Lady Folbroke's Delicious Deception

by Christine Merrill

  ‘Perhaps not. But today, things are different.’ He took a deep breath. ‘It is much harder to be bitter when the sun is shining and the roses are in bloom.’

  ‘You can smell them?’

  ‘You cannot?’

  Emily paused and sniffed. Of course she could. But she had been far too focused on the delicate colour of them to notice the fragrance. She let him walk her closer to the bank of carefully tended flowers. ‘They are beautiful,’ she said.

  ‘There was a fine garden of them at my home in Derbyshire. York and Lancaster and white damask, with boxwood hedges. I wonder if it is still there.’

  Yes. We will walk in it yet this summer, my love. ‘I would expect so,’ she said. ‘A country home is nothing without a rose garden.’

  ‘Describe these to me.’

  ‘Red, pink, yellow.’ It was quite inadequate to his needs, she was sure. ‘The red has a touch of purple in it. And shadows. Like velvet in candlelight.’

  He reached out a hand, and she put it on a bloom. ‘The texture is velvet as well. Feel.’

  She touched them, too, and found that he was right, then moved to the next bush. ‘And these,’ she said, ‘are apple roses. Big and pink, and the velvet is more in the leaves than the flowers. And here are your damasks.’

  He gave a nod of approval. ‘As there should be.’ And then he cocked his head. ‘And there is a lark.’

  She glanced around her. ‘Where? I do not see him.’

  He pointed, unerringly, towards a tree on their left. When she looked closely, she thought she saw a flash of feathers in the leaves. ‘Poor confused fellow,’ he said. ‘It is past nesting season. Unusual to hear that particular song so late in the year.’

  ‘They have different songs?’

  ‘They speak to each other, just as we do.’ He smiled, listening again. ‘That is a male, looking for a mate.’

  There was an answering warble, in a tree on the right. ‘And there she is.’ He sighed. ‘He has found her after all. Well done, sir.’ And, almost absently, he patted her arm.

  She smiled up at him, happy to be in her rightful place, on the arm of the handsome Earl of Folbroke, even if it was just for an hour. She had never noticed the park to be so full of life before. But Adrian was quick to discover things that she had not noticed and to point them out to her as they passed. The few people that they met as they walked smiled and nodded, taking no more notice of her husband than they would have in any other passer-by.

  She could feel him tense each time, as though fearing a response. And each time, when none came, he relaxed a bit more. ‘There are more people here than you promised,’ he said absently.

  ‘I might have lied a bit in calling it empty. But it is not crowded. And not as bad as you feared, I am sure,’ she said. ‘I see no one that I recognise. And the people that are out take no notice of us, walking together. There is nothing so unique in your behaviour as to incite comment from a casual observer. In truth, we are a most unexceptional pair.’

  He chuckled. ‘My pride is well checked, madam. I have made an appearance in public and the sky did not fall. In fact, no one noticed. If they thought anything about me, I am sure they whisper at what a lucky fellow I am, to be taking the air with such a beauty.’

  ‘You are in excellent spirits today.’

  Adrian looked up, and around him, as though he could still see his surroundings. ‘It is a beautiful day, is it not? You were right for forcing me into the sunlight, my dear. It has been far too long.’

  ‘It has,’ she said softly back to him. ‘And I have another gift for you, if you will accept it from me.’

  ‘It is not another piano, is it? Or perhaps some other musical instrument? Are you about to pull a trumpet from your reticule and force me to blow it and scare away the birds?’

  ‘Nothing so great as that, I assure you.’

  He smiled down at his feet. ‘And it is not your own sweet person that you offer. Although if you were to suggest that we nip behind a rosebush for a kiss, I would not deny you.’

  She gave him the mildest of rebukes, nudging his arm with her shoulder ‘Not that, either.’

  ‘Then I have no idea what you are about. But since we are in public when you offer it, I assume you are unsure of my reaction. Here you know I do not wish to call attention to myself, and will have little choice to accept, with grace, whatever you offer me.’ There was a sardonic twist to his lip. ‘Out with it. You are making me apprehensive.’

