by Edith Layton
“But have you not just said that I am your friend?” Nicholas asked reasonably.
“Ah,” the vicar replied in almost a whisper, “forgive me, Nick, but you see, there are friends, and then there are friends of the heart. I really can say little more.”
“Forgive me, sir,” the baron said after they had walked on in complete silence for a while, “but though I know it will be damned difficult to remedy now in either case, I think I would almost prefer that it was your honor rather than your loyalty which prevented you.”
“Yes,” the vicar replied, “of course.”
The older gentleman left off his conversation to look hard at the street for an instant, although anyone not so close to him as his companion might have thought that it was only that he had gotten a mote of dust in his eye and had to pause to blink it away. And then he took the baron’s hand and clasped it hard and shook it firmly and said loudly, “My dear fellow, it was delightful. We must meet again sometime. Dinner, perhaps? Please don’t hesitate to call at my hotel.”
But as he bent close he said, softly, rapidly, and only for the baron’s ear, “Be quick about it, Nick, and be wary. But find him soon. Before Ollie does.”
He proceeded to make a deep bow as full of flourishes as a trumpet fanfare. Then, as swiftly and silently as he had appeared, he was gone, leaving the baron alone and feeling even more lost than he had been before.
12
She would not have-chosen yellow. But then, Julia thought, that was only one of the many reasons why she was not a world-famed couturiere, demanding and receiving outsize fees for outrageously stylish frocks such as the one she wore now. For yellow or no, even she had to concede that the garment she had just put on was the latest kick, the highest cry, and the last recorded syllable of fashion: But, Julia thought, in very much the manner of the former governess Miss Hastings, fashion being as it was, it was more likely that somewhere in this very city there was now another garment, created not five minutes ago, that was even more in fashion. In fact, she thought, there was every possibility that by the time she left her room, went down the stairs, and reached the hotel’s private dining room where the baron awaited her, her frock might be hopelessly passé. It was such a diverting thought that she wore the smallest smile, only a suggestion of little uplifted upper lip, to go with her new gown as she wait in to her dinner.
And so when Nicholas rose to his feet as she entered the room, he wore a matching smile as he thought and said, “Enchanting.”
“Thank you,” Julia said, and to cover her embarrassment at how hard he stared at her, she looked downward, plucked at a fold of her dress, and said quickly, “But such a bright yellow! And I was brought up to understand that a fair-haired lady never wore yellow. It was Clarice, my youngest sister, who has the darkest brown curls, who was the one to wear such hues. Betty and Dorothea and I never dared. We made do with light pastels, while poor Harriet, being red-headed—since Mama is fair and Papa is dark, and I understand that such combination of parents often produce red-headed persons—had the most difficult time of us all in selecting materials for her dresses.”
When she looked up, Julia was surprised to see the baron regarding her with a wide grin that could only be called fond.
“Incredible,” he said, “how the unflappable Miss Hastings can be reduced to babbling by only one word. But only if that word is complimentary.”
Julia did not know precisely how to reply to him, or what to say that might dispel that irresistible and alarmingly bright and admiring look that he turned to her. It was very difficult to speak to him when he gazed at her in that manner, as though he was seeing only her, as she really was, and as he seemingly wanted her to be.
He looked at her so keenly that she involuntarily began to draw her shawl around herself as was her habit, only remembering at the last that Monsieur LeRoy had threatened murder if she dared to wear her shawl with his creation, and suicide if she insisted he design one to replace it. So she drew herself up instead. She attempted to forget the insubstantial nature of the material of her frock and remain calm beneath his intent regard as well.
“No wonder the fellow has survived so many regimes,” the baron said, tapping his quizzing glass upon his hand and walking around Julia as she stood immobile for his inspection. “He’s famous for insisting that the garment should reflect the ‘freedom and natural shape’ of the form, but I never appreciated how right he was till this moment.”
Now, of course, Julia could say nothing, but something in her aspect, perhaps her encrimsoned cheek or her downcast eye, caused him to take pity on her confusion and he said in a lighter tone, “And it isn’t just ‘yellow,’ as if the fellow had given you a banana skin to wear, but yellow and black, my dear, a most dramatic combination. You look as refreshing and welcome as one of those great swallowtail butterflies my stepfather is fond of collecting. Those borders there on the hem and sleeves, that black Greek key design, and those few flourishes and ruffles he’s added for interest, the way that fold is caught up in a little theatrical swag to the side of the skirt for example, I am impressed. No wonder the chap was so successful here he had our ladies killing for so much as a copy of his designs, even as their husbands and brothers were fighting to the death with his countrymen.
“Now don’t sneer, Miss Hastings,” he said with real amusement as he caught the startled look she gave him. “I’m not thinking of going into the designing line myself, nor do I spend my idle hours perusing the Belle Assembly to catch up on the latest female fashions. Nor do I pass so much of my time gaping at the ladies, either, or at least,” he said thoughtfully, “I don’t pass my time gaping at their clothes, at any rate. No. But I did grow up in a household almost exclusively made up of women. And since my stepfather taught me that it is only common courtesy to learn that which is close to the hearts of those closest to one’s heart, I perforce acquired a great deal of information about the arts and craft of feminine fashion. And while styles may change, the touch of a master’s hand does not, and that gown, Julia, would be lovely in any time, or any age. But fashion’s a peculiar art in that it always needs a fair accomplice. By itself it’s interesting, upon "the wrong subject it’s appalling, but with a beautiful model to display it, it transcends mere function and becomes art. In that gown you make me wish I were an artist, Julia.”
