Come Be My Love

by Diana Brown

  Cassy, my dear Cassy, was also with child. She, however, mentioned it little, yet there was a gentle serenity about her that said more than words ever could how happy she was with her state, how right she felt it to be, how motherhood was for her the most important, the most wonderful thing that had ever happened to her.

  She bore with equanimity Mr. Pomeroy's fussing over her becoming overly fatigued, over real or imagined draughts, over the amount she ate or did not eat and his long and end­less speculations over a suitable name—he was quite decided it was to be a boy.

  Whenever he drifted back into his old habit of conversing on more than one topic at a time, Cassy would say quietly but very firmly, "Mr. Pomeroy, you were speaking of the abnor­mally warm days we are experiencing (or the corn laws or the disgraceful conduct of Oxford undergraduates or whatever else it might be). Do, please, finish that thought, for we are all interested in your observations on that particular subject."

  And quite meekly, he would agree, "Yes, my dear, to be sure, you are right, quite right, as you always are."

  I might detect a gleam of amusement in Cassy's eye as she glanced at me before going back to the baby clothes she was knitting, but that was all. She never mentioned the matter to me when we were alone. In fact, she rarely spoke of her hus­band at all, though it was clear that they were indeed happy together.

  So it was with Paul, who arrived on the stage at Marl­borough with his beloved Dolores and his rector and soon-to-be father-in-law, Mr. Tyson. No one could have been more threadbare, more impoverished in appearance than was Paul with his black broadcloth coat and breeches, which had an oddly green cast to them, his crumpled white stock and, atop all, a lacklustre shovel hat. Yet no one could have been in better spirits, with a deep good humour that refused to be doused by anything, even father's frugality towards him and his fiancée. Knowing the extortionate settlement Geoffrey had forced from father when we needed so little compared with Paul, I suffered, but Paul it affected not one whit.

  "Don't concern yourself on our behalf, Alex. Dolores and I know how it must be. We are prepared for a life lacking many of the comforts enjoyed by others, but we have one another and that is all that matters. Truly, I expected nothing from father, and that is what I received, but I have far greater reward than money could give. I am only glad that you are happy—you are happy, aren't you, Alex?"

  I turned away, not wishing to face that question.

  I marvelled at the changes in Paul—his patience, his tact, his understanding. Not Geoffrey's splendid velvet coats, silken breeches and embroidered waistcoats, contrasting as they did with Paul's worn garments, could cause envy, nor Thomas's boasts about the estate's increased yield due to his foresight, nor even James's endless detailing of the case law he was studying at Lincoln's Inn, once Paul's greatest aspiration. On the contrary, he complimented Geoffrey on his sartorial ele­gance, he agreed with Thomas that his methods were an im­provement and he asked advice of James on legal problems within the parish.

  Could it be that father had been right all along, I won­dered. He had, after all, insisted that Cassy marry Mr. Pom­eroy and that Paul enter the church, courses in life both had resisted, yet both were perfectly happy. I, on the other hand, had chosen my own path. I had chosen my husband or at least I had accepted him without coercion—father had had no part in it—and I had to admit that I was not happy. It gave me cause for consideration.

  I had not looked forward to seeing Howard Ramsey again, yet it had happened naturally enough after Sunday mattins the first week following my return to Linbury. Mr. Linnell had pounded the pulpit until the dust rose from the velvet cushion on the subject of the return of the prodigal son, of the goodness of the father who took him back. It was diffi­cult to believe that his choice of subject for his sermon was coincidental but I made every effort to ignore the connexion.

  "Welcome home, Alexandra," Howard had greeted me in a friendly fashion as I left the church at Geoffrey's side; he was quite plainly impressed with Geoffrey's appearance and his title and he drew me aside to comment, "That's a pleasant young nobleman you have found. So that was what you were after. I thought perhaps I had pressed my attentions upon you too hard until George showed me the published poems that are laid at your door—thank God, I thought, that things turned out as they did, for I'd want no wife of mine writing such things—it is a relief that Netty has no literary aspirations. I can plainly see that far from going too far, the trouble proba­bly was that I did not go as far as you would have wished." He sighed. "That's what comes of being a gentleman, but I sup­pose it all works out for the best. Netty and I are well suited, and you and Sir Geoffrey, by your own admission, are also. Allow me to congratulate you, and I must convey these same wishes to your chosen gentleman."

