The Loving Seasons

by Laura Matthews

  At sight of him she had said, “Never mind me. I am the silliest goose alive,” and hastily wiped away the offending moisture with the back of her hand. “Are you leaving? Should I be downstairs to see the guests off? I just came up for a moment to learn if there was any news."

  His instinct at the time had been to press her head to his shoulder and murmur assurances that Lady Greenwood would be perfectly all right, but he was aware of the stiffness of her posture and the way she drew back from him, as though he were more likely to censure than comfort her. Momentarily he had been stunned by such a misreading of his character and noted that his response was, inexcusably, anger. Schooling his features, he had said quite calmly, “Yes, I’m leaving and wished to tell Greenwood that he has but to command me if any problem arises. I shouldn’t think you are needed downstairs just now. Lady Anne and Adam’s sister are seeing to the departing guests. If you will convey my message to Greenwood, I’ll be on my way."

  No, it was Dunn’s considered opinion that he could not be frank with Miss Berryman, as she requested. He could hardly tell her that he had spent a restless hour in bed the night of the Greenwoods’ ball thinking of how it would have felt to hold her in his arms. Nor could he admit that he wished to change the unfavorable view of him she certainly held. Why he should desire that she regard him more kindly, even with some of the affection she showed Sir Nicholas, he would not even consider himself.

  “Being frank with young ladies,” he told her lightly, “is not one of my strong points. Let me just say that I believe I have misjudged you, and feel that for your part you perhaps regard me in a rather unflattering light. I have the greatest aversion to being considered an ogre! Lady Bradwell is a friend of mine and for her sake I think we ought to be friends. I am sure our antagonism has been a cause of uneasiness to her.”

  “Very true,” Emma agreed with ready solicitude. “For Aunt Amelia’s sake then and . . . and because I would be honored by your friendship.”

  What a surprising girl she was. For all his supposed address he would not have thought to say such a handsome, simple thing to her. Though he sat with her for another fifteen minutes, and spoke on any number of topics, he found himself unable to match that one example of easy graciousness. When he rose, he offered his hand, saying, “When you return to town I shall teach you to drive a pair, if you wish. I suppose you will be back in the autumn.”

  “Oh, I should think so, and I would be delighted to learn.” His firm handshake, unlike Sir Nicholas’s intimate pressure, was a model of propriety, and yet Emma was strangely moved by it. He had been out of sight only a moment when she hastened to the side table to retrieve the pad and pencil. Sitting at her aunt’s desk in the corner she had no difficulty conjuring up his features and setting them down with bold strokes before they should fade from her memory.

  Because they showed not the least tendency to fade during the two days preceding her departure for Bath, she reminded herself sternly that Lord Dunn was a consummate charmer; that his decision not to be at outs with her merely illustrated the months he had been, and that Anne, if she had the least sense, would capitalize on his close friendship with her family to make him one of her admirers, and maybe more.

  There wasn’t the least reason to let him cut up her peace . . . and yet she seemed to have no choice in the matter. He would not be ousted in her thoughts by the more easygoing Sir Nicholas despite the latter’s fulsome apologies for his naughty display, the posy he brought, and the ride he took her for in the park the last day before she left. Emma was heartily annoyed with herself for this contrary behavior. Neither of them could have the smallest place in her future, and she was determined to exhibit a more practical turn of mind when she returned to London in the autumn.

  SECOND SEASON

  Chapter Seventeen

  Lady Bradwell came forward with outstretched hands. “My dear Emma, how very well you look! It just shows what a healthy outdoor life can do for a woman. I’ve no patience myself with this fashion for white faces, though I confess that even in the country I am outdoors very little. Riding … Well, I never have cared for horses above half and long walks in the country can be tiring for one of my age.”

  “Your age! Pooh! I’ve never seen you in better looks, Aunt Amelia.” Emma stripped off the beige traveling gloves and tossed them on a quartetto table near the door. “Lord, I’d almost forgotten how bustling London is.”