Julia did not know how in the world to respond to such a fulsome compliment. But she was weary of simply being rendered speechless each time he poured the butter bucket over her, and was moreover beginning to entertain dark doubts as to the sincerity of his praise since he seemed to be very well aware and amused at how it always made her mute. So she took her seat at the table with as much aplomb as she could muster and said as coolly as she was able before she shook out her napkin to lay it in her lap, “Thank you so much, my lord. But I was not aware that you were raised in a household composed only of women. I thought you and Robin had grown up together.”
It had been her problem with handling his praise that had made her, unthinking, mention Robin. For she realized even as she uttered his name that she had never brought him up in conversation of her own accord before. But now she had, and it seemed both natural and a relief to discuss him as casually as she might any other person from her past. There was the additional gratification of seeing her companion’s slight start of surprise before he seated himself opposite her and answered.
“Ah no,” he replied. “We only saw each other on occasions of state, or when my mama had a bit of information too weighty or incendiary for a mere letter to hold. His home wasn’t far enough from ours for an overnight stay to be necessary unless a storm blew up while we were there, but then again, he didn’t live close enough for daily contact either No, a visit to his home was a whole-day affair, no matter how you looked at it. Then, too, Robin is so much my junior that I seldom spent much time with him even when I visited, as I didn’t actually meet him until I had almost left my youth and he had only just begun his.”
“B
ut how can that be when you are only four years his senior, or so I believe I heard you say?” Julia asked, wondering whether her mathematics or her ears were at fault.
“That’s true,” he answered, pausing with his glass of wine halfway to his lips, “but four years make a great difference in one’s extreme youth. And a passable one later. Remember that he was only a boy when he met you, Julia, and I was already an older, wiser man.”
It might have been the unspoken accusation that she thought she heard, or it might have been the merest suggestion of censure in his tone, but Julia answered more hotly than she would have liked, “I did not think that a man of two and twenty was considered a mere boy, my lord. Perhaps standards are very different for the different sexes, but still there is little doubt that a female of that age would have already been considered a responsible adult, if not even a bit long in the tooth. In fact, three years have passed from the time I first encountered Robin, and as I am twenty years of age at this moment, I am still not reached that age that he was then. And yet I have not been considered so young that it prevented me from being employed and all on my own and entrusted with the heavy responsibility of others’ children to boot for all those years, as you well know.”
She frowned as she finished speaking, for what had begun as annoyance at his across-the-board vindication of Robin because of his supposed youthfulness had ended sounding a bit meaching and plaintive. Whatever else he thought, she did not want him thinking she was angling for his pity. But when she looked at him, it was not pity that she saw in his expression, it was rather a look of profound surprise. He sat with his glass untouched, slowly lowering it to the tabletop again, and seemed very much struck with what she had just said.
“You were, then, only seventeen when you ran off with Robin?” he asked slowly, as though he asked the question of himself. And in truth, he scarcely heard her affirmative reply he was so occupied with arguing with himself. For he thought, why, what of it? as he remembered that Ivy was only eighteen when he had become involved with her. But the difference between Ivy’s eighteen and this chit’s twenty was so profound as to be immeasurable. He tried to steel himself against Julia again by remembering how badly he had fared when he had attempted to judge Ivy. But as they were discussing age, he had been, after all, only nineteen then and if he hadn’t learned anything of human nature in a decade’s time, then he supposed he never would. He couldn’t even concentrate on that revelation, he was still so amazed that Robin had been all of two and twenty when he had met up with Julia. At that same age, Nicholas thought, whatever his youthful sins, he himself had become a man. Why, then, had he been so convinced for all these years that Robin had been a beardless boy when he had gotten entangled with what he had envisioned as a heartless female?
“I’ve always thought of him as much younger than myself,” Nicholas said wonderingly, speaking aloud when he had thought he was speaking to himself, and then not caring that he did so. “It’s odd, but there are some people, usually ones that you have known forever, that you always attribute one age to and never correct, even in the light of truth. We all laugh because Mama continually refers to her youngest cousin as a babe, though that lady has grandchildren of her own now. And I, and Robin—I’m guilty of the same thing, I suppose. And I expect it’s because his mama cosseted him overmuch and kept him in ringlets in the nursery so long and always cautioned me, who she saw as an older, rougher chap, to look after him. I suppose it’s because he always looked up to me, and called me Uncle even at school, till I threatened to beat him to death if he did so again, and even then I became ‘Old’ Nick to his Robin ‘Goodfellow.’
