The Loving Seasons

by Laura Matthews

  Most of all Maggie wanted to know why this elegant, if erratic, baron was willing to marry her, but she had not the courage (which she was sure her friend Emma would have) to ask him. And possibly it would be better not to know, anyway, since she did not feel strong enough to oppose her father and refuse him. He was not as terrifying as her father, but it was obvious that they were very poorly matched. One did not expect felicity in a marriage between a high-spirited aristocrat and a meek baronet’s daughter.

  Maggie moistened her lips. “Do you live mainly in London?”

  “As it’s such an easy drive, I come and go at will. I’ve a house in Half Moon Street which is not large, but has served me very well up to now. There’s only a small staff and the place isn’t very fancy. I think you would prefer the Lodge.”

  Some significance seemed to attach to his last pronouncement, and she studied his face with her large gray eyes, uncertain how to interpret him. Carefully, she asked, “So I could stay there when you came to London, if I wished?”

  “Yes.” Lord Greenwood found it difficult to meet her gaze and studied instead the statue of Plato that rested in the corner with the hope of inspiring the young ladies in their studious pursuits.

  "I see.’’

  "Well, Miss Somervale, can I hope that you look with favor on my suit? Or would you like some time to consider?”

  "No, no, Papa. . . That is, I am flattered, Lord Greenwood, and cannot express the honor you do me.” She swallowed painfully and an agitated hand fluttered to her bosom. “I . . . would be pleased, to . . . accept your offer.”

  She looked so thoroughly ill that he felt a twinge of sympathy for her, realizing for the first time that she was merely doing her father’s bidding. But his sympathy for himself was greater, when all was taken into account. He, too, was being forced into the marriage, and he had no liking for Sir Robert and only resentment toward his daughter for being so weak-willed as to be unable to oppose her own father. Lord Greenwood’s sister Cynthia had stood out against the opposition of both her parents to marry her captain, and Greenwood had admired her courage. In spite of himself, he could not resist saying coldly, “You realize that your father would like us to be married within the week.”

  Maggie regarded him with sorrowful eyes, almost unable to bear her role. “If that is inconvenient for you . . .”

  “Oh, no, not at all.” There was more than a trace of sarcasm in his voice. “I can easily enough procure a license and arrange for the ceremony to be performed at St. George’s, Hanover Square, one week from today. I would like to have my sister and a few friends present to wish me well.”

  “Of course. I’m sure my father will want to arrange for some sort of wedding feast for all those who attend. I believe it’s customary."

  Since it was obvious to Lord Greenwood that Sir Robert was unlikely to know the first thing about how to manage such an occasion, and his daughter, if capable, was in no position to do so, he relented and said almost kindly, “I beg you will allow my sister to attend to such matters. It would give her a great deal of satisfaction, I assure you.”

  “Thank you. Perhaps that would be best. I don’t think Papa intends I should quit Windrush House until . . .”

  “Yes, well, we’ll consider it settled, then. Why don’t I bring Cynthia out to meet you tomorrow or the next day, and you can arrange the details between you?”

  “That would be fine. I shall be pleased to meet her, though I dislike giving her any bother."

  There really was nothing more for them to say to each other and a gloomy silence fell, broken only by the sound, which neither had noticed previously, of Sir Robert pacing back and forth in his heavy boots. Maggie flushed for his lack of tact and Greenwood cast his eyes to the acanthus-strewn ceiling. Because Maggie had no faith that her father would not lose all patience and storm in on them, she rose and offered her hand to Greenwood. “I . . . I should tell Papa that everything is settled. Perhaps you would not mind waiting here?”

  With her cold hand in his, he said firmly, “I think I should be the one to tell him. I’ll have him come in.” He did not notice her grateful smile as he strode to the door, and he would not have been surprised if Sir Robert had taken to listening at the keyhole and had fallen in at the opening, but the baronet was partway down the hall.

  Sir Robert swung around at the sound and demanded, “Well?”

  “If you will come into the drawing room, sir."

  With a shrug the baronet followed him into the room, his eyes trained on Maggie’s face, which offered no information “Well?”