  Aunt Maud also had learned of my writing, I know not from what source. Father, I was sure, had said not a word on the subject, yet she accosted me with, "You were a sly one bringing me that book in Salisbury and enquiring for me after the author when all the time it was you." She turned to father, "Do you not think, brother, that her talent comes from our side of the family? You must have read grandmama's diary. It reads quite like a novel and includes some verse."

  Father flicked the pages of his newspaper impatiently without looking up. "Grandmama never wrote that sort of verse—never."

  "I think Alexandra's poetry is beautiful. I especially enjoyed that one, let me see, how was it—'My breast to yours . . ."'

  "That's quite enough, Maud. You only like it because you are a maiden lady and you don't understand it."

  "I may be unmarried, brother, but I understand perfectly what occurs between a man and a woman."

  "Maud! You are almost as bad as Alexandra. Whatever you do I trust you won't wield your pen on that thoroughly— thoroughly immoral subject. I want no further discussion of this—this scribbling."

  "My, my! Austin is touchy!" Aunt Maud observed after father had noisily folded his newspaper and stalked from the room, firmly closing the door behind him. "Tell me," she leaned confidentially towards me, "is he quite satisfied with this suitor of yours?"

  "I believe so."

  "And you—are you quite satisfied?"

  "Yes, of course." I wished I could have kept the defensiveness from my reply.

  "I don't believe you are, though. He's quite a good catch, of course—a baronet, not without fortune, though Austin has complained bitterly to me that he's bled him dry. He isn't hard up, is he?"

  "I don't believe he is."

  "You're not, either, for that matter. You needn't have married if you hadn't wanted to."

  There was reason in what Aunt Maud said. Now that the danger of the duel was averted, I suppose I might have re­neged on my promise. That had occurred to me more than once as the days moved inexorably towards that day of days, my wedding day. Why did I not simply admit to Geoffrey my mistake? Why did I not put a stop to all the preparations? But I did nothing, and deep within I knew why I did nothing, for Darius was to marry again. If he was to marry, then so would I. The motive was not a sensible one, yet nothing had ever been sensible in my feelings towards him.

  "He's a very pretty young man, this suitor of yours," Aunt Maud commented one evening, watching Geoffrey en­thrall the assembled company with an account of a play he had witnessed at Drury Lane—a thoroughly inept production, he described it, yet he remembered with accuracy every mis­take on the part of the actors, the playwright, the director, telling all so lightly, so wittily that under other circumstances I might have been as caught up in his recital as was everyone else.

  "A man of Attic salt, but I don't like him as well as that other gentleman of yours."

  "You mean Howard Ramsey?"

  "Netty's husband? Dear me, no, stodgy fellow—I'd quite forgotten you were once to marry him. No, the other one, the one who came searching for you when you ran away."

  "Darius Wentworth—Lord Bladen, you mean."

  "That's the one, Lord Bladen. Quite beside himself, he
was, at your disappearance. Blamed himself for some reason. He was all for setting out again immediately when he found you weren't in Salisbury, but it was late and I insisted he stay the night. We talked all evening, a lot on politics—his are not mine, of course, but he has some good arguments and he can make them seem so thoroughly reasonable. I was sorry when he left the next day. I had hoped you would have him. Why didn't you? I was sure he intended to offer for you."

  And when I made no answer she pressed me, "Well, didn't he?"

  "Yes, as a matter of fact, he did."

  "And you refused him—for this one?"

  "You might say, though it didn't happen quite in that way."

  "I credited you with more sense, Alex. Where is he now?"

  "In London, I think. He's marrying again, I understand."

  "Undoubtedly," Aunt Maud sniffed with an air of final­ity. "Well, you've made your bed, now you must lie in it."

