by Joan Smith
These thoughts flashed through his mind in seconds. When he spoke, he said, “I didn’t realize you knew Miss Lovelace. I haven’t met you here before, have I?” His friendly tone encouraged Sylvester’s confidence.
“Until today, our acquaintance has been by correspondence only, purely professional,” Sylvester said, with a conspiratorial smile at Rosalind. “I dare to hope we have taken the initial steps toward friendship over the past delightful hour.”
Harwell’s eyebrows rose an inch. “In what field of endeavor have you turned professional, Roz?” he inquired. “Setting up as a mender of prayer books?” His curiosity was rampant, and his speech, which always bordered on the brusque, sounded more angry than curious.
Sylvester blinked in astonishment. “Milord! Don’t tell me you are Miss Lovelace’s neighbor and are not aware that we devoted four pages of the current issue of Camena to her works! She is the next poet laureate. I use the word in its true sense of being wreathed in laurels, honored above her peers, not appointed by His Majesty to spin off court odes on order, like that doddering fool Southey. Walter Scott had the good sense to turn the post down.”
Harwell’s jaw fell open. “Roz, a poet?” he exclaimed, and stared at her as if she had been pronounced a contortionist, or a bearded lady. “What do you write about? Mending the seat covers in the church? Stirring up the annual batch of marmalade?”
Green fire shot from her eyes, glaring him to a stunned silence. He hadn’t seen her so angry since the day he jokingly accused her of trying to seduce the vicar.
Before she could retaliate in words, Sylvester took up the cudgels in her defense. His chivalry sent a little thrill through her, and created a new sort of interest in this young dandy. He was not all that young either, to judge by his speech.
“The mind needs ease for contemplation to create great literature, milord,” he said, with an air of gentle reproof. “It has been my experience that it is those engaged in simple pursuits who create the true masterpieces. Wordsworth, for example, strolling through the woods with his sister, and enlightening us and posterity as to his sublime feelings. Think of Thomas Gray. The greatest excitement of his mature writing years was his remove from Peterhouse across the street to Pembroke Hall— and it took a fire to move him that far. Yet there are lines in the Elegy so beautiful they make grown men weep.” He gazed into the distance and blinked away an unshed tear.
“If a dull life is the prerequisite for great poetry, then I am sure you will do admirably,” Harwell said with a mocking bow in Rosalind’s direction.
“The hurly-burly of a Season would only dilute Miss Lovelace’s originality,” Sylvester insisted. “She does plan to visit London soon, however. The other poets are on thorns to meet her, since her triumphant appearance in Camena.”
Harwell’s sharp eyes turned to Roz at this announcement. “Indeed! I have heard nothing of this visit,” he said.
“We have just begun to discuss it,” she replied.
“Ah yes, a week in London will require a deal of discussion,” he said, chewing back a grin.
“Longer than a week, I hope!” Sylvester exclaimed. “I am anticipating a month at least, perhaps two. I shall begin looking about for a flat for you as soon as I return to Town, Miss Lovelace.”
“My London house is empty in the summer, except for a few servants and Aunt Margaret. Oh, and Uncle Ezra at the moment,” Harwell said. “You are welcome to stay there, Roz. Aunt Margaret can accompany you about.”
“That’s very kind of you, Harry,” she said, with a thin smile, “but I am hardly at that age where I require a chaperon.”
“I have been anticipating the pleasure of being Miss Lovelace’s cicisbeo,” Sylvester said with a glinting smile at Harwell. Why was the fellow jealous of him? Was there something afoot between this unlikely pair?
Harwell’s frown grew deeper at every speech. “When are we to see the magnum opus?” he inquired.
“I believe I have a spare copy of the current issue of Camena in my rig,” Sylvester said. “I shall give you one before I leave, but we do not call the Blossom Time poems Miss Lovelace’s magnum opus, merely a prelude to greater things to come.” He went on to speak of Camena, and his stunt in pretending Miss Lovelace’s poems had been composed by a gentleman.
Lord Harwell had only a minimal interest in the details. When Sylvester stopped to draw breath, Harwell said to Rosalind, “Where is Sukey? As you see, I brought Snow Drop for her.”