  “Miss Somervale has kindly agreed to be my wife, Sir Robert.”

  “And the wedding? When is it to be?”

  “A week from today. I'll make all the arrangements.”

  "Excellent!” His booming voice surely was not contained by the four walls, and Maggie winced as he pumped her hand in congratulating himself. “I felt sure you would have sense enough to accept his lordship, girl. You’re my daughter after all! You've not thanked me yet, but there, it’s no matter. I don't suppose this cursed school has anything worth drinking by way of a toast. Small beer with dinner!" he remembered, this item from the brochure having caught his attention, to his infinite disgust. “His lordship and I shall have a bumper on the road to celebrate. You get along now. We won't be needing you further."

  If Maggie was surprised by this hasty dismissal, only the widened gray eyes gave any sign. She curtsied to her father and then shyly to her fiancé without offering her hand again, and made her way from the room. Greenwood had meant to observe how bad her limp was this time, but Sir Robert immediately recalled his attention by announcing, “We’ll go straight to my attorney and see that the settlement is properly drawn up. She’ll want a decent allowance to keep up with your crowd, I daresay, but there’s no problem in that. I’ve told you her mother's fortune comes to her on marriage and I’ll add my own share, but the bulk will come when I die, which I have no intention of doing for a good number of years, mind you. Still, Vale Hall is nothing to sneer at, with some of the most productive land in Kent.”

  While he talked he urged Greenwood from the drawing room into the hall and, without bothering to thank or take leave of Mrs. Childswick, out onto the gravel drive, where a groom was waiting with his lordship’s curricle.

  From the second-floor window two young ladies watched the men climb into the carriage and drive away. Lady Anne turned at the sound of footsteps climbing the stair and held out her hands to Maggie, who barely had the strength to join them before dropping in a chair.

  “How did it go, love? Shall I get my smelling salts?”

  Maggie smiled faintly. “That won’t be necessary. It was very strange really. Sometimes he was hostile, and every once in a while he was kind. I am to marry him a week from today.”

  Emma shook her head wonderingly. “My dear girl, didn’t you even ask your papa for a little time?”

  “He wouldn’t hear of it. I did make the suggestion, but you don’t know Papa when he has his mind set on something. Nothing dissuades him. Lord Greenwood seemed almost as resigned as I." Lady Anne and Emma exchanged a glance that Maggie couldn’t fail to see, and she responded in a quiet voice. “Oh, I know it is curious for him to be in such a position. When I was with him I almost considered asking him. I knew Emma would. But I’m not at all sure I want to know, since there is no changing the situation."

  “We saw him from the window,” Emma told her. “He’s quite handsome, and he took the turn into the road with scarce a pause. It’s an elegant carriage and the grays appeared, from this distance at least, to be perfectly matched.”

  “Apparently he’s proud of his driving skills. Tomorrow or the next day he is to drive his sister out to meet me. He said he would arrange for some sort of wedding feast.” Suddenly her poise deserted her and she raised pleading eyes to her friends. “You will both come to the wedding, won’t you? I would so hate to be there alone.”

  “Of course we will,” Lady Ann
e assured her.

  Relieved, Maggie hastened to her feet. “I should get out of your dress, Emma. The last thing I want is to crush it beyond repair.”

  “Did your papa make some arrangement for your bridal clothes?” Emma asked curiously.

  “Oh, dear. I didn’t think to ask him. There’s really not time, anyhow.”

  Appalled at such a cavalier attitude, Emma said dryly, “I’m sure he’ll be happy to do anything to speed you on your way, my dear. Send him a note suggesting that he have Madame Minotier come to you tomorrow. She can at least take your measurements and get started on a bridal gown and some necessary evening clothes. You have enough morning dresses, though God knows they’re bland enough, and you can be a great deal more festive once you’re married.” Her cheery prognosis failed to raise Maggie’s spirits, and touched by her friend’s plight, and although she dearly loved the gown, she said, “You are to keep this silk, love. I’ve never seen anything that became you more, and it shall be my wedding present to you.”

