The Loving Seasons

by Laura Matthews

Unbidden, the image of a man in a dark hall slipping into her aunt’s bedchamber came to her mind. There had been no recurrence of that episode, at least none that Emma had witnessed. After a full evening’s exercise of dancing and the excitement of bantering with innumerable gentlemen, Emma ordinarily fell asleep the instant she climbed into her bed. Not that she would consider spying on her aunt. Lady Bradwell had a right to her privacy.

  But the mysterious rituals that went on in the bedchamber intrigued her. Emma remembered the exotic sensations Sir Nicholas had aroused in her with his kiss. Small wonder she should link in her mind the ideas of marriage with that nighttime visit. There were, it seemed, some strong inducements for marriage after all.

  With an impatient shake of her shoulders, Emma set herself to finalize the list of food for Maggie’s ball, its placement on the table and the quantities of each item. Before she had finished she was summoned to the front drawing room to greet two callers, Captain Midford and Mr. Thresham. For the first time she went reluctantly, finding little enthusiasm for yet another half hour of flattery and talk of the betting book at White’s.

  * * * *

  As Lady Bradwell had other plans for the evening, the Marchioness of Barnfield took Anne, Emma, and Maggie to Almack’s. Lord William accompanied them, and though he chatted animatedly with Emma, it was obvious that his infatuation had nearly run its course. His eyes no longer wore that dazed look when she spoke to him and he had lost his own incoherence of speech. Well, six weeks was probably a record, Emma thought ruefully, and shared an amused glance with Anne, who returned it willingly enough, though she could not conceal her concern for Maggie.

  Lady Greenwood looked decidedly ill, in spite of the rouge that she had allowed her dresser to put sparingly on her cheeks. Anne had made some alarmed comment when Maggie joined them, but it was brushed aside with a faint smile. At the first opportunity Anne took Emma aside from the others and exclaimed, “She’s not well! What can she be thinking of, going out in such a state?”

  “She thinks Lord Greenwood expects it. We discussed it yesterday when I called on her.” Emma looked about the crowded room for the familiar figure of Lord Dunn and located him in a set with Miss Rowland. “I hope you won’t disapprove, my dear, but I spoke with Lord Dunn about the problem. Maggie is enceinte and having a bit of a rough time. I thought Lord Dunn might have a word with Greenwood about the necessity of her resting instead of wearing herself out with all these parties.”

  Anne raised a questioning brow. “I had no idea you were on such terms with Lord Dunn that you could ask a favor of him.”

  “Well, I had to exchange my driving lessons for it,” Emma admitted, her eyes teasing. “Lord Dunn seems to have some influence with Greenwood, so I hoped… I thought it very important, Anne, or I wouldn’t have done it, as I know how you feel about interfering.”

  “I’m glad you did. And Lord Dunn agreed?”

  “More or less. He said he would speak to Greenwood if he could ascertain that what I said was true.”

  “If he gets within five feet of her he cannot fail to believe you,” Anne assured her, pressing her hand. “Thank you, Emma. I was really worried about her when I saw her this evening.”

  Their chance to talk privately was ended by the advent of Mr. Norwood and Captain Midford soliciting the next set, and Anne had no further opportunity to speak alone with Emma for some time. She watched Dunn approach Maggie, but instead of joining the dancing they sat quietly talking as far from the musicians’ balcony as they could manage. Anne felt sure that Dunn would be convinced of the necessity to speak with Greenwood, but Greenwood never put in an appearance. When the hour of eleven had come and gone, and no further gentlemen no matter how influential would be admitted, Maggie approached Lady Barnfield to tell her that Lord Dunn would escort her home, as she was not feeling quite the thing.

  A set had just concluded and both Anne and Emma stood with the marchioness. Dunn nodded stiffly to Emma and spoke a pleasant word to Anne and her mother before taking Maggie’s arm and guiding her through the crowd to the door. Anne pursed her lips thoughtfully.

  “I gather you and Lord Dunn did not have an entirely agreeable discussion of Maggie’s health,” she whispered.