“Snow Drop?” Sylvester said. “Snowflake, surely. Raindrop but snowflake is the usual terminology.”
Harwell’s sigh suggested his lack of interest in semantics.
Before long, Sukey came barreling into the saloon. Her hem had torn loose once again. A sun-bonnet hung down her back, held on by its ribbon. Her tousled curls bounced in all directions. The soiled condition of her pinafore suggested that she had been playing in the stable, or perhaps in a ditch. Ignoring everyone and everything else in the room, she bolted straight for Snow Drop and snatched her into her arms to kiss her.
“Thanks, Harry!” she exclaimed. “Did you bring the sugarplums too?”
“Er . . . not yet,” he said, darting a guilty look at Rosalind.
Sylvester watched with his eyebrows lifted to his hairline. Once Sukey had examined the kitten’s entire body and said in an accusing way that the kitten wasn’t perfectly white, her feet and belly were gray, she deigned to look around the room and discovered Lord Sylvester.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
“Lord Sylvester, this is my young sister, Sukey,” Rosalind said. “You must excuse the way she looks. She is a great tomboy, I fear.”
“Should you not be in the classroom, young lady?” Sylvester inquired.
“My nanny got married. We had her wedding dinner here. I drank a glass of wine. I’m on holidays now. When I get a governess, I’m going to learn to read.”
“Learn to read? How old are you, Miss Sukey?”
“Five and some more months.”
“I was reading at three. At five and a half I was well on my way in Latin and Greek.”
Sukey wrinkled up her brow and studied him a moment. “I’m a girl,” she said. “I only have to learn to read.”
She walked to the tea tray, scooped up a handful of macaroons, and stuffed them in her pocket. She turned an accusing eye on Rosalind. “You didn’t tell me Cook had made macaroons. You know they’re my favorite.”
On this bold speech, she turned and strode from the room, with Snow Drop tucked under her arm. In a moment the front door was heard to slam.
“An original,” Lord Sylvester said, in a voice that displayed his disapproval, and his gentlemanly restraint in not giving tongue to it.
He rose and began making his bows all around. “Could you suggest the best inn at Croydon, Lovelace?” he said to Dick. “I believe I shall stay the night and return tomorrow. Miss Lovelace and I have a great many things to discuss.” He turned to Rosalind. “We must give some thought to those poems for the autumn issue of Camena, and set on a date for your visit to London. I shall want to arrange a dinner party and a few outings. I begin to think September is leaving it a bit late.”
Dick felt he ought to invite Lord Sylvester to stay at Apple Hill, but he had not the least desire to have to listen to the fellow prose on all evening about Camena, as if it were the Holy Grail.
“The Greenman is—” He began, only to be interrupted by Rosalind.
“We would be honored if you would stay—”
Before the invitation left her lips, Lord Harwell spoke. “Might I have the honor of your company, Lord Sylvester? We have rather a fine library at the Abbey. Some original Spencer manuscripts you might want to have a look at,” he added enticingly.
Lord Sylvester was fully alive to the honor of an invitation to visit Drayton Abbey, one of the finest estates in England. He knew, as well, that Lord Harwell was the tip of the ton. It occurred to him that he might get Harwell to dig into his deep pockets to
invest in Camena, whose finances were by no means solid.
“Very kind of you, milord,” he said, smiling. Then he turned back to Rosalind. “May I do myself the honor of calling on you this evening, Miss Lovelace, if you are not otherwise occupied?”
“I am free,” she said, with some eagerness. Not so much for his company as to get him away from Harwell. Why had Harry invited him? He had no use for gentlemen like Lord Sylvester. Her fear was that Harry would in some manner give Sylvester a disgust of her. Those remarks about mending the church seats and making marmalade were made in a mean spirit that was unlike Harry. Or was she imagining things? Perhaps Sylvester’s brother, Lord Moffat, was a good friend of Harry’s.
Harwell said, “Or better, why don’t you and Dick come to the Abbey and dine with us there, Roz?”
Sylvester’s face burst into smiles of approbation. “Too kind, milord. Really this is demmed civil of you. I am honored—flattered at your attentions.”
“Roz?” Harwell said.
She studied him for a moment, trying to gauge what he was up to. He was smiling blandly, but a spark of mischief beamed in his dark eyes. Almost a challenge. She never could resist a challenge.
