Furthermore, might that same inability to concentrate on the mundane one day see him fall straight down it?
In truth, Lucas had never paid a great deal of his attention to the long-running feud between his family and the Cunninghams. Even though the idea of his young Aunt Verity hanging herself, totally forlorn in the face of love lost, rather touched his passionate and romantic senses, still he did not find the resulting feud of any interest.
It was not, in his opinion, a wild, passionate, and aggressive sort of a feud. It was not something that would excite the senses and forever keep one on his toes. Rather it was a damp sort of affair, with both sides gently digging holes beneath the other in secrecy, never really taking the fight to the other. It was not something that Lucas could see the true point of. It was all done so very anonymously, and yet each side was always keen that the other should know that it was they who were at the root of some problem or other. As far as Lucas was concerned, it was hardly the stuff of legends, nor even something that some stuffy history text might contain. It was a nothingness to which he paid lip service and little else.
At least Keats, or his own interpretation of Keats, would do something to stir his senses and rouse his passion for the evening if nothing else.
By the time Lucas arrived at the home of Florence Nelson, he was just a little later than the rest of her guests. Once his horse had been taken from him to be stabled and refreshed, Lucas darted heavily into the entrance hall of the manor house.
“My dear Lucas.” Florence Nelson appeared as if from nowhere, smiling at him in the manner of a kindly grandmother. “I had begun to fear that you would not make it. How glad I am that you are here this evening.”
“And how glad I am, Florence.” Lucas lightly kissed her soft, wrinkled cheek. “For I am very much in need of an evening of Keats, are you not?”
“I am always in need of good poetry, my dear boy.” She smiled at him. “Now do come on in. The drawing-room is beautifully warm, and I have many wonderful guests tonight.
Florence Nelson hurried him into the drawing room and found him a seat just moments before her guest speaker, Mr Jasper Holden, rose to begin. One of Florence’s maids silently brought Lucas a large glass of sherry, and he accepted it with grateful thanks.
“Good evening ladies and gentlemen; I am so glad to see so very many of you here tonight. I am also very glad that dear Miss Nelson, a lady whom I think you will all agree is one of the most wonderfully interesting hostesses for several counties, has invited me here to speak to you all tonight. Above all things, it is a great honour,” Jasper Holden began.
Lucas could not help thinking that the man had rather a fine sort of a voice, having as it did a deep and resonant quality. All in all, it was a voice that would be perfect for a poetry recital.
Lucas looked about the room briefly to see if there was anybody he particularly recognised. In truth, he had likely met half the room before since the people who attended the home of Florence Nelson tended to be very much of similar interests to himself. They were far less interested in society balls and dancing than they were in learning and the arts.
As his eyes continued to roam the room, they alighted upon a young lady of rather exquisite beauty. Although she was seated, Lucas thought her rather tall and slim, but with the most pleasing curves. She had a wonderful colouring, her thick, shiny hair being the richest, darkest chocolate brown, and her eyes were so dark they were almost as coals in so fair a face. Her skin was without blemish and was a very pale cream, in contrast to her darkness.
The young lady was wearing a very simple gown indeed, cut from a plain pale green cloth. Although her bearing and very attendance at the recital spoke of good breeding, her clothes rather set her apart as having something of a lower station in life. However, as she sat listening intently to the middle-aged man at the front of the room, Lucas rather thought that none of those observations would have bothered her particularly. There was just something about her which spoke of a certain confidence in herself. He could not truly think why that had occurred to him, and yet he felt it most keenly.
Lucas continued to watch her intermittently throughout the long, but rather interestingly told tale of the life of John Keats. After some moments, he realised that she was very likely in company with Lady Cordelia Cunningham. The two seemed to be sitting awfully close together and, at various points in the proceedings, they turned to look at each other.
