Two Corinthians

by Carola Dunn

  Aunt Dorothy glanced around the room, her inquisitive gaze hardening as she noticed Lizzie's presence. “Later, Caroline,” she said impatiently. “Pray make me known to your guests."

  Lady Sutton acknowledged the introductions with a stiff nod, while she eyed Amelia's mousy hair and pale face with an appraising stare. Satisfied, she summoned Lizzie and presented her.

  “I daresay she is much of an age with your daughter, ma'am,” she went on complacently. “I am for ever telling her how lucky she is to be fair, since blondes are the fashion."

  Lady Harrison glared at Lizzie's golden curls. “Surely Miss Elizabeth is past her first Season,” she reciprocated, and followed up with a second body blow. “Dear Bertram has been waiting these several years to see his little cousin make her bow to Society."

  Bertram fumed silently. It was the outside of enough for his aunt to link him thus with poor Amelia, but she had done it so subtly that he could not object. He noticed that Lizzie, awake on every suit, was enjoying the exchange while Amelia looked as if she wanted to crawl into the woodwork.

  “Allow me to present Miss Sutton to you, Aunt Dorothy,” he said to distract Lady Harrison from the combat.

  As Claire made her curtsy, he realised too late that he had handed his aunt the victory. Lady Sutton was the unhappy mother of a spinster daughter of eight or nine and twenty.

  Fortunately, Claire was preoccupied, seemingly unaware of the undercurrents and her mother's disgruntlement. She turned to Lady Caroline.

  “Of course we will leave, ma'am,” she said in her soft voice. “Your relatives must have first call upon your attention, and besides, we have several miles to go and it grows late."

  Lady Sutton cast her daughter a furious glance which promised future retribution, but she was not so lost to all sense of propriety as to insist on staying, particularly where she had been bested. However, she did manage to get something of her own back. She beckoned forward Lord Winterborne, who stood in the background listening with a look of sardonic amusement, and introduced him as her house guest.

  “Heir to the Marquis of Bellingham, you know,” she pointed out in a stage whisper to Lady Harrison, with a significant nod towards Lizzie.

  Bertram had to consider the honours evened.

  He and Winterborne assisted the Sutton ladies with their shawls and reticules. In doing so he passed near Horace, who was posing casually against the mantel.

  “I say, any pretty chambermaids in the house?” his cousin enquired in a low voice, leering.

  “If so, I shall warn my sister to keep them beyond your reach,” he muttered in disgust. He was ashamed to acknowledge these three as relatives.

  When they reached the front hall, Lord Carfax, warned by Braithwaite, was shepherding the slightly fuddled male Suttons out of the dining-room. Under cover of the chaos of servants carrying the Harrisons’ luggage up to hastily prepared chambers, Lizzie slipped to Bertram's side.

  “It was most unkind in you to draw your aunt's and Mama's attention to Claire at such a moment,” she accused. “She will have to listen to recriminations on her single state all the way home."

  “It was not my intention....” he began.

  “And how dare you laugh at my brother,” she interrupted, “when your cousin is not only a counter-coxcomb but a ramshackle rake. I heard what he said to you."

  “Which makes you an eavesdropper, as well as a vulgar baggage,” he responded irately. “The impropriety of your language is exceeded only by your impertinence."

  “Hypocrite!” she hissed.

  She flounced off to thank Caroline for her hospitality. Bertram watched her, frowning. He could not believe that he had been so undignified as to quarrel like a schoolboy.

  It was also uncharacteristic. He could not remember when he had last exchanged angry words with anyone, whatever the provocation, and the last few months with Amaryllis had been enough to provoke a saint. Now here he was, rebuking the manners of a chit in whom he had no interest, in defence of Horace, whom he despised.

  He turned with relief to her sister.

  “I must thank you for suggesting departure, Miss Sutton, though it deprives me of your company. May I hope to be permitted to call on you while I am in the neighborhood?"

  “I'm sure Mama and Lizzie will be happy to receive you, my lord."

  “And you?” he pressed.

  She gave him a vague smile, as if her mind was suddenly elsewhere. “I rarely help to entertain callers,” she murmured. “Good-bye, sir.” She turned away.

