The Loving Seasons

by Laura Matthews

  Emma slipped her feet out of bed and carried the candle across to check the clock on the mantel. Almost two-thirty, but they had not come home until late. It was possible that her aunt was still awake since she had stayed up to have a drink with Dunn. Not in all the time they had spent together had Emma gone to her aunt’s room at night, but she felt desperately anxious for some human contact, and she knew her aunt would be more than willing to give it if she were awake. The memory of that one night she had seen a man enter her aunt’s bedchamber had long since faded, and as she made her way down the dark hall she was more intent on how she would explain her need for comfort than on the possibility of interrupting a clandestine meeting.

  There was a sudden gust of air that blew out the candle and left Emma in the dark. She felt a flicker of alarm as she heard soft footfalls on the hall carpet and stepped back into a doorway. A man passed without noticing her, obviously sure of his way without the aid of any light and so clearly not expecting anyone to be about that he didn’t even look around him. This time Emma had a slightly longer glimpse of him when he opened her aunt’s door, though the lighting from within was poor. His build, his features, his athletic grace . . .

  Emma thought her heart would stop and she pressed a hand against her lips to still the cry that threatened. No, oh, God, no, don’t let it be Dunn. She began to tremble so violently that she had to lean back against the door to steady herself. No, it wasn’t possible. A trick of the light, that was all. She hadn’t been able to see at all clearly. There had never been the slightest sign that Amelia held any particular regard for Dunn and her aunt was not an accomplished actress. Emma felt sure she would have been able to tell if Dunn was her aunt’s lover.

  And yet . . . Dunn had been here in the house, tonight. In the carriage she had seen them exchange glances. Neither meant a thing, she told herself stubbornly. She had thought at the time that it was concern for her that motivated them—and it was! Any number of men might have looked like Dunn in the dim light. In any case, considering that her aunt had a visitor, Emma knew she should instantly make her way back to her room, close the door, and go to bed. She fully intended to do so, but when her legs felt strong enough to support her, she found herself in something of a trance approaching her aunt’s door.

  There was the muted sound of a deep male voice. Could it be Dunn’s? Impossible to tell. And then her aunt spoke, even more softly, totally indistinguishably except . . . Did she call him by name? No, it could not have been Dunn that she said. Probably “John” or even “Tom.” Emma waited for some time to hear if Amelia repeated the name, waited until the murmurs of passion within drove her back to her room, so distraught that she hardly knew what she was doing.

  It wasn’t Dunn. It could not be Dunn. He had been so very kind to her of late. There were even signs, however faint, that he was taking particular notice of her. Had she not dared to hope only this afternoon that he was beginning to feel an attachment toward her? Had he not been eager to learn if her own affections were already engaged by Sir Nicholas? Why else would he be interested, if not that he had some partiality of his own? And then Emma realized what was most likely the truth of the matter.

  Dunn was beginning to care for her, just as she did for him. But the thought, which had made her dress with infinite care earlier in the evening, no longer had the power to enchant her. Rather, her stomach churned so wretchedly that she rushed to the basin in the corner and held her head over it, almost wishing for the relief that vomiting would bring. Even that easing did not come to her and she eventually climbed wearily back into her bed, pulling the covers up over her head with a groan. Yes, Dunn was beginning to care for her—which was the most logical explanation for the way her aunt had been acting for the last few weeks.

  Lady Bradwell, the most generous, openhanded, amiable creature on earth, had become withdrawn, absentminded, lethargic. Attending the usual social functions of the season had become a chore rather than a pleasure. Emma had noticed, after a fashion, but she had been too busy with her painting and with dreams of Dunn to realize the import of this condition. Amelia was thirty-nine now, probably deeply in love with Dunn, and the prospect of losing him at her age could only be blighting. Gentlemen were always looking for newer, younger mistresses, not for a lady of her age, despite her innumerable fine qualities. Emma, all unconsciously, was stealing away her aunt’s lover.

  And that in itself was an almost unbearable thought. All very well for Lady Bessborough to see her niece married to her former lover; Emma was not of a constitution to bear the pain of such a situation. Why couldn’t anything be simple? she wailed silently into her pillow. She couldn’t blame Amelia for loving Dunn; she couldn’t blame him for choosing such a lovely, warm woman for his mistress. But why did she herself have to become entangled in such an awful situation? It wasn’t fair!