“Thank you, Harry. I look forward to it. You are free, Dick?”
“Oh, certainly. There is no Parish Council meeting tonight, and no assembly in town. Very happy to go, Harry. I shall perhaps leave a little early and call on Annabelle.”
“Bring Annabelle along. Let us make it a party,” Harwell said. “That is Lovelace’s fiancée we are discussing, Lord Sylvester. Miss Fortescue, a charming lady. I shall invite Lady Amanda Vaughan to even out our numbers.”
Both Rosalind and Dick stared to hear Lady Amanda’s name mentioned so casually. Harwell had been avoiding this rapacious man-eater’s advances forever. The group began to move into the hall. Harwell fell into step with Rosalind a few paces behind the others.
“Why are you doing this?” she demanded in an angry undertone.
“Why, you sound as if you’re ashamed of your young beau, Roz. I thought it a good idea to get to know him a little better before you announce the engagement. You recall your chagrin yesterday that I should consign you to just any old hedge bird.”
“Lord Sylvester is hardly a hedge bird!”
“No, more like a peacock.”
“If you spoil this for me, Harry—”
“My dear idiot! My intention is to help the affair along. The new gown and the wilted rosebud you’ve stuck into your hairdo are all very well, but Sylvester is a town peacock. You will have to show more than your clavicle to entrap him into an offer.”
“It is not an affair or a courtship. And I don’t need any help from you.”
“No, but I think perhaps Sylvester does. You must have seen Dick has no opinion of him. He might refuse to hand you over.”
“This has nothing to do with Dick, or you, or anyone else but me and Lord Sylvester.”
“Is that any way to thank me for voluntarily letting Lady Amanda loose in my saloon? I shall be fortunate to get away with my virtue intact.”
“You would be a magician to end up with what you do not possess to begin with. I cannot imagine why you are planning to invite her.”
His lips moved unsteadily. “Afraid of the competition, Roz?”
“Hardly. Lady Amanda does not write poetry, as far as I know.”
“Oh, but I meant competition for my body, not Sylvester’s mind.”
“She is entirely welcome to your body.”
“And to Sylvester’s as well?” he asked, staring at her. The only emotion he could discern was anger.
Sylvester turned, bowed to Dick, and took his leave of Rosalind. “I shall give you that copy of Camena when we meet chez the Abbey,” he was heard to say as the gentlemen walked toward their carriages.
“I look forward to it,” Harwell lied, as Rucker closed the door.
“Lord Sylvester is quite a chatterbox, ain’t he?” was Dick’s only comment, before he went to his study.
Rosalind went with a heavy heart to devise a toilette that would not look dowdy beside Lady Amanda’s, and still be within the bounds of modesty.
She felt in her bones the evening would be a disaster. As if trying to mix the oil of Sylvester and the vinegar of Harwell were not enough, there would be Dick’s fiancée, Miss Fortescue, playing off her airs and graces, and Lady Amanda, casting her lures at all the gentlemen. It would be a perfectly wretched evening, and it was all Harwell’s fault.
Chapter Four
Rosalind felt the occasion was special enough to wear the new gown she had had made up for the June assembly. Its watered silk was the rich hue of the heart of a Provence rose before it is fully open. As the color and material were rich, she had had it designed simply, aiming for enduring elegance rather than the latest fashion. All her gowns did service for several years. She asked the gardener to bring her an unopened Provence rose to nestle in the side of her bundle of curls. Her mama’s diamonds would be overdoing it for a simple dinner party. She wore her own pearls and topped the outfit off with a white fringed shawl.
“So this is the new gown. You look fine as ninepence, Roz,” Dick complimented her when she went downstairs to join him.
He had already called for his fiancée and brought Miss Fortescue to Apple Hill to accompany them to Harwell’s. The Fortescues were a new family in the neighborhood. Mr. Fortescue had retired from a very profitable law practice in London three years before and removed to Croydon. The location was a compromise. His wife and daughter had no taste for the country; they wanted to be near neighbors and the shops. Fortescue wanted to be near enough to the country that he could ride and hunt.