In truth, Lucas had nothing in the world against Lady Cordelia. Whilst she was a Cunningham, she was the only one that he saw with any sort of regularity. She was clearly a young lady of some intellect and undoubtedly enjoyed much of the same events as he did.
Whilst they always nodded politely to one another or even gently partook of some conversation when they were both a part of the same group, they did not particularly seek each other out for individual acquaintanceship. Not that either one of them openly bore any animosity, but rather they were both perhaps made just a little awkward by the behaviour of their respective families.
As the speaker began to recite La Belle Dame Sans Merci, Lucas found his eyes glued to the beautiful young dark-haired woman’s face. With the first three stanzas done, Lucas felt a familiar frustration begin to take hold of him.
“I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful, a fairy’s child;
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.”
As Lucas had suspected, Jasper Holden did, indeed, have exactly the right sort of voice for such a poem. He spoke clearly and resonantly, and his voice was as rich as butter. However, there was something missing. It was beautifully recited, and Lucas knew he could not argue against that. It was perfectly done, every word in its place, every pause made with immaculate timing. But there was no passion. There was nothing in his eyes nor anything in his voice which spoke from the heart of the man. It was, as most poetry recitation was in Lucas’ eyes, a scholarly performance. Whilst it had its own merits and was enjoyable in its own way, it needed more. As he stared over at the young woman, he could see something in her face which rather suggested to him that she held something of his own disappointment. Not that she looked anything other than serene; to all present, and to all intents and purposes, the young woman’s appearance had not changed one bit. But Lucas knew what he could see, and he knew that she wanted so very much more from the recital.
“She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna-dew,
And sure in language strange she said—
‘I love thee true’.”
By the time Lucas was listening again, Jasper Holden had moved on some verses. However, it mattered not to Lucas. He had heard proficient readings before, and he had no need to hear another. He would, instead, content himself with silent surveillance of the beautiful woman in the plain green dress.
Chapter Four
As the poetry recital drew to a close, small pockets of guests formed in bright conversation here and there about the cosy drawing-room of Florence Nelson’s manor house.
Lucas was torn between wanting to stay by the warmth of the fire and joining in some conversation elsewhere in a bid to get closer to the young woman in green.
“You were not impressed, Lucas, I can tell.” Florence Nelson, almost in her seventieth year, sidled up to Lucas Farrington with a look of amusement on her face.
“I was impressed, Florence, truly I was. I was simply hoping to be just a little more impressed.” Lucas smiled.
“In truth, so was I,” Florence said quietly. “But still he did rather well, did he not?”
“I enjoyed the talk very much and, in truth, I enjoyed the poem. La Belle Dame Sans Merci is, without doubt, one of my favourite poems; probably even my favourite. And he certainly read it very well.”
“Yes, he did.” Florence nodded in a most noncommittal fashion. “And everyone here seems awfully pleased with it, so I daresay that is the main thing.” Florence gave him a know
ing look.
“Well, I think almost everybody.”
“My dear Lucas, have you spied a like-minded soul?” Florence lowered her tone to a conspiratorial whisper.
“Perhaps,” he said and thoroughly enjoyed the inquisitive look on his elderly friend’s face.
“Tell me,” she demanded, shortly.
“I rather thought I spied one other in the room who might have wanted just a little bit more passion in the reading,” Lucas said, knowing full well that he was teasing Florence.
“Who?” Her frustration was beginning to show.
“The young lady who stands at the side of Lady Cordelia Cunningham. The young lady in the green dress.” Lucas stopped himself from saying the beautiful young lady in the green dress.
In just two short years, Florence had learned to read him really rather well and, in this, Lucas was not keen to give himself away so soon.
“She is beautiful, is she not?” Florence said, almost as if she had read his mind.
“I daresay she is rather beautiful,” Lucas said keeping his tone purposely neutral.
“You cannot fool me that way, Lucas, but I shall return to that point later. Do continue.”
“Tell me, who is she?” Lucas said knowing himself already sunk and thinking it easier to simply follow the path of least resistance.