  Bertram was speechless. As a snub it was a masterpiece, though he suspected she had not intended to be rude. An eccentric indeed! It was ludicrous of Caroline to expect him to court her. He had a very good mind to leave for London at dawn, only his aunt would take it as a deliberate affront and complain to his mother. Sighing, he went back to the drawing room.

  He spent the rest of the evening trying to avoid being forced into intimate conversation with Amelia. Not that conversation was precisely the word for it, since Amelia's repertoire consisted of “Yes, Cousin Bertram” and “No, Cousin Bertram.” She appeared at the breakfast table in yet another pink muslin gown, shivering, and her mother proposed that she should spend the morning showing Cousin Bertram her sketchbook.

  “I fear I shall have to postpone that pleasure for another time,” said Cousin Bertram smoothly. “I promised Winterborne to ride over to Sutton's to see his new hunter."

  “We must certainly pay our respects to the Suttons after interrupting their entertainment last night,” said Lady Harrison, a hawkish gleam in her eye. “Amelia will enjoy driving in your curricle, Bertram."

  Caroline came nobly to the rescue. “I quite depend on renewing my acquaintance with Amelia this morning,” she lied. “She was just a little girl last time we met and here she is grown into a young lady. There will be plenty of time to visit the Suttons another day."

  “Oh yes, Cousin Caroline, I should like it of all things,” said Amelia timidly, grateful at being saved from a tête-à-tête with her terrifying male cousin.

  Seeing Aunt Dorothy marshalling her forces, Bertram abandoned his ham and eggs and hurried out to the stables. His distaste for renewing his acquaintance with the peculiar Misses Sutton paled before his horror at the possibility of spending the day with the Harrisons.

  Chapter V—Claire

  The trouble was, Claire decided as she carefully trimmed a thorny stem, that it was impossible to tell what Lord Pomeroy was thinking. His polished politeness was distributed impartially, even to those harridans, her mother and his aunt, even to herself, an uninteresting spinster of uncertain years.

  In contrast, Lord Winterborne's opinions could be read in his dark eyes, and fortunate it was that Mama was not given to reading people's eyes. He respected Papa's knowledge of horses; outside the stables he was indifferent to Sir James and held his sons in contempt. Lizzie amused him. Claire thought his opinion of herself was divided between pity and a mild interest. She was used to arousing the former. The latter, she hoped, was an offshoot of his growing interest in Lizzie.

  It was warm in the greenhouse. She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, trying not to touch her face with her muddy fingers, but not really concerned about the possibility. Mama had upbraided her for fifteen years for her lack of beauty, so it was scarce surprising that she was indifferent to her appearance. Edward was right in that she could have afforded decent clothes. She preferred to spend the income from her inheritance on this greenhouse, with its modern dry stove to encourage her roses into early growth.

  For Lizzie's sake she had stayed at home long after she was in a position to leave, but only her roses had kept her sane.

  “So this is where you escape to every morning.” Lord Winterborne filled the doorway, his shoulders a hairsbreadth from the jambs, his head slightly bowed to miss the lintel. “May I come in?"

  “Come in? Yes.... yes, of course,” she stammered, taken aback by his sudden appearance and slightly resentin
g the invasion of her refuge. “But there's nothing to see here, my lord."

  “On the contrary.” He stepped in, smiling reassuringly. “Lizzie tells me you grow roses. They were my mother's favourite flower, though I am aware she was not alone in that preference. Whenever she was in London she would go to the Vineyard nursery to purchase the latest new variety. My father takes good care of her garden, but it does not thrive without her attention, I fear."

  “I develop my own kinds,” said Claire gruffly, busying herself with her roots and shoots.

  “What are you doing now?” he asked, joining her by the bench.

  She found it hard to believe that he was interested, but only moments earlier she had been comparing his candour with Lord Pomeroy's surface affability.

  “These are the roots I was collecting the day we met,” she explained. “I am trimming them and planting each in its own pot. Wild roses provide a hardier rootstock, and then I graft onto them."

  “They look dead as doornails.'

