Turning to her, she made sure she was smiling. ‘And how is married life?’
There was a soft blush that filled Juliet’s cheek. ‘It is everything I could have wanted.’
Clara reached out and squeezed her hand. ‘I knew it would be.’ But when she went to remove her hand, the girl held on to it.
‘Now tell us about Mr Lane. Does he live in Bath?’
‘No. He is visiting.’ Once again she was reminded that he was leaving and it became hard to speak.
When the tea tray arrived, she was relieved that arranging the cups on the table and preparing the tea gave her something to do. Unfortunately, it also reminded her of making tea for Lane and how she thought she would be having another cup with him right now.
‘You are too quiet.’ This time it was Lizzy who spoke.
‘I am not one to always fill the room with the sound of my voice.’
She felt Charlotte’s hand at her back. ‘The three of us have shown up on her doorstep unannounced, claiming we are staying for a week. I think that would leave most people speechless.’ Charlotte gestured to the large bouquet of flowers that Clara had placed on the harpsichord after she had cut them from the garden when she returned home from the hotel. ‘Those roses are lovely.’
Clara handed her a cup of tea. ‘The roses in the garden are beginning to bloom. You must spend time out there while you are here.’
‘I’m looking forward to it.’
She kept her eyes on the cup of tea she was fixing for Juliet. ‘How did you all manage to get away like this?’
‘When I saw Juliet and Charlotte in London we all agreed that we have missed you terribly and thought to surprise you. Thankfully our husbands understood.’
‘I would love to hear more about your travels. I enjoyed receiving all your letters.’ She handed a teacup to Lizzy.
‘I would love hearing more about Mr Lane and why that puppy I gave you is now called Humphrey when we agreed he bears an odd resemblance to Uncle Ambrose.’ Juliet was proving to be just as stubborn as the puppy she had given her.
Clara didn’t want to talk about Lane. She didn’t want to think about him. Because now, each time she did, she was picturing him walking away for the last time and it made her want to cry. When had she fallen for him this deeply?
She thought she had her emotions under control, but then a small tear drop slipped out and landed on her lap. With her head bent down to fix Juliet a cup of tea, she hoped none of them had noticed.
They had.
At once, Juliet’s arm was around her and Lizzy gently reached across the table and took the teacup out of her hand. She refused to look up at them for fear that once she did her tears would begin to flow and she would have a hard time stopping them.
Charlotte took her hand and stroked it in a comforting gesture. ‘Talk to us. What has made you so sad?’
The words were stuck in her throat and would not come out.
‘Have you been so lonely without me here?’ Juliet asked gently. ‘I thought the dog might have helped. I’ve written to you several times a week, but I could write every day.’
‘It’s not that.’
‘Then what is it?’
‘Mr Lane will be leaving Bath soon. I know I am all wrong for him. I am too old. But once he leaves I will probably never see him again and I find it hurts my heart.’
‘Come now,’ Juliet said, ‘you are not that much older than he is.’
‘But I am old enough. A gentleman his age is thinking about starting a family. A gentleman his age wants to have children. I cannot give him that.’
‘Has he talked about wanting children?’
‘Well, no. We haven’t talked about any of that.’
‘Then how do you know that that is what he wants?’
‘What man doesn’t?’
‘I’m sure there are some.’
‘Has he given you any indication about what he feels for you?’ Lizzy asked with a sympathetic voice.
‘I think there is true affection on his part as well as attraction,’ Charlotte chimed in. ‘One can sense it. Don’t you think?’
‘I do,’ Juliet replied. ‘And by the way he was looking at you, it was very apparent to me that he is taken with you.’
‘But just now before you arrived I told him that when he was gone I would miss him.’
Juliet squeezed her hand. ‘That’s a lovely thing to tell someone.’
‘But he didn’t say it back. Why would he not say it back?’
Charlotte lowered her head to catch Clara’s eye and gave a small shrug. ‘We have never seen you like this. You have been strong for all of us in our times of need. Do not concern yourself with us. We will give you all the time you need with him while we are here. We can occupy ourselves very well when we are together. This is far from the last time that we will all be together again.’
‘And you will get to see him later this evening,’ Juliet said in an encouraging tone. ‘You never know what he will confess to you then.’
Chapter Twenty-Three
Lane had planned to take his carriage to Clara’s house that night, but after he received a letter from Mr Edwards shortly before he left, he knew a walk would help him work through his anger.
What man turned down an offer to purchase his hotel for that amount of money? It made no sense—and it destroyed Lane’s dream of opening a spa here in Bath.
Now he would have to inform Hart, Lyonsdale and Lord Musgrove of it in the morning. It was not something he was eager to do. He took great pride in his business accomplishments. His reputation was built on his ability to consistently find sound and profitable investment opportunities. And while the coffee house would turn a decent profit, it wasn’t nearly as large a profit as the spa would have brought. And Lord Musgrove was going to take back news to London that Lane hadn’t been able to fulfil his part of the contract.