  Emma’s last thought before falling into an exhausted sleep was a fast-dying hope: Perhaps it had not been Dunn after all.

  * * * *

  Emma paced the back writing room while Sir Nicholas watched with lamentable amusement. He had been surprised, when informed that Lady Bradwell was out, that Miss Berryman would see him, not in the drawing room or the studio, but in her writing room. Her explanation, that she wanted privacy, was the reason for his wicked grin. Miss Berryman had not previously even allowed the door of the room in which they met to be closed.

  “Oh, do sit down,” she admonished him, “and take that ridiculous smile from your face. This is serious business.”

  “I didn’t know,” he drawled, lowering himself onto a chair. “I assumed it would be a light dalliance.”

  She scowled at him but soon marched off to the window again, too agitated to seat herself. “Sir Nicholas ... Oh, I don’t know how to begin. Have you noticed that Aunt Amelia is not herself these days?”

  Mildly surprised, he nodded. “Yes, she hasn’t been at all in spirits.”

  Emma wandered about the room, picking up a book and replacing it, straightening the pens on her desk. “Do you know why?”

  He sat silent for a moment, his lips pursed. “I think so.”

  Oh, to have this over with. Emma sat down facing him but before she could bring herself to speak was once again on her feet. He couldn’t see her clearly when she stood before the sunny window, but even he could tell by the high pitch of her voice that she was greatly disturbed. “I can’t ask her. You can see that, can’t you? And there is no one else I can ask . . . except you. Once, a long time ago, you hinted that you knew who her... lover was. I must know.”

  “Why?”

  “Because...," Emma turned away and laid her forehead against the windowpane. In a muffled voice she said, “Because I seem to have inadvertently . . . Nicholas, is it Dunn?”

  Any trace of amusement had long since left his face. He neither moved nor spoke for what seemed a very long time. “I think so. You must understand that I can’t know for sure, but I have suspected as much for several years. Amelia had never confided his identity to me, and certainly Dunn would never speak. There is no way for me to know absolutely. I could be wrong.”

  When she remained standing there with head bowed and shoulders slumped he rose and went to put an arm about her waist. A comforting gesture, understood by both of them. “I’m sorry, Emma. In my awkward way I tried to warn you, or perhaps to warn him off. I’m not very good at that sort of thing. Amelia and I have been friends for twenty years, give or take a few, and I really don’t want to see her hurt. Strange, she’s one person I’ve felt rather close to. There have been times when I’ve actually been downright open with her, talking out some forgettable problem, and she’s shared a few of her own.” He grimaced at the back of her head. “Never any names, of course. The woman is undoubtedly the most discreet human being I’ve ever met. Do you need a handkerchief?”

  “No, thank you.” Emma stepped out of his encircling arm and went to sit on the chair she had formerly vacated. Her attempted smile did not noticeably affect her stricken
eyes. “Well, I’m glad to know in time. It would have been easier if she’d told me, but of course she never would. I appreciate your honesty. Aunt Amelia has quite a friend in you, though I must confess I found your tactics odd in the extreme. Not until . . . recently did I have the slightest idea what you were about, and I don’t think Lord Dunn did either.”

  "I didn’t want to be obvious,” he grumbled.

  “You weren’t,” she informed him dryly.

  He stood staring down at her woebegone face and sighed. “I tell you what, Emma. I’ll take over your driving lessons.”

  “Is no sacrifice too great for you?” she asked in mock wonder.

  “Don’t get uppity with me, young lady. You won’t want to spend a lot of time with Dunn now, and I think it’s only fair that I take over where he has begun.”

  Emma smiled tremulously at him. “You’re very kind, Nicholas, but life isn’t always fair. There’s no need.”

  With a muttered oath he strolled to the door, pausing only to say, “I’ll pick you up tomorrow afternoon at three.”