  Maggie managed to gulp “Thank you!” before she fled the room. Emma sadly watched her exodus. “I wish she had the courage to stand up to her father. I would. You know, Anne, we are hardly schoolgirls anymore. We’re grown women and should be able to direct our own fates. After all, she’s going to have to spend the rest of her life with Lord Greenwood, and the least she could insist on is she have a chance to get to know him.”

  "You should give her credit for trying, Emma. I’m sure it took a great deal of courage for her even to ask her father."

  “But that’s not enough. You have to be strong enough to insist.”

  Anne regarded her with sympathy. "Emma, dear, you have rather a glorified view of what a female can accomplish in our society. She is tied to her father until she marries, and then she is tied to her husband. Every woman is. The most you can hope for is a considerate parent, and then a considerate mate.”

  “You are too pessimistic, love. Women wield a very special power of their own,” Emma replied with an air of superior knowledge. “Just see how my aunt has managed to have her own way. I have no intention of letting any man run roughshod over me! And if Maggie cannot stand up to her father she must at least set the tone for her husband. Aunt Amelia says it is relatively simple to influence a man to your point of view, so long as you go about it the right way.”

  “And how is that?” Anne asked, amused.

  “Well, I shall have to ask her. She hasn't precisely told me yet.”

  Her friend choked down a chuckle. "Let me know when you find out."

  “I shall. And I shall let Maggie know, too, as she is most likely to need the information. You and I,” she concluded breezily, “won’t need it for at least another month!” Whereupon she retrieved her sketchpad and pencil from the table and became engrossed in the drawing of Sir Robert she had started.

  Chapter Three

  A note in unfamiliar handwriting was delivered to Maggie the next morning, and she found it as difficult to decipher the message as the signature. Obviously it was from Greenwood, but his heedless scrawl was almost unreadable and she was forced to seek Emma’s aid in making out the entire contents.

  Her friend puzzled over it for several minutes before declaring, "He must mean half after ten; the word is too short to be twelve, though God knows it might be anything. ‘Presents his compliments’ looks more like ‘peasants for continents’ and he ‘lopes’ you will be able to receive him and lissiter’ though it is certainly him and his sister. Goodness, how dare they say ladies have poor handwriting? Surely his sister’s name isn’t Mrs. Mutton!"

  Maggie giggled. “No, it’s Mrs. Morton, actually."

  “And you will note that he has abbreviated "humble and obedient servant’ so obscurely that it appears to be hando savant.’ And his signature! I dare anyone who had no knowledge of him to work it out, everything jumbled up on itself that way. Looks like a child’s exercise in circles.”

  “The poor fellow is probably going round in circles,” Maggie suggested.

  Emma eyed her sharply. "Nonsense. More fool he if he is, my dear. He has yet to learn what a treasure he's marrying, but give him time. A few words in the drawing room with your father pacing in the hall is hardly a propitious time to get acquainted. I think it’s a very good sign that he’s bringing his sister, don’t you? And so soon.” There was the possibility, of course, that Mrs. Morton would storm in to identify the hussy who had snapped up her brother without warning, but Emma had no intention of alarming Maggie with such a thought.

  Since the engagement was now a fait accompli, she would do her utmost to see that Maggie entered holy matrimony with a stout heart, and no one was quite as successful as Emma in showing the bright side to a faltering friend. Her allegiance to Maggie and Lady Anne was unquestionable, and her buoyant spirits infected them with a vitality not wholly alien to their natures, but not nearly so pronounced as in hers.

  Under her tutelage the most sanguine young lady found herself fascinated and amused by the rigid world at Windrush House that had formerly bored or oppressed her. It was Emma who pointed out that Mrs. Childswick’s voluminous gowns never failed to conceal a large pocket in which was kept a small but framed portrait not of her deceased husband, whose staid countenance glared down on one when forced to endure an interview in the study, but of another man, a dashing fellow in a Guards uniform.

