my face, the merest dab of powder on my nose, a splash of Arquebusade, Mrs. Hillaby's greatest extravagance, and I was ready to receive the guests, a surprising number of whom arrived on time.

  I had not wanted any of it, yet as the evening began I found I was thoroughly enjoying myself, feeling relaxed and quite at home among London's literati. I was at ease, that is, until I caught sight of the short, dapper figure of Tom Moore. Would he, I wondered, recognize in Arabella Marlowe his young dinner companion from Holland House?

  There was no sign of recognition on first sight, only a fawning that previously he had reserved for Lady Brentwood. As I replied to his greeting, however, a look of puzzlement crossed his face.

  "Have we not met before, Miss Marlowe? Perhaps you have been a guest of Lord Lansdowne at Bowood?"

  I assured him I had not, yet his puzzlement continued. "Do help this poor Irishman's memory," he pleaded.

  "Had I met you before, Mr. Moore, how could I possibly forget it?" I smiled enigmatically, and he accepted the com­pliment.

  "You speak as one from Ireland yourself. It is, perhaps, from that enchanted emerald isle that you hail?"

  "No, I regret I am unable to make that claim. I am from Northumberland."

  I breathed a sigh of relief as he replied, "Northumber­land. I have yet to have acquaintance in that county, but if you are any indication of the beauty of their ladies, I shall journey north without further delay. Still, with your colouring I would have taken you for Irish. Were both of your parents from Northumberland?"

  I preferred not to dwell upon Northumberland or upon my parentage, and abruptly I changed the subject. "I am told you have an admirable singing voice, Mr. Moore. I hope that later we may persuade you to favour us with one or two of your songs."

  "Only on the condition that I be allowed to dedicate them to you."

  "I shall take that as a great compliment."

  "I cannot enough compliment such a combination of tal­ent and beauty, rare Miss Marlowe. London welcomes such a sunflower in its midst."

  He bowed low, and I breathed freely. The moment had passed. He had not recognized in me the girl with the made-over dress and the unbecoming hairstyle of that evening at Holland House.

  My relief, however, was short-lived, for a far worse trial faced me. Mr. Hillaby was bearing down upon me, accom­panied by a figure far more familiar to me than that of Moore.

  "Miss Marlowe, allow me to present Lord Bladen. He is, as you may know, a leading Whig spokesman and, even more commendable, a great patron of the arts, like his father before him. Your family is from Wiltshire, my lord, is it not?"

  Darius, his eyes fixed on mine, made no attempt to reply, and Mr. Hillaby continued awkwardly, "Lord Bladen was telling me as we met how much he has enjoyed both of your books and with what pleasure he has looked forward to meet­ing you."

  For the first time that evening I found myself unable to command my tongue to speak. As Darius took my hand and bowed low over it, I could clearly see the tension in his still-suntanned face. As neither of us spoke, Mr. Hillaby looked expectantly from one to the other of us, yet all I could think of as Darius studied me was how had he been able to find me?

  "Now that I see Miss Marlowe, I realize that we have met before. It was stupid of me to overlook it," Darius said at last, to answer Mr. Hillaby's curiosity. "Yet I cannot tell you what pleasure it gives me to become reacquainted with her."

  Still I made no response to the greeting or to the scrutiny that accompanied it, and Darius went on, "But it seems I must refresh your memory, Miss Marlowe. It was in the coun­try, and not so very long ago."

  "Yes," I replied at
last. "I do remember it."

  Mr. Hillaby, I knew, was intrigued by this meeting, and I was relieved to hear his name called repeatedly before he could put the questions that I could see were on his lips.

  "You must excuse me," he said with reluctance, "but my wife beckons. I am quite sure she has become bogged down in an argument with Crabbe and wishes my support. It always places me in an awful predicament, for my usual sympathy is with Crabbe, yet to preserve conjugal serenity I shall probably have to side with Mrs. H."

  He paused, smiling, waiting for a response to his di­lemma, but with none forthcoming, he left, though without great alacrity, to join his wife and her companion.

  Darius continued to hold my hand firmly between both of his. "Alex! Alex!" he said softly, "you can't possibly know how I feel at this moment—to find you in London—here—after I've searched for you everywhere. I had given up hope of find­ing you until I saw you the other day, but then you ran from me. I'm at a complete loss."