  She reached into her reticule, digging for the card she had found. ‘Can you read French?’

  He gave her a dubious grin. ‘Madam, I thought I made it plain enough the night we met that reading of any kind is quite beyond me.’

  She responded with a sniff so that he might know of her annoyance, and said, ‘You are being difficult with me again. And I am not being clear enough with you. For that, I apologise. I should have more rightly said, before your difficulty overtook you, did you learn to read the French language?’

  It was his turn to huff impatiently at her. ‘Of course I did. Despite what you might think, after finding me in such low estates, I was brought up properly and well educated. It might have been easier had I not been. One cannot miss what one has never known.’

  ‘But you were fluent?’

  ‘Better in Greek and Latin. But, yes, I managed tolerably well in French. I could understand and be understood. But I fail to see how that matters.’

  Emily thrust the stiff sheet of paperboard into one of his hands, and placed the fingers of his other on the raised letters there. ‘See what you can make of this.’

  He frowned as he dragged his fingers over the surface, moving too quickly to interpret the patterns. ‘What is it?’ he whispered.

  ‘A poem. The author was a Frenchman, and a scholar. And blind,’ she added. ‘From what I have been able to gather on the subject, the French people seem much more enlightened in the education of those with your problem. There are quite interesting experiments in place for the teaching of mathematics, geography and even reading and writing. But much of the work is all in French, and I have not …’

  He held the card loosely, not even trying to examine it. ‘And if you have not noticed, my love, we are currently at war with France.’

  ‘But we will not be for ever. Once we have conquered Napoleon, there will be peace between our countries. I am sure of it. And then, perhaps, we might go to Paris.’

  ‘And perhaps they will have established a language for me, and perhaps I shall learn it. And we will live together, in a little flat on the banks of the Seine, and forget our spouses and our common English troubles. And I will write French poems to you.’ He handed it back to her.

  ‘Perhaps we shall.’ She took the card and turned to him, forcing it into the pocket where he kept her picture. ‘Although I understand the impossibility of some of what you are saying, is it really such a strange idea that you might be able to better yourself, or to live very much as other men do?’

  He sighed, as though tired of arguing with her. ‘You do not understand.’

  ‘But I am trying to,’ she said, ‘which is more than your family taught you to do. When faced with the same challenge, your father and grandfather gave up. And they taught you to do the same.’ She held his arm again, wrapping her fingers tightly around the crook of his elbow. ‘But you are not like them. You are so much more than they were. And you will not know, until you have tried for yourself, what you are capable of. If you do not see that, then you are crippled with something far worse than blindness. You suffer from a lack of vision.’

  Adrian stood still, as unresponsive as a mannequin. For a moment, she hoped that he was thinking about her words. And then he said in a gruff, irritable voice, ‘Are you quite finished? Or do you have other opinions that you wish to share with me?’

  ‘That is enough for the morning, I think.’ She let out her held breath slowly, hoping that he did not notice, but was sure that he had, for he could read her like a book.
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  ‘I quite agree. I think it is time for me to escort you back to the carriage, if you will tell me where it is.’

  She was in no mood to help him, fairly sure that he knew perfectly well where to go and was only feigning a need for instruction. ‘The carriage has not moved since we left it. Take us back the way we came.’

  There was a miniscule pause as he retraced his steps in his mind. Then he turned and led her back down the path that they had walked, feeling along the grassy edge of it with his stick to help him find the way.

  They went along without incident, not speaking. She forced herself to stay relaxed at his side, praying that there would be no familiar faces amongst the few strollers there. She had half hoped, when they stood happily by the roses, that they would see some members of their set and engage them in a brief conversation, to gently reveal her true identity to her husband. But after the fresh start they had made this morning, she had overstepped herself. The distance born between them last night was growing. And if she could not find a way to stop it, she would lose him. She doubted it would be a pleasant experience for anyone should he be hailed by a friend and forced, without warning, to explain his condition.