  “Oh no, see how plump they are, and the new buds? They are in very good condition. Alfie buried them all in moist soil for me while I was confined to my chamber. Some of them were upside down, but they all survived."

  “And each of these will grow into a new kind?"

  “I wish they would! Very few prove worth keeping, even when you control the cross-pollination carefully, by John Kennedy's system. He was a partner at the Vineyard, you know, where your mother bought her roses. The Empress Josephine consulted Mr Kennedy even when her Napoleon was at war with England!” Embarrassed at displaying her enthusiasm, yet unable to resist his sympathetic interest, she looked down at her hands and muttered, “I sold one to Mr Kennedy."

  “One of your varieties? My congratulations, Miss Sutton, for I am sure it is a significant triumph. I must buy one for my own gardens. What is it called, Sutton's Special?"

  “No! I am not so fond of that name.” Her cheeks were hot and she kept her eyes fixed on her work. “It is a white bloom. I called it Clair de Lune."

  “Moonlight and your name!” Lord Winterborne laughed, but it was a laugh of joy and admiration, not of scorn. “Uniting wit with skill."

  “And luck.” She looked up at him shyly and dared to ask, “Do you really mean to have one?"

  “Certainly, and once it is flowering I shall boast to all my visitors that I know its creator. Oh, Miss Sutton, I knew there were hidden depths beneath that quiet surface."

  Since she had no idea how to respond to such a compliment, she was pleased as well as dismayed to see Lord Pomeroy making his way towards the greenhouse. She pointed out his approaching figure to Lord Winterborne.

  His lordship took her arm and turned her towards him. Then with one hand lightly holding her shoulder, he drew a pristine linen handkerchief from his coat pocket and gently wiped her forehead.

  “Mud,” he said succinctly. “Pomeroy would not understand the exigencies of your craft.” His smile was conspiratorial.

  Unaccountably breathless, she managed to smile back. Then she held out her filthy hands for his inspection, and they both burst into laughter.

  Lord Pomeroy entered, his face a mask of polite enquiry. “Miss Sutton, Winterborne. Lady Sutton said I might find you here. I trust I do not intrude?” There was an edge to his voice.

  Claire retreated behind her own mask, appearing totally absorbed in her potting though she was overwhelmingly conscious of the two large masculine presences. She sensed a tension between them that had not been apparent to her yesterday when they met in company.

  “Morning, Pomeroy,” drawled Lord Winterborne. “A glass house would be a poor choice for a romantic rendezvous, do you not agree? Miss Sutton has been showing me her work."

  Lord Pomeroy visibly relaxed. “Of course. Fascinating. You must tell me about it some time, Miss Sutton. For now, though, the sun is shining and I hope to persuade you to take a turn about the gardens."

  Claire looked at him in surprise, then guessed the reason for his request. No doubt he wished to talk to her about Lizzie.

  “Thank you, that will be delightful,” she said uncertainly, hiding her hands behind her. “I shall be with you in a moment."

  Lord Winterborne appeared to guess her dilemma, for he grinned at her and said, “Step outside with me, Pomeroy. We are crowding Miss Sutton."

  She threw him a grateful glance and hurriedly washed her hands in a watering can, then put on her cloak.

  The gentlemen were discussing horses when she stepped outside.

  “I'll have Orpheus saddled and ride part of the way back with you,” Lord Winterborne was saying. “I think you will agree that he is a magnificent beast. It is not easy to find a mount up to my weight. Ah, Miss Sutton, even this weak February sun strikes sparks of fire from your hair, but it brings little warmth. Have you no bonnet?"

  “My cloak has a hood, sir,” she said, obscurely glad that she had never given in to her mother's insistence that she should wear a spinster's cap. “I am quite warm, though."

  “Good. Then I shall leave you to show Pomeroy about your gardens. Your sister walked down to the village, I think, while I was engaged with your father?"

  “Yes. I daresay you will meet her coming back if you go that way."

  She took Lord Pomeroy's offered arm.

  “You have no gloves, Miss Sutton,” observed his lordship, sounding concerned. “Your hands will grow cold."