  Her aunt gave her a concerned look. “Have you missed the excitement, Emma? I never guessed when you went off with Lady Greenwood last spring that I’d not see you again until now. You never complained in your letters—in fact, sounded quite cheerful!—but I could not help thinking it deadly boring at Combe Lodge all these months. I had begun to think that you intended to miss the season, and I could not believe that possible. How does Lady Greenwood go on?”

  “Very well. Her husband wanted her in town in plenty of time for her lying-in. But you mustn’t believe I’ve pined for the high life while in the country. No such thing! Wait until you see what I’ve accomplished. And I do love riding, and walking, and having the neighbors in to tea. Maggie has such delightful neighbors.”

  The sparkle in her eyes caused Lady Bradwell to shake her head dolefully. “Trust our Emma to find entertainment in the wilds. I daresay you set up a flirtation with some eligible gentleman in the neighborhood.”

  “Two of them, actually,” Emma admitted with an impish grin. She settled herself comfortably on the sofa and accepted the cup of tea her aunt handed her. “Nothing to signify, of course. Mr. Hill is wild to a fault and not yet of age, and Mr. Bampton is an aging widower with a sharp eye to someone who will take over the management of his obstreperous children. It shan’t be me! Still, for various reasons, I found them both amusing, and Maggie was delighted that I should not fall into a decline from being out of town. Poor dear, Greenwood won’t allow her to do a thing because of her losing the first baby, and she must sit in the house all day and do needlework or read.”

  “I needn’t ask if he spent all his time in the country, since I’ve seen him in town myself.” Lady Bradwell took a sip of the steaming tea and set it aside. “I trust there have been no complications this time with the pregnancy.”

  “None whatsoever. Maggie’s in blooming health. Even the journey to town didn’t tire her. Greenwood came down to escort us—though he didn’t drive! And he did spend a certain amount of time there, off and on. Going back and forth to town for him is no more than an excursion. Sometimes he would bring one of his cronies, usually Captain Midford, and we had quite a lively time.” Emma reached over to squeeze her aunt’s hand. “But it’s lovely to see you again, my dear, and I am grateful that you’re willing to see me through another season. How is Lord Bradwell?”

  Amelia smiled, a tender, whimsical light in her eyes. “Much as usual. Cross as a hornet to interrupt his sporting for a lot of entertainments, but pleased with himself to have done so. A bit of gout these days, too, which hampers him. Really, we were remarkably content when he had his legs all swathed in bandages for a week and I sat and read to him. I’d forgotten how droll he can be. His comments on the book I was reading—Marriage—were excessively amusing. He didn’t at all like the doctor’s orders to reduce his consumption of port! And growled when I set out to follow them to the letter. I’m sure he was delighted to see my heels.”

  She expelled a small, wistful sigh, but immediately brightened. “Several gentlemen have called to see when you were returning. Mr. Stutton seemed especially eager to see you, and Sir Nicholas declares the little season in the autumn was decidedly flat with you away. I’m planning a small dinner party tomorrow night to welcome you back, with just a few of our closest friends.”

  “How kind of you.” As casually as she could, Emma asked, “Who is coming?”

  The list included Sir Nicholas but not Lord Dunn, and Emma hid a twinge of disappointment. She had thought a great deal about the viscount while she was in Bath and subsequently at Combe Lodge. Des
pite Maggie’s protests that she would do very well, and that Emma should return to Lady Bradwell in the autumn, Emma knew that Lord Greenwood’s frequent absences were hard on her friend. There was always the fear of another miscarriage, and the problem that Maggie at first knew few of her neighbors in High Wycombe.

  And Emma was not ready to be distracted by the continual round of activity in London. She took her painting seriously from the first day Mr. Rodford, the drawing master, came for a lesson. In deference to her enthusiasm, Maggie had a studio prepared for her use at Combe Lodge when they removed from Bath. Emma’s first endeavors were less than successful, but she was determined and had a great deal of native talent, and by the third time she had painted Maggie they both knew she had achieved something special. Not only were the coloring and features true to life, but she had captured the strong character about Maggie’s face and the gentleness of her eyes.