  They were within steps of the carriage, now, and she knew by the relaxing of the muscles in his arm that he knew it as well. While they walked, she had felt him tensing as he listened for clues, alert to any change, but now he had heard the jingle of the harnesses, and the chatter of the driver and grooms, silencing to attention as they drew near. He’d released her arm, putting a protective hand upon her back as she moved to step up and into it, when a call came from behind him.

  ‘Alms!’

  Adrian froze for a moment, as though the single word had the power to control him. Then he turned back, his head tracking to find the source.

  ‘Alms for a blind beggar! Alms!’ There was a woman beside the entrance to the park, probably hoping to catch some member of the ton on their way in or out. She stared towards them with eyes clouded milk-white, with no idea who she accosted, other than that they had sufficient funds to afford a carriage and should be able to spare a few pennies for her. When she shook the cup in her hand, it gave off the pathetic rattle of an unsuccessful morning.

  Emily could feel the fingers on her back sliding away, as her husband turned, forgetting why he touched her. And she turned with him, taking her foot off the step and waving the groom away. She caught at Adrian, her fingers tightening on his arm, and he reached up with his other hand to grip them. It was not the gentle and reassuring touch she had grown accustomed to, but a rigid, claw-like reflex.

  She tugged at his arm, trying to get him to move. ‘Come, Adrian. We can go back to the carriage, if you like.’

  Then his grip began to relax again, and he led her towards the woman, and not away. ‘Tell me what you see. Spare no detail.’

  ‘She is an old woman,’ Emily said. ‘Her clothes are clean and in good repair, but they are simple. There are worn patches at the elbows, and the lace at the throat will not see many more washings. Her eyes were blue, but are obscured by pearls. Cataracts, I think they are sometimes called. I doubt she has been blind her whole life.’

  As she spoke, the woman before them stood mute, accepting the scrutiny as though she had given up being anything more than an object of pity. And then her hand tightened on her cup and she gave it another little shake.

  ‘Is this an accurate description?’ he said. When he got no response, he fumbled to touch the beggar on the arm.

  The woman started and shook his hand away, unsure of the reason for contact and frightened by it.

  ‘I need to ask, because I am blind as well,’ he said, in a soft and reassuring voice.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The old woman gave a relieved smile.

  ‘My lord,’ Adrian corrected absently, reaching in his pocket for his purse. ‘I am the Earl of Folbroke.’

  The woman dropped into a curtsy.

  And feeling the movement in her arm, he dipped his head in response to the gesture of respect. ‘What brings you to this, old mother? Do you have no one to care for you?’

  ‘My husband is dead,’ she said. Her accent was not refined, but neither was it coarse. ‘And my son is gone off to war. For a time, he sent money. But it has been long since I’ve heard anything. And I fear …’ She stopped, as though she did not wish to think of what news was likely to come.

  ‘It might mean nothing,’ he assured her. ‘I served as well. It is not always easy to get word home. But perhaps I can discover something. Today, I am busy. But tomorrow, you will come to my rooms in Jermyn Street. I will tell the servants to look out for you. And I will take your information and see if anything can be done with it.’

  ‘Thank you, my lord.’ The woman was near to breathless with shock, already. But when she heard him drop a coin into the cup, it was clear that she could tell the difference between gold and copper by the sound. Her surprised mouth closed, and widened in a smile. ‘Thank you, my lord,’ she said with more emphasis.

  ‘Until tomorrow,’ he said, and turned away from her, signalling the coachman for assistance with a whistle and a tap of his cane.

  They rode in silence toward his rooms, until she could stand it no longer. ‘That was a wonderful thing you did for her.’

  ‘Soldiers have enough to worry about on the battlefield, without coming home to find that their mothers are begging in the streets,’ he said, as though that was the only thing that concerned him. And then, as an afterthought, added, ‘What I did was not enough. If there is a way to find honest employment for her, it will be done.’

  There was a lump rising in her throat as they pulled to a stop before the building that housed his rooms. And as he rose to exit, she touched his arm to make him pause.

  He turned his head, waiting for some word from her.

