Anne glanced up to find him regarding her with a slight frown. Oh, dear, he thought her pushing for having suggested one might accommodate two entertainments in one evening. And she had tried so hard to make it sound a casual observation! She bit her lip and felt a momentary—and absurd!—desire to cry. There was no one she wished less to offend than Mr. Rogers, for some obscure reason. Perhaps because it appeared that his good opinion was not easily won.
To dispense with the awkward moment, she asked, “Has ... has Miss Rogers ever tried her hand at miniatures?”
“No, Helena says she cannot achieve such detail in a small space. Patently untrue, you will agree, having seen her close studies of birds and plants. But I think her real objection is that she finds portraiture alarming. No bird can come up and say, ‘It doesn’t look the least like me’ or a tree protest that its branches have been made to look a great deal thicker than they are.” The hazel eyes invited her to share the whimsicality of such a concept.
Anne gladly laughed, as much because his frown was gone as because of his ridiculous examples. “My friend Emma—Miss Berryman—was good at capturing a likeness when we were at school. Alas, she has never spent the time to develop her ability. There were always too many other activities to divert her attention.”
“If she couldn’t find the time at school, I cannot imagine she will find it now she is out in society.” He regarded her with interest. “The three of you—Lady Greenwood, Miss Berryman, and you—seem oddly assorted to have been such great friends in school.”
“We are rather different, I suppose,” Anne admitted as he led her toward the far wall hung with recent landscapes. “But adversity has a way of drawing people together. And proximity. I don’t mean to indicate that Windrush House was such a trying time. I remember begging to be allowed to go there. Mama had intended that I have a governess, but my cousin had gone to Windrush House and told such fascinating tales of the other girls, the dancing master, and Mrs. Childswick that I felt certain it was just the place for me. I can’t think why!”
“Because it was something new,” he suggested, enchanted by her disclosures.
“Yes, but my own family was a great deal more stimulating—not to mention loving. Once I was there I felt I ought to make the best of the situation.”
Indeed, Mr. Rogers thought, Lady Anne would always make the best of the situation. Perhaps that was one of the qualities that so appealed to him. In time, he decided, she would develop into a woman such as her mother, a remarkable combination of beauty, intelligence, and compassion, with a strong will to not only survive but to flourish.
Anne gazed up at him with a grimace. “I hated to be proved wrong, you see, and besides, I found Maggie and Emma were as delightful as any of our neighbors at home. Maggie is so practical and Emma can find humor in almost any circumstance—including Mrs. Childswick. I’m afraid we were a bit disrespectful, though not to her personally, of course.”
“Occasionally that’s the only way to see yourself through a difficult time.” Mr. Rogers felt protective toward her or so he convinced himself. He was not unaware of how lonely it could be for a child away at school, and his compassion was the impetus, no doubt, for his desire to stroke her glorious chestnut hair. Not that she needed his comforting now, when she was returned to her family, but with his singular ability to cut through the trappings of convention to the core of character Mr. Rogers decided that a generosity of spirit lay thinly concealed by Lady Anne’s social manners and he did not wish to see that rare gift trampled upon by society. He wanted to shield her from disappointments and see that her good nature was not taken advantage of by thoughtless nodcocks who would not realize her value.
He stopped in front of a painting and asked her; “Do you like this scene of Middlesex? I know precisely where it was taken, not too distant from Farthing Hill, my house near Enfield.”
Anne studied the painting closely. She did not wish to appear ignorant or say something gauche or artificial. “It’s rather flat, isn’t it? Not like this one where the sky is alive with storm. And yet there’s no feeling of bucolic laziness in the first, either. I don’t mean that a landscape need be dramatic to catch an atmosphere!” Anne felt suddenly as untutored in painting as poor Catherine in Northanger Abbey—rejecting the whole of Bath as unworthy to make part of a landscape after Mr. Tilney’s talk of foregrounds, distances and second distances, side-screens and perspectives, lights and shades. And yet there was no excuse for her hesitation; Anne had been nourished on a diet of some of the most notable paintings of modern and past times at Parkhurst. Why was she so nervous of sounding foolish to Mr. Rogers, who had been nothing but kind to her?