  Mr. Hillaby had evidently mentioned the oddity of my meeting with Darius to his wife, for she looked over at me anxiously and I smiled at her reassuringly as I replied coldly to my companion, "I had no idea that my whereabouts could be of any great interest to you." Yet curiosity compelled me to ask, "But how did you find me here?"

  "I was invited to come—but surely you must have invited me yourself? And to think I almost didn't come, thinking it another lionizing event on an evening when I least felt in the mood for it. I might never have come; I might never have discovered that it was you all along, Alex, who was the author of the books Hillaby had sent me. Now I know why I received them."

  And now I knew why he had been invited. I myself had been unknowingly instrumental in his name being on the invi­tation list. How stupid of me!

  "But since you were in London, why no note, no message, nothing? You knew where to reach me," he demanded. "That was cruel, Alex. And the first indication that I have that you are still alive and you run from me, without a word of expla­nation. Why?"

  "I wasn't aware from our last meeting that my well-being was of particular concern to you."

  "How can you say that, Alex, after all . . ."

  He broke off as he saw Tom Moore bearing down upon us.

  "Alex, I must talk to you," he said quickly. "Not here, not tonight."

  "Then when—tomorrow. May I call tomorrow?" "Very well, tomorrow," I agreed reluctantly. "At eleven?"

  I nodded silently as Moore joined us.

  "Lord Bladen. Aha! Seeing you both together reminds me of where I have seen this delightful young lady. It has been puzzling me ever since I arrived, and she would deny that we had met before. Yet now I am sure of it—it was with your dear mother at Holland House. Though I thought that Miss Marlowe had one of those hyphenated names, Smith-Jones, Crump-Hesketh or the like, was that not so?"

  Darius, sensing my discomfort, intervened. "You're right, Tom, but when have I known you to be wrong? Surely, how­ever, you of all people must know the efficacy of adopting a nom de plume, particularly important for a lady. It allows Miss Marlowe to express herself freely. I am sure that neither of us could wish to inhibit her freedom."

  His look was so implicit that I barely heard Moore's, "Yes, of course, but Miss Marlowe, what was your—"

  "Come, Tom," Darius intervened again, "you let your curiosity get the best of you. There is a matter I have been wanting to take up with you—how is your book on Sheridan progressing? I thought of it, for I met someone at the House the other day who had known him well. He was telling me of the time he and Sheridan were in mortal conflict over a Treas­ury bill. Sheridan accused him of being indebted to his imag­ination for the facts and his memory for his wit—caused quite a fracas, he was still furious over the remark, though, I must confess, I heartily concur with Sheridan." Darius had slipped his arm through that of the poet, and with one last complicit glance at me, he drew him away.

  He would not, then, give me away. I tried not to think of our interview the following morning and the difficulties that must arise as I turned to greet Sir Walter Scott, who asked most kindly if I would tell him all about my new book, of which Mr. Hillaby was madly boasting.

  Though we did not exchange more than a dozen words during the course of the evening, I was constantly conscious of Darius's eyes upon me. Occasionally he would smile at me as I was in earnest conversation with a guest, and despite all my resolves, I felt again all those emotions I was determined to deny.

  After supper Tom Moore dedicated to me "Those En­dearing Young Charms," the song he had sung for Lady Brentwood at Holland House.

  "As the sunflower turns on her god when he sets,

  The same look which she turn'd when he rose."

  It would never be so again. I was determined that when I saw him the next morning, no matter what he said, I would not allow myself to fall under his spell. My life had been spent adoring him, but that life was over.

  XXI

  The Hillaby house was in an even greater uproar the day following the grand event than it had been before, though it was not for want of help, for servants were everywhere, trip­ping over one another, Mrs. Hillaby in their midst, all in utter confusion. I knew that I should have offered my assistance, but if my surroundings were in confusion so, too, was I.

  I chose to receive Darius in Mr. Hillaby's study, it being the quietest room, though on that morning it more resembled a greenhouse than a study, for the potted plants and bowls of flowers had been set there temporarily while the drawing room was being cleaned, awaiting removal again I knew not whence. As they had stood in floral tribute the previous eve­ning, now they stood, a little dejected, but yet resolved to serve an event which I dreaded far more.