  ‘I know you do not want to hear it. But I cannot help but speak,’ she said. ‘I love you, Adrian Longesley.’

  He swallowed. Then he said, ‘Thank you.’ And then he left her, tapping his way to the steps of his door.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Thank you.

  What an idiotic thing to say to a woman who had just bared her soul to him. But what else could he say to her? The response she wanted was not the one he wished to give her. And anything else seemed inadequate.

  ‘Hendricks!’ Adrian handed his hat and gloves to the footman and went directly to his room, hearing the secretary fall into step behind him.

  ‘My lord?’ Hendricks said, the words muffled by what was probably a mouthful of his breakfast.

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Half past eight. Very early for you, my lord.’ This seemed to be not a reproof, but as an apology for his own lack of preparation.

  ‘Very early for any coherence, you mean. Well, prepare to be surprised. Not only am I sober, but I have slept, breakfasted and gone for a walk.’

  There was a little cough from behind him, as Hendricks inhaled a toast crumb from the shock.

  Adrian smiled to himself. ‘I am getting ahead of you today, it seems. Go, finish your breakfast. Or, if you wish, bring it to my room, along with the paper. You are welcome to use the table by the window, if you wish. The breeze this morning is particularly nice. And the view, from what I can gather, is quite pleasant.’

  ‘Thank you, my lord.’

  His valet had preceded him and was waiting in the bedroom to take his coat, making every effort not to appear as flat footed as Hendricks. As it slid from his shoulders, Adrian reached, as he always did, for the miniature in the breast pocket.

  His fingers brushed something unexpected. It was a moment before he remembered the bit of card that had been forced on him in the park.

  He balled his fist in frustration, then quickly relaxed it so as not to crush the paper. He had not handled that well. He should not have laughed at her attempts to help him, or snapped. It would be all his loss if she left him after one of those outbursts of temper.

  Especially when fa
te had then demonstrated just how small his problems were in comparison to others. Perhaps his lover was wrong and he had reached the end of his usefulness. Perhaps he would spend the rest of his life sitting in the window, listening to the world pass by. But at least he would not be forced to spend it on a corner with a tin cup.

  The image in his mind of such a common thing, a future in Paris, or anywhere else, with his lover sprawled close to him on a chaise while they drank wine and read poetry to each other, had been sharp and painful. The idea that there could be any permanence in what they had seemed as unattainable as if she’d told him they would fly to the moon.

  As he sat to be shaved, he fingered the card in his hands, tracing the rows of pinpricks with his nail. If he’d simply attempted to read the thing while she was there, she’d have seen how hopeless it was, and she’d have given up bothering him with it.

  Or he’d have proved her right. His pride must be a very fragile thing, if he feared success as much as failure. He ran his fingers over the surface of the card, noting that the bumps were set in patches, and the patches in rows. And when he forced himself to move very slowly, he could begin to make out letters.

  She was right. It seemed to be in French. He chuckled, as he began to understand the words, wondering if she had attempted them herself. How hard could it have been to read them, if one was able to make out the embossing on the page?

  “Love is both blind itself and makes all blind whom it rules,”’ he read aloud, and heard the valet grunt in irritation and give a stern warning of ‘my lord’ against sudden movement while at the mercy of a man with a razor.

  Adrian smiled cautiously to prevent injury and thought of the woman who had given him the card. It was very like her to choose these as the first words he had read in months. For a moment, he thought it might be Shakespeare, and nothing more than an ironic choice on her part. But she had been wrong about the contents being poetry. It seemed that the man was not a poet at all, but a Latin scholar, and a blind one as well.

  He traced his fingers over the letters again, faster this time, as they grew more fluent with the feel of what he found there. Still not as fast as if he could read. But it felt good to recognise the ideas forming under his hand. The writer had called blindness a divine good, rather than a human ill. The idea made Adrian smirk, causing another groan from his valet. If the Almighty had smitten the Folbrokes in an attempt to make them divine messengers of goodness, then God must be blind as well. Choosing such an unworthy lot did not bespeak much for His taste in servants.