His face had become austere-looking again as he surveyed the painting, obviously attempting to find some justification for her censure, Anne thought uneasily. He seemed wrapped in his contemplation, almost unaware of her presence. At length he mused, “Perhaps it is my own partiality to Helena’s work, but her landscape done at nearly the same location has a great deal more vibrancy, I think. Do you know the watercolor I mean?”
“No,” Anne admitted, almost faint with relief, “I don’t believe I’ve seen it.”
“Hmm, it’s in my study. I’ll show it to you one day.” And he turned from the painting to find her warm brown eyes rather anxiously surveying him. Until that moment he had quite easily believed his concern for her was as brotherly as any he could have felt for Helena. His vision abruptly cleared. Anne’s chestnut hair shone in the sunlight streaming through the windows; her tall, slender figure leaned ever so slightly toward him, as though to catch not only his words but his feelings.
His awareness of her physical presence was not in the least brotherly, he realized with a sense of shock. Almost as rapidly his mind thrust aside the thought. This was Lady Anne Parsons, daughter of a marquess, sister of his friend. Her family could expect to see her marry well, to have all the advantages of wealth and position. Such an alliance was practically a birthright. Mr. Rogers turned back to study the painting on the wall.
Strolling over to join them, Helena shook her head disparagingly at her brother. “It’s the landscape again, is it? Harold can become a great bore about it, Lady Anne. Pay him no heed.”
But her brother scoffed at this evidence of modesty and turned to Jack. “Come, you’ve seen Helena’s landscape in my study. Don’t you think hers is better than this?”
“You’ll embarrass Lord Maplegate,” Helena protested, but with no sign of a blush. Anne was continually astonished at her self-possession. It had no hint of bravado or self-conceit, simply a confidence beyond her years and single status.
After Jack expressed polite agreement with Harold, Helena pointed a long finger at the trees in the painting. “His technical perfection is far greater than mine, Lord Maplegate. See the subtleties of green? I had never thought to use such widely diverse shades until I saw his work, but of course,” she confessed with a grin, “I shall do so in future. And you must bear in mind that they are entirely different in mood, as well. I fear mine has an almost whimsical quality, while this is far more sober. Harold is influenced by the fancifulness as well. To him everything about Farthing Hill and the county is invested with a kind of magic. The sun is always shining there.”
“You exaggerate, my dear.” Harold sighed. “Never mind. I don’t mean to put you to the blush. Have you seen everything you wish, Lady Anne?”
“Oh, yes, thank you, as much as I can absorb in one afternoon.” Now why did she have to put it that way? Anne could have pinched herself for making it sound as though she wished to be included in further expeditions to Ackermann’s. Why was she so stupidly awkward with Mr. Rogers?
In the carriage she said little, merely listening as the others discussed works of art on which she felt unworthy of giving an opinion. Thinking that she wasn’t feeling well, Jack refused with thanks the Rogerses’ invitation to come in for tea. Anne heard with a twinge of regret their assurances of seeing one another the next evening at a quiet d
inner party in Berkeley Square. She was going with her mother to a rout party in Piccadilly.
And what was worse, Mr. Rogers seemed rather formal in his leave-taking. The distress this caused Anne finally led her to acknowledge the state of her emotions. She was falling in love with this man. But was that wise?
Chapter Fifteen
“Everything looks splendid!” Emma declared as she surveyed the drawing rooms with enthusiasm. Despite the limited space at the Greenwood town house, she felt the three of them had achieved quite an air of openness with the doors pushed back between the rooms and the spring flower theme running through each of them. Her concern for Maggie was unabated, especially since Lady Greenwood looked, if possible, more pale than usual on the afternoon of the ball. Assuming that worry over the festivities was contributing to her distress, Emma was determined to set her mind at rest. “I’ve not been to a single ball since Anne’s where the rooms looked so fine.”