“Her name is Davina Marfont, and she is the niece of Wallace Marfont, attorney to the Cunningham family.” The corners of Florence Nelson’s mouth turned up a little, almost as if she were hoping to goad him.
“My dear woman, you know fine well that I am not wrong-footed by the mention of the Cunninghams. At least not unless a member of my family is present and watching.” And with that, Florence and Lucas laughed heartily.
“Indeed, I do know it, Lucas, and I should not have teased you so.” Florence smiled.
“How is it that the attorney’s niece is out and about with Lady Cordelia?”
“Have you suddenly turned snob, my dear? I thought your social leanings beyond such censure.” Florence was amusing herself at Lucas’ expense, and he would not have denied her such a pleasure for the world.
“No, I have not.” Lucas laughed heartily. “But I would not have imagined any one of the Cunningham family having tendencies such as my own.” He thought for a moment. “But in truth, if any of them would have, it would undoubtedly be Lady Cordelia. She rather strikes me as the more learned and enlightened of the family.”
“And there is no animus between you and Lady Cordelia that I can see.”
“No indeed, Florence, there is not. I think her a most pleasant young lady, at least what I know of her.”
“She is a most pleasant young lady, Lucas. And young Davina Marfont is a very great friend of hers. She was orphaned as a child and sent to live with her uncle. I do not believe that Wallace Marfont is a particularly attentive guardian, nor ever has been. However, the young lady herself seems to be rather efficiently self-taught in a number of things. I am told that Wallace Marfont provided her with a rudimentary education but did not go to any great expense to elaborate upon what her parents had already provided for her before they died.” Florence looked a little sad. “And yet she is such a clever young woman. She knows a great deal on a great number of subjects. She is rather passionate about art and more particularly poetry. If I remember correctly, Miss Marfont is most particularly fond of Keats.”
“Then that might well be why she did not look quite as satisfied as the rest of your guests. If she knows his work well, she will have felt instinctively what was missing.”
“As you did,” Florence said with a smile.
“And you, my good lady.”
“I think it might be a nice idea for you and me to join their conversation. Do you not?” Florence said, a little mischievously.
“I am not sure,” Lucas said, somewhat upended by his sudden reticence.
In truth, he could not entirely attribute it to any awkwardness there might be between himself and Lady Cordelia Cunningham. Rather it was something else; something a little deeper and a little more troubling. Perhaps, at the bottom of it all was a fear of rejection. Perhaps even deeper still, a fear that the young lady was not quite what he imagined her to be from afar. Surely that, above all things, would be the biggest disappointment of them all.
“How very interesting,” Florence Nelson said, her mischief still riding high. “I believe I have never seen you quite so reticent. I do hope you are not losing that silent confidence you have.”
“It rather appears to be back again, Florence. You have no need to be concerned.” Lucas laughed. “I am back to myself once again and should very much like you to introduce me to Miss Marfont.”
As they made their way across the drawing-room, Lucas could not help thinking that he had been just a little disingenuous. In truth, he felt himself suddenly extremely nervous. He had never before been nervous at the prospect of being introduced to any young lady and rather wondered at the extreme feeling.
“Lady Cunningham, Miss Marfont, I do hope you enjoyed this evening,” Florence said, by way of easing herself and her companion into their conversation.
“Oh, Miss Nelson, it was simply wonderful,” Cordelia Cunningham said, her words filled with enthusiasm.
“He read it very nicely,” Florence said with a smile. “And his talk was most informative, was it not?”
“Indeed, it was,” Davina Marfont said with a smile.
Lucas smiled inwardly. Miss Marfont could only truly let herself comment favourably on the talk that went before the poetry reading. Already he had decided that the young woman was true to herself. Or was he seeing just what he wanted to see? Was he creating her character instead of trying to learn it?
“Might I introduce my friend, Lord Lucas Farrington?” Florence began. “You know Lady Cunningham, of course.”