  “We never have an entirety agreeable encounter, my dear,” Emma retorted. “The gentleman is intent on finding fault with my every move. I cannot entirely blame him, you know. There have been several occasions on which I have not behaved at all well with him. Don’t look so concerned, Anne. I’m sure he has no intention of ruining my credit with the ton. Lord Dunn finds it sufficient merely to snub me.”

  “He didn’t precisely snub you,” Anne defended him, “but I will admit that he was odiously formal.”

  “It’s of no importance,” Emma said brightly. “I am convinced he will speak to Greenwood.”

  And Dunn indeed had every intention of speaking with Greenwood. As he drove home with Maggie in the carriage, the flambeaux shedding light on her face now and again as they passed through the streets, he marveled that she could keep her head so proudly erect. In her lap she clutched nervously at a handkerchief that she once or twice pressed despairingly against her lips. The motion of the carriage, in spite of its being marvelously well sprung, made her churning stomach heave at every bump and turn. The heat of the rooms and of her own nervous dread of appearing there without her husband had only exacerbated her indisposition. Frantic now at the taste of rising bile, she moaned, “My lord!”

  Dunn instantly rapped on the roof of the carriage with his cane, crying, “Stop here!”

  Before Maggie could even think what to do, he had lifted her bodily and climbed down from the carriage. Setting her on her feet, he put an arm around her shaking shoulders and held her head down as the waves of nausea washed over her. How mortifying to succumb to this wretched weakness when he had removed her from the rooms and talked so kindly to her! Tears of frustration welled in her eyes. At least he had acted quickly enough that she had not soiled his carriage.

  Maggie groped in her reticule for the handkerchief that should have been there, but she had dropped it as he picked her up and he pressed one of his own into her hand. The fine linen only served to distress her further and she stood helplessly staring at it, unable to ruin the monogrammed square.

  “Come, come, my dear,” he said gently, taking it and dabbing first at her eyes and then her mouth. “There is nothing to be ashamed of. I have a dozen more handkerchiefs exactly like it. You mustn’t worry that I think you have overindulged this evening. You’re with child, aren’t you? Adam should not have let you go out in your delicate condition. Do you think you can bear the carriage again or shall we walk the rest of the way? It’s not far.”

  “If you wouldn’t mind, I would prefer to walk,” she admitted, her voice almost too faint to hear. He nodded and gave instructions to his coachman to return the carriage to Waverton Street before taking her arm and adjusting his stride to hers. “The fresh air will clear your head. We’re having an uncommonly fine spring, aren’t we?”

  “Yes, delightful,” she murmured, trying not to sound too insincere.

  Dunn chuckled. “I daresay it doesn’t feel particularly fine to you, Lady Greenwood, just at this moment. I almost prefer London in the rain, though. When the sun is shining and I know life is being renewed all over the countryside, I frequently regret not being in Herefordshire. You spent some time at Combe Lodge, I believe. I’ve visited there on several occasions with my brother.” And since he did not think she wished to do much of the talking herself, he proceeded to recall the occasions and entertain her with anecdotes of Adam as host, carefully expurgated to portray him in only a favorable light.

  When they reached the town house in Half Moon Street, he accompanied her inside and instructed that the housekeeper be called to see to her needs. Mrs. Phipps, well aware of Maggie’s condition, was waiting in her room for such a call and came immediately. Maggie thanked Lord Dunn for his thoughtfulness and wearily climbed the stairs, won
dering if she should attempt to stay awake until her husband returned. It seemed pointless to try; her exhaustion was great…and he would doubtless wake her when he returned, as he always did.

  The night porter was surprised to find that Lord Dunn had no intention of leaving once Lady Greenwood had vanished from sight. Instead he tossed his gloves in his chapeau bra and handed them with his cane to the porter announcing, “I will wait in Greenwood’s study for his return.”

  A decanter sat on the massive side table on a silver tray that also held several glasses. Dunn lifted the stopper and sniffed. Adam at least had reasonable taste in brandy, he decided as he poured himself a glass and seated himself at his leisure in the enormous red leather chair. He drummed his fingers thoughtfully on the chair arm, gazing unseeing at the sporting prints on the wall opposite him. There were several by Stubbs and Wolstenholme that ordinarily would have called for his closer scrutiny, but even the Pollard failed to gain his interest at the moment. So Miss Berryman had been perfectly correct, he mused as he sipped appreciatively at the brandy. How could Adam be so blind as not to see that his wife should not be out gallivanting every night? A blind man could see—or sense it!