The three of them were gathered for last-minute preparations but had taken the time to relax with cups of steaming tea in a corner of the front drawing room. Emma kicked off her shoes, protesting that they were new and pinched her. As she surveyed her stretched toes in the fine silk stockings, she mused, “I wonder how many miles they’ve traveled in the last few weeks. When you think about it, the distance must be quite great. Not only walking about the shops and running up and downstairs at Aunt Amelia’s but the dances! Lord, think of traveling about on them for four or five hours an evening. No wonder they protest at being squeezed in such bitty shoes.”
Maggie was slightly shocked to see Emma abandon her shoes in the drawing room but Anne merely laughed, saying, “You mustn’t forget how many times they’ve been stepped on, either. I swear not an evening goes by that one of my partners doesn’t clomp on my poor feet. It’s a wonder all my shoes aren’t ruined, and one’s bills for stockings become quite outrageous. Mr. Thresham is particularly prone to forget which way to turn. You must have noticed it, Emma.”
“Mr. Thresham is a nodcock!” Emma pronounced roundly, a suspicious twinkle in her eyes. “You’ll never guess what he’s done!”
Maggie startled them by suggesting, “He’s offered for you.”
“Why, yes. How did you know?” Emma felt the smallest bit deflated to have her news so easily uncovered.
“He has been so attentive,” Maggie said softly, “and I really think he’s fond of you. I hope you weren’t unkind to him.”
“I didn’t accept, if that’s what you mean. Really, he’s not at all what I imagined by way of a husband. It’s not just his dancing.” Emma tucked her toes around the chair legs as though to protect them from marauding feet. “Mr. Thresham hasn’t a thing to say for himself. He’s not interested in sporting activities, or country living, or town living for that matter. I rather think some of the other men put him up to it.”
“Surely not,” Maggie protested, aghast.
“Perhaps not, but I cannot see why he should have gone to the bother. Oh, Maggie dear, I didn’t laugh at him or make a jest of the matter, you may be sure. I was decidedly regal in my refusal, telling him I thought we should not suit, and that he was a prince among men. Cross my heart! Still, I found it difficult to take him seriously.”
Anne wondered whether it was her imagination, or whether Emma was a trifle less flamboyant than she used to be. Oh, it was perfectly normal for her to make an anecdote out of Mr. Thresham’s proposal. Yet she had not capitalized on it the way she might have in the past, going into details that would have ridiculed the young man in a good-natured way. With his high shirt points and his multitude of rings and fobs, Mr. Thresham was a natural target for Emma’s wit.
Earlier in the season Anne had succumbed to a fit of giggles when Emma described Mr. Thresham’s encounter with an amorous poodle in a fashionable lady’s drawing room. On another occasion he had been described in conversation with the learned Mr. Camblesforth, and completely at a loss as to what that gentleman had been discussing, confusing two French words of such different meaning that Anne nearly choked on the biscuit she had been eating. And it was true that his proposal must have come as rather a surprise, since Emma had been careful to keep him at something of a distance despite his attentions. That was possibly the most unusual circumstance of them all, for Emma to show some reserve with a gentleman!
“Have you enjoyed the season, Emma?” Maggie asked when there was a lull in the conversation. Both Emma and Anne seemed lost in thought and she assumed her role as hostess was to provide some new conversational gambit, though it had never proved necessary in the past with her friends.
“I suppose so. Yes, of course I have. The entertainments have been lavish, the gentlemen attentive, the ladies accommodating. There is always more to do than one has time for, and yet… Well, when we were at school I imagined myself head over heels in love with a dashing blade by this time. I fancied some distinguished peer would glimpse me at the theater or waltz with me at a ball and fall down on his knees forthwith to declare his undying love. I haven’t even met the sort of dashing blade I pictured!” Emma pursed her lips in self-mockery. “And if I did, I probably wouldn’t be interested in him.”
Anne eyed her curiously. “Why not?”
“Oh, because my vision had no substance. He was perfectly handsome, had the manners of a prince and the sporting skills of a nonpareil. But that was all he had. The kind of savoir faire I longed for comes with a gambler and a rake, which, by the by, my aunt considers a much-maligned breed. She thinks rakes are the freest of gentlemen, living to their own code to the fullest of their ability. I’m not sure I agree. Take Sir Nicholas…”
“Heaven forbid,” Maggie murmured.