That cut deep. But as he walked closer and closer to Clara’s house, he began to wonder if the pain and anger he was feeling had more to do with knowing that, within the week, he would leave Bath. His time with Clara was coming to an end.
He could have sent word to her that he was not going to be able to join her tonight. Hell, he probably should have after he read Mr Edwards’s letter. However, the thought of spending this evening without her, knowing that they had such little time left together, was not an option. By the time he reached her door, the walk had helped to get his anger under control—even if it would only last for a few hours. He had no doubt that by morning it would be back again in full force.
Standing outside Clara’s home, he tried to shake off his melancholy and brace himself for being around this many people when all he wanted to do was be alone with her. It seemed that this was the very definition of his relationship with her.
It was Darby who opened the door and welcomed him into her home. Lane scanned the parquet floor for signs of Humphrey and was disheartened the small dog did not charge him with his normal unconditional exuberance.
‘I believe if you are looking for Humphrey, sir, he is probably still asleep in Mrs Sommersby’s bedchamber. Lady Juliet had been playing with him out in the garden earlier and, between your training and her playing, he appeared to be quite worn out.’
A very large vase of roses was on a round table in the middle of the entrance hall that scented the air so it smelled like Clara. He knew he had walked past it earlier in the day, but only now did he feel the impact of the scent on his soul. He knew he would think of her whenever he smelled roses from now on.
After Darby took his hat and walking stick, he showed him into a small parlour, where people were talking in small groups. This room, with its pale yellow walls and patterned rug, wasn’t as ornate and formal as her drawing room. There was a small table with four chairs near the fireplace, where the three Sommersby sisters were deep in conversat
ion, and at the other end of the room were two small sofas that faced one another. Standing around them were the Collingswoods, along with Clara, Mr Greeley and the Dowager. When he took a step further into the room, Harriet took note of him and whispered something into Clara’s ear. When their eyes met, it felt as if a soothing balm was placed on his emotional wounds of the day.
Her face brightened and she left her party to approach him. Lane wished with all his heart that he could take her in his arms. He had missed her already and they had only been apart for a few hours.
Clara took him around and reintroduced him to her nieces, each one more welcoming than the next. Greeley appeared relieved to see another gentleman aside from Mr Collingswood in attendance and the Collingswoods were all cordial, but he could sense the mother and father were trying to determine what to make of him and sizing him up against poor Greeley. In all, it wasn’t horrible company to be in, but he still would have preferred to be alone with Clara.
It appeared he was the last to arrive and, within a few minutes, the party made its way through a doorway into her dining room. This room was painted the same colour with royal-blue curtains on the tall windows and portraits of men and women from centuries past on the walls. He assumed that some were Clara’s ancestors. He searched each face for any resemblance he could see to her. There was a woman in a blue gown with elaborate lace sleeves holding a basket of flowers who looked somewhat like Clara. He could see it in the shape of her brown eyes and that pert upturned nose. There had been times when he was younger when he had wondered if he had looked like either of his parents. He had seen familial resemblances in the children of his friends and he could see it tonight in the Sommersby sisters. Did he look like his mother or his father? Which one had dark blond hair? And which had blue eyes?
He must have been staring at the portrait of the woman for an inordinate length of time because Lady Charlotte, who was seated beside him, commented about it to him.
‘That’s Baroness Cecily Reynolds. She is my aunt’s grandmother.’
‘I can see the resemblance.’
They sat shoulder to shoulder, studying it.
Lady Charlotte removed her napkin from the table and placed it on her lap. ‘It’s the eyes.’
‘And the nose.’
She looked up at the portrait again and tilted her head. ‘You’re right. I never noticed that before.’ Moving her attention away from the portrait, she looked over at Clara, who was speaking to the Dowager, seated across from him on Clara’s right. ‘I always liked that portrait when I was a young girl. It hung in the dining room of the town house my aunt and uncle lived in in London. I always thought she looked like a woman who I would enjoy having tea with...one who had a good sense of fun and liked to laugh.’
Whether she realised it or not, she had described her aunt.
He had never given much consideration to the fact that Clara was a widow and that meant she’d had a husband. He scanned the portraits again, looking for a gentleman dressed in more current fashion who might be the man she had married. His gaze settled on the portrait over the fireplace behind Clara. The gentleman in question appeared to be a bit younger than Greeley and was dressed in a scarlet coat with black lapels and a long pale-coloured waistcoat, white breeches and black boots. His cravat had more lace to it than was fashionable now, as was the cut of his coat. He was leaning against a tree, standing beside a horse and looking directly at the viewer with a bemused expression. The position in the room showed the significance of the sitter to Clara.
‘That was Uncle Robert,’ Lady Charlotte replied in a low voice.
He looked back at her and found her staring at the portrait with a nostalgic smile on her face. ‘My grandparents had it painted not long before he married my aunt.’
‘He appears to be a genial man.’
It didn’t matter how genial the man was, Lane didn’t like him.