  Not that this made Dunn feel any more in charity with Miss Berryman. Quite the contrary. Since she had been right, it now fell to him to speak with Adam, a task he did not relish. Greenwood was a grown man and should be able to manage his own affairs. Recollection of the wedding night when Greenwood had bought the canaries and Dunn had spoken to him brought not comfort but a sense of frustration. Dunn felt he had overstepped the boundaries of good taste that night, for all his worthy intentions. And it was unlikely that Adam had heeded his advice. Why should he?

  A good two hours passed before sounds of entry alerted Dunn to the baron’s arrival. Adam was astonished to be informed that a visitor awaited him in his own study, and alarmed to hear that it was Dunn. He did a hasty mental recapitulation of his possible sins as there seemed no reason for Dunn to wait for him at this hour of the night except on some mission of disfavor. True, Adam had not gotten to Almack’s until it was too late to enter, but then his wife had been with the Marchioness of Barnfield, and he had not specifically promised to join them there.

  And he hadn’t been gambling an unusual amount recently, nor done anything foolish in the way of shatterbrained bets— like Sir Robert and the cricketers. Adam was at a total loss—until it occurred to him that perhaps Captain Midford had met with some accident. He hastened his pace toward the library and swung the door open with an excess of energy, causing it to smack sharply against the paneling.

  Dunn winced at the resultant crack and dent in the dark wood and rose to confront the younger man. Before he could say anything, Adam blurted, “Has Stephen met with some harm?”

  “Stephen?” the viscount asked blankly. “Not that I know of. He looked perfectly fit at Almack’s this evening.”

  His alarm abruptly eased, Adam felt almost cross with relief. “Then why are you here?”

  “God knows.” Dunn indicated the decanter. “I’ve helped myself. Can I pour you a glass?”

  Wary now, Adam grumbled, “You may as well.”

  When they were seated, Adam eyeing him rather belligerently, Dunn forced himself to get on with the matter. “I brought Lady Greenwood home from Almack’s this evening. She was sick on the way here.”

  “Oh, God, she didn’t throw up in your carriage, did she? It takes forever to get rid of the odor.”

  “You have the sensitivity of a snail, Adam. Don’t you care that your wife was ill?”

  “Well, of course I do, but she’s ill all the time right now.” Adam stared at a Reinagle engraving of ptarmigan shooting. “She’s going to have a baby.”

  “So I understand. Adam, if Lady Greenwood is ill all the time, as you say, why do you let her go out every evening?”

  Adam brought his startled gaze back to the viscount. “Mostly she’s sick in the mornings, I suppose. Has a very difficult time keeping down any breakfast. Sometimes she has the headache and doesn’t go out.”

  “Have you,” Dunn asked, all interest, “noticed how pale and drawn she looks?”

  “Margaret has fair skin, Dunn. She’s always pale. And there’s no need for her to look all wracked up. I’ve gotten her tons of help for the ball, and her friends come over almost every day to do what they can.”

  “There are some gentlemen,” Dunn informed him, his eyes snapping, “who would take a little more interest in their wives. Lady Greenwood is decidedly not well. The very fact of her delicate condition should prompt you to take better care of her. She is, after all, carrying your child. If she were my wife, I would forbid her to exert herself in any way which would do her the least harm. As I recall, your own sister did not disport herself early on in her first pregnancy because of her indisposition. Just because she is enjoying perfect health this time around should not make you lose sight of the fact that women often do suffer discomfort. You do wish your wife to be delivered of a healthy child, do you not, Adam?”

  “Certainly I do,” Adam barked. “Margaret doesn’t have to go out every night. I’m not forcing her. If she wishes to stay at home, there’s no one stopping her. On several occasions I have myself carried her a cool cloth to lay on her forehead when she stayed in.”