  If her choice of words seemed unfortunate, there was no doubt that she fully intended it should be.

  Though I should never be able to forget that it had been Geoffrey, not Darius, who had fathered the child who lay in St. Mary's churchyard under the stone engraved with the name Darius had given him, yet that was in the past, and for the present Geoffrey and I were adjusting to one another. Would I, perhaps, one day be happy with Geoffrey as Cassy was with her Mr. Pomeroy? It was possible, for my attitude towards him had changed when I discovered that I had won out in the matter of Tim's schooling. A letter from Tim was forwarded to me by the Hillabys. It was ill-written, to be sure, full of spelling errors, yet it contained such excitement, such exhilaration in describing his first days in school—not easy ones by any means—and showed that he was responding to learning very much as I had in those days when Lord Bladen had undertaken my education. Again and again Tim thanked me for giving him such an opportunity in life, and I, in turn, hurried to show the letter to Geoffrey and to thank him for not countermanding my instructions.

  He glanced briefly at Tim's scrawl. "As long as you're happy, that's all that matters," was all he said. His modest acceptance of my thanks made me think that Darius's dire assessment of his character had been occasioned more by the wrong Geoffrey had done him than by the cool judgement that was usually his; it made me believe, also, that I had misjudged him.

  I was more than chagrined, therefore, by a reply from the school to a letter I had written outlining certain courses I considered essential in Tim's course of study, informing me that the suggestions would be forwarded to Lord Bladen for his approval, a necessary adjunct since he was supplying the boy's board and tuition fees.

  "How could you allow me to believe that it was my money that was paying for Tim's education?" I stormed.

  "I said no such thing, Alexandra," Geoffrey reminded me. "I only said as long as you were happy, that was all that counted. And really, when you look at it, isn't everyone get­ting what he or she wants? The ragamuffin has some rudi­ments of learning stuffed into him, which is apparently what you and he want, and all at Darius's expense, who no more notices it than a sheepdog notices one more flea. Yet for acting the benefactor he'll earn your undying gratitude, which, I'm quite sure, is his only reason for doing it."

  "You're incorrigible, Geoffrey," I fumed.

  "I'm not incorrigible at all. I just see things as they are."

  "It's ridiculous that I should have to consult you, any­how, on how I may spend my own money."

  "Alexandra, we've been all through that matter. I don't want to discuss it again." For all the world the words might have come from father rather than Geoffrey, and for the first time my unspoken fear that I might be changing one oppres­sive master for another seemed real.

  "Why did you want to marry me, Geoffrey?" I asked suddenly.

  He came and took me in his arms. "My darling Alex­andra, you don't believe, still, that I love you, but I do. You will know that to be so very soon. You may not always under­stand me, but life with me will never be dull, that I promise you."

  "No, I doubt that it will." I thought of Darius, of Phi-lomena, of Crumpet; no, I feared it would not be dull. "Why do you dislike your cousin so?"

  "What makes you say I dislike him? He may not be my most favourite cousin, however."

  "But he is your only cousin."

  "Patience and Margaret are my cousins also."

  Geoffrey, you know what I mean—he's your only male cousin."

  "Let's say, then, that I dislike him because you've made him the hero of your novels, in fact of everything you've writ­ten, for Love's Breath is to Darius, isn't it?"

  He caught me off guard, and before I could think how to reply he went on triumphantly, "I knew it! You've no need to say anything. I knew, of course, you were not untouched, and I guessed it must be Darius who had broken the seal of Hymen. Indeed, it was obvious after you'd portrayed him with such girlish adoration in your novels—I suspect Darius may be the only one who hasn't recognized himself—but then he's too busy posturing as England's great young statesman to observe the obvious, while in reality he's nothing but a scurvy politician who would circumvent God if that were possible."

  "You've hated Darius long before me, though. You had no compunction in seducing his wife." I hadn't meant to say it but it was said, and it was Geoffrey's turn to be taken by surprise.

  "Well, well, well," he murmured at last, "so he told you about that, did he? What did he say?"

  "That you were marrying me from spite, that you had seduced Philomena for the same reason."