‘Oh, he was. Uncle Robert was our father’s youngest brother and very affable. He was one of those lucky people who had the true gift for storytelling. When we were little he would love to tell us these absolutely outrageous tales and as children he would have us all believing them, until he would say this one funny twist at the end of it that let us know it was a Banbury tale.’
‘When did he die?’
‘I think it’s about ten years now.’ She picked up her glass of wine and took a sip while appearing to count the years in her head. ‘Yes, that’s right. Ten years. Time does seem to move at a different pace once you get older, does it not?’
She appeared to be about five years younger than he was, if he had to estimate, and she was right. It was moving much quicker now. He always thought that he would have a wife and children some day in the distant future. It was only since he had spent time with Clara that he had truly pictured what that life might be like. He tried to think what he was doing ten years ago. He recalled living up in Liverpool for the year and being completely absorbed in the shipping industry. His eyes drifted down from the portrait of Robert Sommersby over to Clara. How had her life changed after her husband died? How had she taken his death?
‘You mentioned that your aunt and uncle lived in London. When did she move here?’
‘Aunt Clara grew up here in Bath so she has always had a connection here. They lived here when they were first married and moved to London when I was about ten. She moved back here shortly after my uncle passed. My aunt has told us that you reside in London. Do you mind if I ask what part?’
He leaned back, allowing the footman to ladle white soup into his bowl. ‘On the edge of Mayfair.’
Her surprised expression brought a smile with it. ‘I am very familiar with Mayfair,’ she replied, bouncing up a fraction in her chair, appearing eager to find out if they shared any acquaintances.
This was what he didn’t want. He didn’t want his past infringing on his present. Not with Clara. She didn’t need to know he was a by-blow. Once more his eyes landed on the portrait of Robert Sommersby and then travelled to the Baroness, who was Clara’s grandmother. They would have thought they were so far above him that it would have been funny to see how they would have reacted to having a bastard at the dinner table. It would have been funny—except right now it was making him sick just thinking about it.
He didn’t want anything to diminish what Clara was feeling for him. Even though he would be leaving her, he wanted to believe that she would miss him for a time and that if his name ever drifted through her mind years from now, it would be accompanied by fond memories.
He was saved from continuing the discussion with Lady Charlotte when the Dowager enquired about the health of her sister-in-law, the Duchess of Winterbourne, and of the work the woman was doing with the Royal Academy. Their discussion gave him the opportunity to turn to his right and steal a glance at Clara, who was sitting next to him at the head of the table.
His heart felt larger when he found her watching him. For how long her eyes had been on him he didn’t know, but knowing he had captured her attention somehow made his shoulders go back.
She leaned towards him and lowered her voice. ‘I could have placed you beside Mrs Collingswood, but seeing how you and Greeley are of the same rank, I took the liberty of placing you beside me instead of that seat going to her husband, both saving you and me from tedious conversation.’
But he wasn’t the same as Greeley and Mr Col-lingswood, and his prominent place beside the hostess was a sham. Suddenly he was feeling their difference in rank acutely.
‘You aren’t quietly thinking of dull things to discuss with me, are you?’ She gave him a teasing smile. ‘If you are, then I assure you that I can think of topics that are duller than yours.’
He leaned closer so their heads were almost touching. ‘I doubt that. I have been accused of being as dull as a doornail.’
‘You have not.’
‘I have.’
‘W
ho would accuse you of such a thing?’
‘My business partner. He does so each time I begin to discuss problems with things like inventory.’
His disclosing he was in trade did not seem to scandalise her in any way. There was still a glint of amusement in her eyes. ‘And what types of problems do you have with your inventory? Do you believe the horses are stealing the hay in your stables?’
‘They might be. I will need to do a thorough check of the books when I am there next.’
‘Horses stealing hay in the dead of night does not sound dull to me.’
‘I never said they were doing it in the dead of night. They might be brazen beasts and slipping it away in the middle of the day.’
‘That’s more daring. Sorry but your attempt at being dull has failed. I am far duller than you.’
‘But you have yet to try to bore me. I doubt you can.’
‘Oh, I can.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘I will be taking my nieces shopping tomorrow.’
‘That’s not dull.’
‘We will be shopping for ribbons and gloves. And perhaps new slippers. And one can always use a new bonnet. Something fresh and different. And have I mentioned that I have a passion for reticules? I do. I don’t know why.’
‘I think you might have won.’
‘Ah, I told you. I am far duller than you are. Quite forgettable.’
‘One could never accuse you of that.’
There was a ripple in the air between them as they sat looking at each other while he tried to memorise her with his eyes.
The sound of the Dowager’s spoon lightly hitting the inside of her bowl broke the spell between them and they finished their soup course without speaking further.
* * *
The remainder of the meal went by pleasantly enough with delicious food and interesting and congenial conversation. As an array of jellies, syllabubs, and fruits were brought to the table, the discussion turned to music.
‘Do you remember the last time Lizzy played the harpsichord for us?’ Lady Juliet asked, directing her question to Clara.
Mrs Sommersby's Second Chance Page 18