“It’s possible too,” Nicholas went on, now looking to Julia, “that I liked having a young male relative think me a more mature and worldly fellow, and so I kept him forever young in my thoughts. You see, before I came upon the scene, there were two boys born to my poor mama who did not survive their infancy. So when after four daughters I arrived, even though I proceeded to thrive, I was fussed over so much by all my lady relatives that I must have found it a blessed relief to have Robin think me so all-wise, capable, and masculine.
“Whatever the reason, it is shocking that I never envisioned him so close to my own age. Lord, so he will be five and twenty now! I say it,” he said, shaking his head and raising the glass of wine at last to drain it, “but I really don’t believe it.”
“I don’t believe that we ever see that which we don’t want to,” Julia said, “and I imagine that I’ll always keep my baby sister Clarice childish in my thoughts, even when she’s a crone. If I ever see her as middle-aged, why then that would mean I would be ancient, and I don’t think I could bear that. No, really,” she said, glad to hear him laugh, and pleased to see him relax, “I am that vain, at least. But if you were an only boy in your family, why were you not also as coddled as you say that Robin was?”
When he did not reply at once, but only gave her a measuring look, she stammered, “That is to say, Robin never really discussed you at all, you know, save for saying that he had a sage old uncle, ‘Old Nick,’ that understood everything. And that I should like you very well, as you should no doubt, he said, get on with me as my looks were quite in your style.” Then, feeling that she had said quite enough in error and far too much in her attempt to remedy matters, she fell silent.
She wondered if she had gone too far, if she had overestimated the intimacy of the moment and made a social gaffe. Because he dined alone with her and seemed to enjoy, her company, and forgot himself so much at times as to speak to her from the heart, did not mean that he trusted her enough to discuss his family with her. A great many things might be easily conversed about in polite society, and a great many more in impolite society, if she could judge by some of the shocking things he had said to her in the past when he believed the very worst of her. But though they might have lately had lively conversations on a great many topics ranging from literature to politics, a man’s family, she knew, especially a nobleman’s family, was considered sacrosanct. Especially, she reminded herself, in the presence of one’s social inferiors. Her face clouded up as she picked up a fork to pick at her salmon mousse, and she silently vowed to discuss nothing more intimate from now on than her opinion of the soup, when he spoke, cutting across her thoughts.
“I might have grown as spoiled as week-old milk, had it not been for my stepfather.”
As the dinner went on and the waiter bore in dish after dish of culinary magnificence that the hotel’s famous chef had labored over, Julia ate them without tasting, though she savored the tales the baron told her of his childhood well enough. When the desserts came, Julia became aware that she was uncommonly full, almost too stuffed to partake of her favorite petits fours. Then she realized that she had eaten far too much, all the while not knowing that she had done so. For it appeared that in the same manner that she had so often aided Nurse and gotten Toby to devour his hated vegetables by telling such exciting tales that he had opened and closed his mouth without being aware of it as she popped them in, so the baron had gotten her to finish off her own dinner. When he eyed her untouched dessert plate, she told him this, and he laughed so long and hard that she was sure his demitasse would grow cold.
“Then it’s only fair that you turn the tables, and get me to polish off this array of desserts,” he said at last, indicating the plates of cakes, pastries, sweetmeats, nuts, and fruits. “Come, Nanny, and tell me about young Clarice for a start, the dark-and curly-haired one who must remain forever in the schoolroom so as to preserve your vaulting vanity.”
She protested, laughing, as she told him that it would scarcely be an act of friendship to get him to eat up that lot. But as it turned out, she needn’t have worried. For when she had done with her narrative, although equally as much time had passed as had during his recitation, and though she had his undivided attention throughout, he had scarcely touched a bite to eat. Though it seemed he enjoyed the stories about her young siblings and her mother and her father and
his haughty employer fully as much as she had enjoyed hearing of his sisters and aunts and mother and wise stepfather, his face grew grave and still as she ended up her tales. His stories had been reminiscences of his youth, embroidered with humor and finished off with a précis of how each of his family was faring at present. But of necessity her stories, while fully detailed and filled with loving and amused remembrance, ended quite differently. For she was an exile, and there was no way that any part of her history could conclude without that fact, without that blot.
She tried to gloss over it, she attempted to pass it by, but it was like an ugly wound upon a seamless surface.
“And now, Julia,” he said at length, “what are your plans? After this episode, I mean to say. For you shall have earned a fair purse for your part in it,” he added gruffly, as though he disliked bringing up the mercenary aspect of their relationship once more.
She was glad at least that he had not again mentioned the possibility of her accepting any offer Robin might make. But she was glad in the way that a woman freezing to death is glad at least that it is not snowing.
“The money,” she said quietly, “will be an insurance for my future, I suppose. Or perhaps in time it will be used to buy more lavish gifts than one would expect a woman of my station to endow. I may yet become a great favorite of all my future nieces and nephews. But I shall return to work when I return to England. There is really no other course for me.”
“Julia,” he said in as quiet a tone, “what of marriage then?”
“What of marriage then?” she laughed. “Come, sir, what respectable fellow would have me?” But before he could reply, she added almost prosaically, “And I don’t want them. No, no, quite honestly, I assure you, marriage is not for me.”