  My sleep had been fitful; I had resolved now to say one thing, now another, to Darius when he came, I would be polite but distant and very, very firm. Nothing he said or did would cause me to waver from following any course in life but my own, and never, never again would I fall victim to that life­long infatuation I had held for him; he had rejected me and my abject, childish confession of love, and he had done so in the presence of a woman I most despised.

  Yet I was forced to remind myself of my stand when he arrived, for the sight of his familiar figure in those unfamiliar surroundings brought forth feelings I had foresworn. I showed him to a leather armchair amidst an assortment of ferns, choosing for myself Mr. Hillaby's desk chair and thus placing the expanse of manuscript-cluttered mahogany between us—to little avail, for no sooner had I sat down than he took another chair, moving it close beside me.

  "Alex! Alex! If only you could imagine how I feel at this moment, to find you unharmed, the same dear girl and yet suddenly grown—your appearance, everything about you makes you so—I was going to say beautiful, but that you have always been—you have grown to womanhood and I had not realized it. I watched you last night, so very worldly, such grace, such finesse, and I could scarcely believe it was Alex­andra Cox-Neville of Seton Place."

  "But you are wrong, Darius. It was not Alexandra Cox-Neville of Seton Place but Arabella Marlowe. I am glad you asked to call this morning, for it is that very point I wish to emphasize, particularly to you, for you are the one person in London who could ruin everything for me. Have you sent word to father of my whereabouts?"

  "No. I have done nothing yet, nor would I do so without your consent." His face had grown grave, but almost immedi­ately he returned to his previous jubilance. "I just can't tell you what a relief it is to find you—safe, well—no, more than well, radiant. These past weeks I have searched for your face in a thousand faces. I would have welcomed the sight of you no matter how I had found you, yet when I did see you that afternoon near Gunter's, looking so very devastating, I must confess I felt a pang. I thought you must be under the protec­tion of some influential lover."

  "Would it have been so wrong if I were?"

  Darius shook his head. "Alex, you know very well it would. You are from a respectable family, until now you have
led a cloistered existence—such a life is precarious, difficult at best, and certainly nothing you could or should ever con­sider."

  "I seem to remember you said so once before."

  "That was a ridiculous suggestion you made to me, and certainly no solution to your problem. Yet it was that which made me fear the worst when I saw you that afternoon. When you made that—that . . ."

  "Proposition."

  "Call it what you will. It was obscene. Yet that day at Charteris I could not tell you how I felt, for we were in­terrupted."

  "Ah, yes, by your dear friend Lady Brentwood. Such an arrangement with her does not seem obscene."

  "Really, Alex, you cannot compare yourself to Lady Brentwood."

  "And why not?"

  "I have no intention of denigrating that lady—she is, as you quite rightly point out, my good friend—but you and she have led totally different lives and because of that you are totally different women. I did not come this morning to dis­cuss Lady Brentwood. I mention her only because her pres­ence precluded the discussion on which we are now embarked."

  "She laughed at me."

  He flushed slightly. "She felt jealous. She is older than you . . ."

  "And wiser."

  "I doubt that. Again, I only speak of her because her presence at Charteris, unexpected as it was, prevented me from being able to talk to you until the following morning, when I went to Seton Place to find all in an uproar. Young Ramsey was there, pacing the floor, with your father attempt­ing to placate him and to stem your mother's hysterics at the same time. I am sure they thought me the villain of the piece, that you had flown with me, until I asked for you. I said nothing of your visit but set out on my own search of you. By all I had gathered, I thought you must then have been on the other side of Hungerford. Even so I might have caught up with the stage, but all my enquiries for you at the Castle were futile. No one of your description had boarded it that morn­ing. I decided on Salisbury, for I knew you were acquainted with that town. There I met your aunt. I must say I rather took a liking to her outspoken manner, but of course it was a fruitless trail. It was while I was returning to London, racking my brain for where you might have gone—I knew it would not be Oxford, though I did not rule out your brother in the north—that I remembered the night you came to that political rally at the Red Lion dressed in your brother's clothes. I turned back to the Castle, and instead of asking for a young lady, I gave your general description but as that of a boy. Then I found you were remembered quite distinctly in Marl­borough."