  Since this last attempt had only been finished toward the end of November, Emma had secreted it away in a closet before Lord Greenwood descended on his ancestral home for the Christmas season. He was aware, of course, of her previous efforts to paint his wife, and had so far exerted himself as to offer her his opinion as to her artistic faults, but he was allowed no sight of the final portrait until Christmas morning when Emma presented it to him. The painting was set on an easel in a corner of the green saloon, covered with a velvet drapery. Greenwood raised his brows in a mocking question and Maggie watched anxiously as he unveiled it. His complete astonishment made Emma laugh and Maggie blush with pleasure as he exclaimed, “By God, you’ve quite captured her, Miss Berryman! This is just how I think of her when we’re apart!” Emma was surprised to learn that he thought of his wife at all when they were not together.

  Settling into the pattern of life in Bruton Street presented no problems. Her aunt ran a rather casual household where butler, housekeeper, footmen, cook, gardener, and various housemaids went about their light duties with a good will generated by Lady Bradwell’s generous heart. Emma found the male servants especially willing to assist her in any way, and with her aunt’s permission she set up her studio in the minuscule conservatory to the rear of the house. From time to time Amelia had considered having it torn off and a ballroom built to replace it, but the expense would have eaten into the budget she allowed herself. As far as Lord Bradwell was concerned there were no limits put on her spending, but she had, out of an innate sense of fairness and honesty, devised a rather haphazard budget for herself to which she strictly adhered, despite her husband’s lack of interest in reviewing her expenditures. She was delighted to see the conservatory put to some use, as she had never enjoyed the cloying atmosphere of the thick-leaved green plants and never took enough care of the area to see any actual blooms.

  Given free rein with the area, Emma heartlessly disposed of the majority of sickly plants, placing them in Maggie’s tender care to thrive once more in Half Moon Street. Large expanses of glass allowed the proper amount of light for her projects, though on sunless days the room was appallingly cold. Emma merely draped herself in shawls and often painted while wearing a pair of gloves too old to grace any public appearance.

  On the evening of the dinner party she had only just begun her preparations in the conservatory, but she took Anne and Sir Nicholas to view his portrait where it leaned against the wall. It had been difficult, with him not posing, to remember every detail, despite the sketch she had made, but there was no denying, even at the briefest glance, that she had translated to canvas the rakish sophistication he exuded.

  “My word!” Anne exclaimed, staring first at the portrait and then at Sir Nicholas himself. “Emma, when did you have time to do this? I had no idea Sir Nicholas had sat for you.”

  “I didn’t,” he retorted, shaking his head. “Miss Berryman made a quick sketch one day before she left for Bath. And I thought,” he mused, his eyes sparkling, “that you had another location altogether planned for your work of art!”

  Ignoring his attempt to fluster her Emma smiled benignly on him.

  “You misunderstood, I presume. Now that you are here beside it, I can see that the coloring is slightly off." She laughed. "I believe I have improved on you.”

  Vaguely disquieted by their familiar raillery, Anne interjected, “But it’s famous, Emma! Do you intend to exhibit it?”

  “Exhibit it!” Sir Nicholas bellowed, stunned. “Have you a mind to make me the laughingstock of society? Painted to look like the original sinner by a mere slip of a girl? Hung up on some gallery wall alongside glowering dowagers? I won’t have it.”

  Emma was not the least concerned with his diatribe. “Come, Sir Nicholas, no one would think any less of you.” Her lips twitched at the double entendre of the statement and she shared a grin with Anne. “I promised Lady Anne I would not exhibit the paintings unless they were adjudged worthy. Whom shall we have appraise them, Anne? Not Sir Nicholas. I am convinced he hasn’t an eye for such things and he is too nearly involved in any case. Your brother perhaps—Lord Maplegate, that is. Would you consider his decision adequate?”

  “He’s not in town just now,” Anne informed her, hastening to add, “but I think Helena’s brother, Mr. Rogers, would be more than willing. He takes such an interest in Helena’s work and is undoubtedly the most knowledgeable gentleman I have met concerning modem works of art. Have you more than just this one?”