His daughter and only child was now quite an heiress, which, in Rosalind’s view, was the young lady’s chief attraction. Even that had its obverse side, as it inclined her to think very highly of herself. For the rest, she was a redhead with cabbage green eyes, a sharp nose, a sharp head for business, and a sharp tongue. She felt Mr. Lovelace had done very well to catch her and her fifteen thousand pounds, with a deal more to come when her papa died. Rosalind never could understand what Dick saw in the wench, but he had never been much involved with any of the local ladies, and as he had found someone he was inclined to marry, his sister was careful not to say a word against his choice.
“Roz,” Miss Fortescue said, prancing forward to brush her cheek against her future sister-in-law’s. “How charming you look. I was right about the watered silk, was I not? Much better than those dreary gowns you usually wear. Even with that plain cut, the color gives you a bit of life you need at your age. And really those little pearls look quite nice,” she said, patting her own splash of glittering diamonds. Her gown was of pomona green satin, embellished with a quantity of lace and ribbons. A brightly patterned shawl of red and white trailed over her arm.
“Shall we go?” she rattled on. “It should be dark enough by the time we reach the Abbey that no one sees the dust on Dick’s carriage. He is such a slackard!” she added, smiling tolerantly at her beloved. “I have told him a dozen times that you don’t drive a dusty rig to visit a lord, but there. I’m sure if a scold like you cannot make him behave, Roz, a mere fiancée can have no hope of reforming him.”
Dick accepted this chastisement in good humor. “Dash it, it’s only Harry. He has seen me in dirtier rigs than the one we are driving tonight,” he said, and ushered the ladies out the door. As they drove the few miles to the Abbey, Miss Fortescue entertained the company with a recital of what an honor she was conferring on Lord Harwell to grace his table that evening on such short notice.
“I was promised to the Coughlins for dinner,” she said. “When the note came, I said to the footman, ‘You must tell his lordship I cannot accept.’ Imagine sending an invitation on the very day of the party! And late afternoon at that. Shabby, I call it. Then I read further and saw that this heedless fellow was to attend.” Dick received a poke in the ribs. “What was a lady to do? Attend the Coughli
ns’ rout without an escort and be mobbed by all the provincials, or humbly submit to do as her lord and master ordered? But I am not complaining. I hope I am not one to quibble at such a little solecism. It is always delightful to visit the Abbey. Who else will be there? Have you heard, Roz?”
“A Lord Sylvester Staunton,” Rosalind replied.
“Is he anyone?”
“Lord Dunston’s younger son,” Dick told her. “Dunston is something high in the government.”
“No doubt Papa knows him. Younger son. I see. Not the heir, then. Pity. He might have made a beau for you, Roz. You will not want to be under our feet at Apple Hill when Dick and I marry. Not that you would not be welcome! I am only thinking of you. It would not be comfortable for you to live as a pensioner in a house where you were used to being the mistress for so many years.”
It was such remarks as this that assured Miss Fortescue the lack of popularity she enjoyed.
“I’m sure the house is big enough for all of us,” Dick said, and meant it.
This was no new theme to their conversation. Annabelle was always sure to throw in a reminder that a sister-in-law would be de trop in her house. It was one of the reasons Rosalind was so eager to go to London. She was determined to find another abode before the wedding, which was to take place in the autumn. Her hope was that she would meet some gentleman in London and never have to burden Annabelle’s hospitality, except for visits.
Lord Sylvester was the most interesting gentleman she had met in an age. She had no objection to a younger son, nor indeed an untitled gentleman, so long as he was of good family. Sylvester’s manners were exquisite, he was handsome, and their mutual love of poetry would be a bond. She closed her ears and gazed out the window as the carriage bowled along through the lengthening shadows.
When it slowed to turn in at the massive stone gates of Drayton Abbey, she looked out at the park. At eventide the sun was sinking low on the horizon, gilding the trees and limning their outlines against the violet sky. The park had not received the attentions of any of the famous gardeners. Neither Capability Brown’s nor Repton’s improving hand had been busy to devise prospects or a meandering stream, or the requisite groups of three trees—two would not clump—in close proximity. The trees were beautifully scattered at random as nature intended, with stretches of grass between. Two deer looked up in surprise and dashed off, their white scuts visible in the deepening shadows.