  This portrait was occasionally withdrawn from her pocket when she thought herself alone, and perused with tender eyes, which led to all sorts of speculation amongst her charges. It was Emma's thesis that the fellow was the object of her unrequited love, but Clara Marshfield, who was only fifteen and consequently knew little of the world, insisted that it was Mrs. Childswick's brother! In any case, the discovery had made it easier for some of the residents at Windrush House to tolerate Mrs. Childswick's haughty and oppressive attitude and her unfortunate insistence on strict discipline. No one, from the daughter of a marquess to that of a prosperous mill owner in the Midlands, escaped a smack across the hands if judged impertinent or indolent. And if Lady Anne was always willing to listen to the complaints of the younger girls, and Maggie to console them, Emma was the one who made them laugh and forget any disagreeable incident.

  With dancing eyes she now grasped Maggie’s hand to draw her over to the wardrobe where she kept, in a small and ludicrous sarcophagus her aunt had given her, the most valued of her possessions. “Come, my dear, we must look out some dashing ornament that will catch your hando savant’s eye. I think an emerald green sash will do wonders for your chemise gown. White is all very well for schoolgirls, but you are a lady engaged to be married. Aunt Amelia sent me something . . .” She dug amongst the carefully wrapped pieces in the sarcophagus, unwrapping them just enough to see what each was, and at length came up with gleaming eyes. “Here. Isn’t it splendid?”

  Certainly the ornament was charming but Maggie was not at all sure she would look quite the thing with it pinned to her bosom. A very realistic miniature canary perched on a sprig with enameled leaves and a red rose. It was whimsical, delightful . . . and not at all what Maggie would have chosen to wear. “I . . . I think it would be a bit heavy for my bodice, Emma, don’t you?”’

  “For your bodice? Lord, yes. Maggie dear, it’s a clip for your hair, to be perched right at the edge of your cap, as though the canary had settled there to make his home. Aunt Amelia gave it me because she said one of those picture hats with a ship in full rig or a basket of fruit would be far too elaborate, but that this was simple and endearing without being pretentious.” Emma considered her friend’s piquant face, with its wide gray eyes and delicate features. “I think it’s just the sort of ornament for you, to enhance your look of wide-eyed innocence and country freshness. Do you think it’s too much? With your hair dressed as yesterday, and a chapeau, it will just sort of peek out.”

  Reluctantly Maggie agreed to give it a trial, feeling that on Emma it would look a great deal more in keeping than on herself. Emma always
managed to look almost exotic despite her English-rose complexion, her blond hair, and unusually dark blue eyes. There was a fullness to her lips, a languidness to her eyes despite their mischievousness, which gave her an indefinable air. That is, to Maggie it was indefinable; gentlemen had no difficulty whatsoever defining Emma’s intoxicating appeal. One had told Lady Bradwell, who had related the story to her niece (though she shouldn’t have) that Emma was “the most alluring, tantalizing, provocative creature” he had met in years.

  The compliment, if truth were told, rather turned Emma’s head. On that particular evening, when Lady Bradwell had taken her from school to the theater for a treat, Emma had been attempting an imitation of her aunt’s notoriously seductive air, and to find that she had succeeded was heady stuff indeed. It gave her, perhaps, too inflated an idea of her own powers when combined with the sophisticated lessons on amour with which her aunt frequently indoctrinated her. But her flair for costume was seldom at fault, and when Lady Anne came in to judge of the finished product, they were all agreed: Maggie looked enchanting.

  Even Greenwood was a little taken aback when she entered the school drawing room, but whether the canary, the emerald sash, or her amusement accounted for this, Maggie could not be sure. She had been escorted right to the door by her friends, and at the last moment Emma had whispered, “Be sure to give our best to the Hando Savant!” before gently pushing her into the room. Actually, though Maggie could not possibly know it, the fact that she walked quite naturally was what first attracted Greenwood’s attention, but the sash and canary and the faint grin did not escape his attention.

  After one brief, exasperated glance at her brother, Cynthia Morton came forward with outstretched hands. “I’m so pleased to meet you, Miss Somervale.” Her brother had come to the Mortons’ Portland Place house (rented for the season) the previous afternoon while she was embroidering her husband’s initial on a fine lawn handkerchief. His gravity had immediately raised her suspicions and she had lifted a questioning brow. “What’s amiss, Adam?”