  “Oh, yes. There is one I did of Maggie, but I gave it to Lord Greenwood. And I did one of Mr. Hill and another of Mr. Bampton when we were at Combe Lodge. I can’t seem to get Lord Greenwood himself quite right yet, but I’m working on it.”

  Somehow she found it impossible, in front of Sir Nicholas, to admit that her favorite was that of Lord Dunn, which was indeed in her bedchamber, though not hanging on the wall. She kept it there under a dustcover and hidden behind two boxes of hats so that no one would see it, but now and again when she was alone, she brought it out and studied it. Sometimes she would think that it needed a different shade of brown for the hair, or a bit more firmness to the chin, but she found she could not change it.

  Even once when she had brought it out a month after it was finished at Combe Lodge and actually set it on the easel and prepared her pallet with paints, she could not force herself to make the first stroke. It was finished—for good or ill. Her original perception of his character had not allowed her to show the traces of amusement that had temporarily exhibited themselves on the last occasion on which they had met. Somehow it was easier to portray him with his air of reserve tinged with disapproval than as a more human sort of being. There was a haughty lift to his brows, and a slight pursing of his lips, though his eyes—well, his eyes did hint, just the tiniest bit, that he was not entirely devoid of humor. Emma could go no farther than that.

  Sir Nicholas, his indignation far from assuaged, was regarding Emma with narrowed eyes. “And you propose to exhibit me with two country bumpkins, do you? I say, Miss Berryman, it’s downright cruel of you. You said you would place my portrait in your—“

  “No, no, Sir Nicholas,” she interrupted. “Pray spare Lady Anne my little jest. I tell you what I shall do. I shall have it hung in a frame without any indication of your identity. It will say, quite simply, ‘The Rake’.”

  Not proof against her dancing eyes, he laughed. “Oh, very well, Miss Berryman! But allow me first option to buy it. The thought of that painting hanging in some cit’s picture gallery as a fake relation makes my blood run cold. Nor would I fancy it in some old lady’s book room being pointed out to her nieces and nephews as an example of what will become of them if they go astray, like one of Hogarth’s gruesome Progresses.”

  "You may have first chance to buy it, but not until it’s been shown. And I shall expect Mr. Rogers to set a price on it.” She turned to Anne with a deprecating smile. “That is, if he thinks it’s worthy of showing. Otherwise, I suppose I shall have to give it to Sir Nicholas. I can’t think who else would want it.”

  Arrangements were made for Emma
to call on Anne before the two of them adjourned to the Rogerses’ house. Emma suspected that Anne wished to prepare her for the possibility of Mr. Rogers’s not thinking the paintings quite well enough done actually to display to the discriminating London connoisseur. And maybe they weren’t, Emma thought, worried. She had enjoyed every moment while she worked on them, and was personally pleased with the results, but she was, after all, an amateur barely instructed in the art of portraiture. In Bath and at Combe Lodge she had studied the compositions and elements involved in the paintings that hung in houses she visited and the Greenwood gallery. And capturing a likeness was not at all the same as painting a successful portrait, she reminded herself as she assured the footman she could find the back drawing room in Grosvenor Square.

  Lord William and Anne were standing by the open window, he with his quizzing glass to his eye and she tugging at his sleeve. “I swear one daren’t let you out of doors at this time of year, Will,” she protested, laughing. “What charmer has caught your attention now?”

  Indignant, Will retorted, “You’re one to talk, Anne. A fellow can’t make his way through the hall without stumbling over one of your suitors once we’re in town. Mercifully only a portion of them make their way to Parkhurst and spend most of their time unable to find the drawing room.”

  Emma’s giggle made the two of them swing around, at first alarmed and then smiling, as she said, “So Anne is accumulating beaux like ribbons, is she? I’ve been out of London too long.”

  “Miss Berryman! How good to see you again.” Will raised her hand to kiss with more speed than elegance and proceeded to elaborate on the preceding conversation. “One poor fellow was actually lost at Parkhurst until a party of footmen were dispatched to track him down. The experience so unnerved him that he never found the courage to declare himself. Which was all for the best! He would not have made Anne a particularly fitting life’s partner.”