  “How considerate of you.” Dunn’s sarcasm was so thick that Adam blanched. “Is it necessary for Lady Greenwood to point out to you each time she doesn’t feel well? Had it not occurred to you that she may never at this stage feel completely healthy? She is a self-effacing woman, Adam, trying her best to please you, and I’m sure she does not wish to complain incessantly. Try to get it through your thick head that she constantly feels rotten. That she only goes out to please you. That she would far prefer to stay at home without having to explain why.”

  “She never said so,” Adam complained. “How was I to know?”

  Dunn had begun to pace the room. Perhaps there was no hope for Adam after all. He was too preoccupied with his own pleasures, his own comforts, to recognize the needs and desires of others except in so far as they related to himself. A pity. Dunn paused by the door and said coldly, “Obviously there was no way you could know, Adam. Her friends could see it. I could see it, but I accept that you could not see it. If you are interested in her health, I suggest you keep her at home. Good night, Adam.”

  Adam stared blankly at the door for some time after it closed softly behind the viscount. Although he was not a particularly sensitive man, he was stung by the import of Dunn’s words. The marriage had not been to his liking in the first place, but Adam felt he had handled the whole thing quite successfully. He had not allowed it to hamper his way of life unduly, and his little mouse of a wife had been well received in society. On most occasions he had met her at some function during the evening, and when she had asked him to accompany her to Lady Anne’s ball, he had willingly done so. The arrangement was working out a great deal better than he had expected.

  Why in God’s name should Dunn hold him up to ridicule because Margaret insisted on going out when she wasn’t well? She could have stayed home; he wouldn’t have objected. Possibly he had urged the wisdom of her attending several functions in the last week, but it was only because the hostesses were ones he thought she would not wish to offend by her last-minute absence. There was certainly no cause for her to go to Almack’s if she didn’t feel well. The patronesses were not likely even to notice whether she was there or not.

  Adam set down his half-empty brandy glass with an impatient gesture and rose to his feet as the clock chimed two. He wasn’t even that late. Of course Margaret would be asleep if she had come in some time ago feeling ill. The remodeling of her room at the rear had been completed and she had moved there a week previously. It wasn’t as convenient for him but he had not complained, had he?

  She had stubbornly refused to have the massive bed moved from the smaller room and had chosen to retain the less substantial four-poster that had been there, pointing
out that it was more suitable in the light, airy room she had planned. His sister, Cynthia, had agreed wholeheartedly, but Adam somehow felt that it indicated his wife’s seclusion from him. She had withdrawn into her charming room where he felt a stranger, overwhelming in his masculinity and out of place.

  For the sitting area she had brought a dainty secretary from the back drawing room and several delicate Chippendale chairs. The heavy Axminster carpet—perfectly usable, he thought—had been banished and the floors polished to a rich sheen and dabbed here and there with little bitty Oriental rugs. One night he had nearly broken his neck when he tripped on the one nearest the bed. And the portraits that had hung there had been moved to the hall so that some colorful landscapes could replace them. All in all it was not a room in which he felt comfortable. Each time he came he felt vaguely as though he were invading her private retreat.

  Adam told the porter to lock up before climbing the stairs, hesitating at the head momentarily, and then walking toward his wife’s room. There was a lamp burning low on the dressing table; Margaret always left it there for him. Adam walked silently to the bed and studied her face in the shadows. At night she slept with her hair tied back, giving the full effect of her slightly sharp features and the lashes that curved down onto her cheeks. She had been too exhausted to remove the rouge, and it stood out now against the whiteness of her face. One hand curled under her chin, the other was hidden beneath the bedclothes, and she lay close to the side of the bed, her side. She looked strangely unprotected.

  The covers had slipped down on her shoulders and he gently tugged them back up around her. Even the slight disturbance must have alerted her to his presence and her eyes flickered open. Adam thought she regarded him almost fearfully, the gray eyes unnaturally wide for having so recently enjoyed slumber. Could she possibly be afraid of him?

  “I understand you were ill this evening, Margaret. I’m sorry,” he said softly, brushing back a strand of hair that fell across her face. Did she shrink ever so slightly from his touch?