“No, really, he’s not such a bad fellow,” Anne interposed. “There is something missing from his makeup, however. His charm is taking life not quite seriously, but that is also his problem. I don’t think he has any real feeling for other people.”
“Exactly,” Emma agreed, surprised that Anne should have seen so easily what it had taken her weeks of constant association to decipher. “Don’t misunderstand me. I like Sir Nicholas. His conceit doesn’t take the form of most of the gentlemen we’ve met: he’s not high in the instep or particularly vain or conscious of his own consequence. He doesn’t care much about other people, but what is harder to comprehend is that he doesn’t care much about himself, either. That’s not to say he doesn’t spend all his time amusing himself, for he certainly does. As Anne says, though, he doesn’t take himself seriously and there’s something most unnerving about that.”
“He’s…rather old, isn’t he?” Maggie asked.
“Aunt Amelia’s age,” Emma admitted, “which is eight and thirty. To me he makes the younger men look like puppies.”
“Still, my dear,” Anne suggested, “he’s old enough to be your father, though I don’t suppose many women look on Sir Nicholas in a paternal light.”
The strange smile that flickered about Emma’s lips gave both her companions cause for alarm. “Hardly,” she agreed fervently.
Aware that she might be saying precisely the wrong thing, Maggie could not refrain from speaking. “It has always been my impression that Sir Nicholas is not a marrying man. You never hear stories of his having proposed to anyone, and that sort of gossip usually follows a man of his…reputation.”
“I doubt if he’s ever had the least inclination to marry,” Emma said. “In fact, he told me he hadn’t.”
Anne laughed. “Was that in the nature of a warning?”
“I imagine it was, but he needn’t have worried. Being married to Sir Nicholas would offer few advantages, though I can think of one or two.” The memory of his kiss did not disappear, Emma found, somewhat to her disgruntlement. It seemed as good a time as any to turn the conversation. “And you, Anne? Have you enjoyed the season?”
“I confess that I like being out; it’s a great deal more interesting than not. But it’s been tiring, and I find it difficult to know how to handle the gentlemen
. Lord Brackenbury is persistent and Sir Arthur Moresby keeps trying to get me alone in a corner, preferably a dark one. I daresay you wouldn’t have any trouble with them, Emma, but I do.”
“At least they’re a trifle more respectable than Mr. Thresham and Mr. Norwood, love. And Mr. Stutton is not above holding one too close when waltzing. Usually I jab my elbow into his stomach.”
Though Anne smiled briefly, a frown quickly replaced it. “My family protect me from the unruly ones, I suppose. No, what I mean is, how do you discourage them from becoming interested in you when you cannot return their regard?”
“How can you ask me?” Emma wiggled her toes back into the tight shoes. “I’ve just told you that Thresham actually offered for me and I assure you I’d done everything in my power to discourage him politely. They have such thick skins, haven’t they? Not that Mr. Thresham truly expected me to accept him. He wore the most becoming air of fatality, such as one might when gambling on a sure loser. So you see, Anne, he had received the message, but did not choose to believe it. I’m sure Lord Brackenbury and Sir Arthur are aware of your reserve with them; it is their own high opinions of themselves which prevent them from believing you could have no interest in them. Which should quite free you from feeling sorry for them, my dear.”
“I think Emma is right, Anne,” Maggie agreed. “When you have done what you can to indicate your lack of enthusiasm for their attentions, you must not repine if they are too callous to refrain. I think for all their vaunted graces, men are appallingly insensitive!”
Her companions stared at her forceful expression of this opinion. Meek Maggie had not in the past so much as uttered a syllable on anyone else’s faults. Seated in the low tub chair, her face pale but for two spots of agitated color, she clasped her hands tightly in her lap and did not meet their eyes. When neither of her friends spoke, she went on in a low voice, “I am reminded sometimes of what Miss Clements said to us that day we came into London from school. She told us to cultivate our friends and our minds. She said that happiness comes from within and that giving to others enriched your own rewards. I want you both to know how proud I am to have you as my friends…and how thankful.”
The Loving Seasons Page 20