  “Then I shall put them in my pockets. Let us go down this path. There is little worth seeing in the garden at this season, but I hope to find something to show you. I believe flowers bloom year round in Italy?"

  “They do, especially in the south. They are not half so well appreciated as are English flowers in spring after a hard winter."

  Claire had expected him to rhapsodise about the glories of a Mediterranean garden. His answer pleased her, as did his reaction to a fountain of golden forsythia. If he was merely being polite, at least his courtesy made her feel comfortable. With more confidence she showed him a patch of fragile Christmas roses. They strolled on into a formal garden surrounded by high, prickly ilex hedges. In a warm, sheltered corner a raised bed glowed with crocuses.

  “The purple ones are my favourites,” she said, stooping to touch one delicately. “See the contrast of the petals with the orange stamen. The colours are rich enough for a king's robes."

  As she straightened, she saw Alfie racing towards them down the garden path. With his pale eyes staring, his carroty hair in spikes, arms windmilling, and mouth gaping for breath, he looked like a madman.

  Lord Pomeroy put his arm around Claire protectively. Though she knew the boy was harmless she shrank back, afraid that in his urgency he would be unable to stop before running into them at full tilt.

  He slid to a halt in a spray of gravel, his thin chest heaving as he struggled for air to speak.

  “What is it, Alfie?” she asked soothingly. “Is Cook angry with you again?"

  He gesticulated wildly. “Horse!” he panted. “Master's big horse coming!"

  Claire heard the drumming of hooves. Round the end of the farthest hedge thundered a huge roan stallion, galloping straight towards them. Before she could react, Lord Pomeroy's strong arms swung her aside, dumping her unceremoniously in the middle of the crocuses. Alfie leapt to join her.

  His lordship stood poised on the low stone wall in front of them. Realising it was trapped by the high hedges, the stallion neighed its fury and reared over him, eyes rolling whitely.

  Claire huddled back, watching in helpless horror, sure he would be crushed beneath the iron-shod hooves.

  Lord Pomeroy waved his arms and shouted. At the last moment the stallion swung aside and pounded away, just as a gaggle of stable hands ran into the garden.

  Alfie plucked at Claire's sleeve. "Told you, Miss Claire,” he said proudly.

  She took a deep breath and said in a remarkably steady voice, “Yes, Alfie, you told me. You warned us in time. Thank you.” She turned to his lordship.

>   He was watching the men corner the stallion and calm him.

  “A superb beast,” he remarked in a conversational tone, no tremor betraying the fact that he had just risked his life. “I wonder what set him off."

  Claire could guess what had happened. The breeze was blowing from the north. The horse, her father's best stud, must have caught the scent of the mares in season, which were pastured on the far side of the gardens. Some unfortunate groom's moment of carelessness had let him escape.

  However, she could hardly explain this to so proper a gentleman as Lord Pomeroy.

  “I cannot imagine,” she said vaguely. Then, as he helped her down from among the devastated crocuses, she turned on him a gaze full of admiration and gratitude. “How very brave you were! He might have trampled us all."

  “It was my pleasure, Miss Sutton,” he responded with a nonchalant smile, for all the world as if he had just picked up her dropped fan. “I expect you will want to sit down after your fright. Allow me to escort you back to the house."

  She would have preferred to return to the greenhouse, but after his heroic action she meekly accepted his solicitude and his arm.

  He tossed a coin to Alfie with a “Well done, lad,” and they turned towards the house.

  Lizzie and Lord Winterborne were in the drawing room with Lady Sutton. Claire had heard something of her sister's quarrel with Lord Pomeroy the evening before. Nonetheless, knowing Lizzie and beginning to know his lordship, she was not surprised by the unruffled politeness of his greeting and Lizzie's friendly reply.

  Lady Sutton was looking complacent at having two eligible gentlemen in her drawing room. Claire made her excuses and fled before she drew down her mother's wrath upon her head by distracting either of them from Lizzie's side. She hoped Lord Pomeroy would not be offended at her failure to extoll his heroism in the incident with the stallion. Lady Sutton was perfectly capable of claiming that the whole situation was Claire's fault.