  "He still can't believe she could love anybody except him because he was so besotted with her. It's the same with you. He didn't expect you to marry me; that caught him un­awares."

  "But Darius himself is to marry, you told me so at Maplethorpe, so your marrying me can make no difference to him. He cares nothing for me."

  "I think otherwise. I want you to promise never to see him again. Promise!"

  "But how is that possible not to see him again? He is your cousin, after all."

  "You know very well what I mean—you're never to see him again alone. I'm not talking about social occasions. It is not an unusual demand for a husband to make."

  "You're not my husband yet."

  "But I shall be the day after tomorrow, and it is better that things are clearly understood before that ceremony takes place. Or have you changed your mind now that your pre­cious Darius is safe from Wilmott's retribution? You have changed your mind before, I know that."

  I knew that I didn't love Geoffrey, and despite his asser­tions to the contrary, I doubted that he loved me. But I thought of the house, indeed the entire village, filled with guests and confusion for the celebration, of the dress upstairs in my room of white silk overlaid with Honiton lace with its long train of matching lace, of the wedding cake now being iced in the kitchen below, of the table set up in the hall, groan­ing under the weight of the wedding gifts. Yet all of that was not the reason for answering as I did—it was the thought of Darius married to his Althea Brentwood. If anyone were to make him forget Philomena it would be she.

  "I shan't change my mind."

  "Then you promise you won't see him again?"

  "I promise."

  He smiled, a sudden, boyish child. "From now on I shall be the only hero you'll write about, the only one you'll want to write about, you'll see."

  He kissed me forcefully, his lips clinging to mine, yet for all its vigour it was a kiss strangely passionless. But possibly the fault was mine, for at that moment I was devoid of all emotion.

  XXXI

  The bride about whom the celebration centred was clearly inconsequential the day before it was to take place. Apart from an afternoon rehearsal at St. Mary's, I had nothing to do. Since I had promised not to see Darius again, I decided to write a note thanking him for all he was doing for Tim and begging that he tell him to whom he owed his gratitude. Then I went in search of Alice to deliver it; she was always delighted to have a reason to visit Charteris and Miller, her
friend there. But when I found her in the living room, she was in the midst of turmoil of furniture being moved to accommodate the guests expected for the wedding breakfast."How is everything going between you and Miller?" I asked her.

  Her face became a trifle redder as she replied, "He's asked me and I've agreed, Miss Alex. We're to tie the knot at Michaelmas."

  "Alice! I'm so happy for you." Impulsively I hugged her, setting her cap askew.

  "No more happy than I am about you, Miss Alex. Down­stairs we all thought you was destined to be an old maid after that last business, but you found yourself a real beau and no mistake. Miller told me when he stayed at Charteris last it took him all of two hours to get dressed, and I never seen anything like those waistcoats he wears, fit for a bird of para­dise, I told cook after that valet of his showed me some of them. He's a beau all right, your Sir Geoffrey, and I hope you won't do none of your rampaging around when you're Lady Poindexter. Now get along with you. I've no time to talk for I don't know how I'll ever get everything finished."

  I wandered outside, the note still in my pocket. In the orchard there was a fine crop of apples ripening, and I picked one and munched on it as I walked. Ahead was the boundary between my home and Charteris. I had a sudden desire to see it once more. Why should I not deliver my note? There was no chance of running into Darius, for having refused to come to the wedding, he was hardly likely to be found in residence. It would have been unbearable if he had come to witness it.

  I followed the path through the woods where I used to walk with Lord Bladen and crossed the sloping lawn where I used to play with Crumpet; approaching the house from the back, where I saw that one of the terrace doors to the library was ajar. I could leave my note without disturbing anyone.

  An aura of peace enveloped me as I stepped into the great room with its vaulted, painted ceilings and encircling book­cases. There by the terrace door was the sofa where I had comforted Darius the night Crumpet had died. Gently I ran my hand across its padded cushions as I passed. I averted my eyes from the bearskin in front of the fireplace as though the disarrayed countess still lay there, laughing at me.