“Indeed, I do. Good evening, Lady Cunningham. I do hope you are well,” Lucas said with a bright smile.
“I am very well, Sir. I thank you. And I hope you are the same?” Cordelia’s smile was equally as pleasant and genuine.
Lucas had never really noticed it before, but in their greetings, both he and Cordelia always stopped short of inquiring after each other’s families, as was the custom of the day. Perhaps they both would rather forget the things they could not change.
“I am very well, Lady Cunningham.”
“And I do not believe you have met Miss Davina Marfont. She is terribly clever and always so very welcome at one of my evenings of interest.” Florence introduced the young woman with a flourish.
“I am very pleased to meet you, Lord Farrington. But I am rather afraid that Miss Nelson has built me up most dreadfully.” Davina Marfont gave a warm smile.
“I speak only the truth,” Florence said dramatically, making the young people laugh.
“I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Marfont. Tell me, what did you think of the reading?”
“It was very good indeed, Sir,” she said, and Lucas saw in her eyes what he had hoped to. The poetry reading was not as she had hoped. “It is true to say that Mr Holden did not miss a beat nor pause. He really did read it very nicely.”
“Yes indeed, he was most accurate,” Lucas said and was pleased to see a flash of recognition in her beautiful coal-like eyes. “I must say, I have very much looked forward to this evening myself. Keats has written amongst my favourite works, and I read them often,” he went on.
“Keats is my favourite, Lord Farrington,” Davina Marfont said with tongue guarded enthusiasm. “And La Belle Dame is my very favourite poem.”
“I would tell you that it is mine, Miss Marfont, but you should think me only parroting you,” Lucas said and laughed a little.
“I should not think that at all, Sir.” Davina laughed also. “I should simply be pleased to meet another person who adored the poem as I do.”
“Then you have met such a person this evening, Miss Marfont,” Lucas said before turning to Lady Cordelia. “And
is Keats among your favourites, Lady Cunningham?” He had not wanted to leave her out of the conversation. Lucas was very keen to be sure that the young woman who should have been his adversary did not think he had simply come over to speak only to her friend.
“Keats is among my favourites, Sir,” Lady Cordelia said thoughtfully. “But I really must profess a love of Byron.” She laughed lightly. “In truth, I am very easily swayed by romantic poetry of any kind.”
“Hear, hear!” Florence said, raising her sherry glass.
The group of four spent most of the rest of the evening in each other’s company, and Lucas could not remember when he had enjoyed himself quite so much. Ordinarily, a reading of Keats such as the one given by Jasper Holden would have put him entirely off key and made him at odds with himself for the rest of the evening.
Lucas was so very intent upon art and poetry and knew that he was perhaps just a little too insular. However, his evening was proving that there was perhaps just a little more to him.
The remainder of the evening seemed to pass by all too quickly, and Lucas, finding he had very much enjoyed the company of all three women, was rather disappointed as the night began to draw to a close.
“I am to collect my horse from the stable, but might I walk you ladies to your carriage?” Lucas said, being as gentlemanly as he could imagine it was possible to be.
“Indeed, you may,” Lady Cordelia answered with a smile.
“You rode some distance, Sir.” Davina Marfont said looking a little concerned. “Will you not be dreadfully cold on the way home? You live some distance, do you not?”
“Indeed, I do live a little distance. But I must admit, Miss Marfont that I like nothing better than to be entirely out of doors. Even in the dark of night, to race along in the cold air makes me feel really rather alive if that makes any sense at all.”
“It makes perfect sense, Sir. I enjoy many walks, but none more so than when I am truly frozen to my core. It does, as you say, make one feel alive, and also makes a hot cup of tea at the end of it so very much more gratifying than when one simply rides in a carriage.”
Regency Romance Collection: Regency Fire: The Historical Regency Romance Complete Series (Books 1-5) Page 15