  * * * *

  There seemed little likelihood of meeting Dunn at the Fulbrook card party that evening, or Emma would have cried off with a headache. Amelia enjoyed playing whist and was an exceptionally skillful and lucky cardplayer, which was why Emma had originally told her aunt that she preferred the card party to the Hunters’ rout. And indeed neither of them were particularly devoted to the morose pair the Hunters made (Woeful and Wretched, Sir Nicholas disrespectfully called them), or to the Smythes, whose minuscule town house was always crammed to the walls when they had a musical evening, as they were planning that day. It seemed clear to Emma that Dunn, if he went to any of those particular entertainments, would choose the rout. She had not once during the time she had spent in London chanced to meet him at a card party and assumed, as was likely, that when he wished to play he went to White’s or Watier’s. Most of the gentlemen of her acquaintance did.

  Tables were set up in three different rooms and Emma found herself partnering a middle-aged gentleman she had met on several occasions. His good humor did not belie the fact that he took his cards seriously, and she turned her full attention to the game. Cards had never particularly interested her; she had only learned the previous season to play the most common games. Her concentration on an appropriate play was entirely ruined by her absent glance at the doorway, where Lord Dunn stood watching her, a faint smile on his lips. She acknowledged his presence with a restrained nod, playing the first card that came to hand. Her partner regarded her with surprise, which turned to glee as the play progressed. The hand won, he beamed across the table. “A brilliant play, Miss Berryman. I would never have attempted it.”

  Aware of Dunn standing behind her, Emma said, “Thank you. I fear it was more luck than skill, Mr. Jackson. Perhaps Lord Dunn would care to take my place, as I feel a slight headache coming on.”

  Politeness required that Dunn accept, but he regarded her with a puzzled expression as she excused herself, and his eyes followed her hasty exit from the room. Unwilling to seek out her aunt and sure that Dunn would be unable to leave the card game for some time, she made her way to the dining saloon, where refreshments were set out on the table and sideboard.

  Neither the lobster salad nor the garnished ham appealed to Emma, nor in fact did the fruited jellies or raspberry cream. She helped herself to a small portion of charlotte russe just to have something on her plate and allowed her gaze to wander about in search of a familiar face. There were usually fewer at card parties than at any other type of entertainment. To her vast surprise she saw Maggie and her husband standing apart from the others near the window. With a teasing smile she joined them.

  “Ah, I see Lord Greenwood has allowed you to escape from your cage for an evening.” She laughed. “However did you manage to convince him it would do you no harm to have a little fun?” She would not have dared to such familiarity, had not Maggie just a week ago shyly confessed to her that Greenwood had “expressed his affection” for her. Trust Maggie to understate the case; Greenwood positively radiated his pride in her, his “affection,” and his protectiveness.

  “Couldn’t see any harm in a card party,” he assured her in earnest. “There’s never a crush like at a ball or rout, and I could see Margaret was in need of something livelier than another evening at home. I suggested the musical evening at the Smythes, but she said she preferred this.”

  “I don’t blame her;” Emma murmured.

  Maggie grinned. “I won half a crown, too, partnering Mr. Fulbrook. Greenwood won’t play for such paltry stakes, so he stood muttering over my shoulder.”

  “I never muttered!” he protested. “Thought you played the hand just right. It was Fulbrook who nearly scotched your chances, but he’s a wily old devil. I never sit at a table with him at the club.”

  “Would you find me a glass of champagne, Greenwood?” Maggie asked.

  “Of course, my dear. Won’t be a moment."

  When he had left them Emma looked questioningly at her friend. “Are you feeling well?”

  “Oh, yes. The doctor says it will be a few weeks yet. What I wanted to say was that I’ve been able to come up with no solution to curbing Sir Nicholas’s wayward tongue. I’ve thought about it a great deal but can see no way to change his penchant for taunting you other than to sit down and talk it out with him. You might be able to do that.”

  Emma felt the numbness invade her body again, though she tried her best to allow no hint of it to show in her countenance. “I did, this morning. I don’t think he will do so again. We...understand each other now.”

  “I’m so glad.” Maggie was not wholly satisfied with Emma’s strange expression but she made no mention of it. “Is Lord Dunn here this evening?”

  “Yes, he’s in one of the card rooms.” She saw Greenwood approaching with the champagne and changed the subject. “Have you been to the gallery? I’m afraid not everyone is as complimentary of my work as you!”

  “Greenwood has promised to take me tomorrow. You’re not upset, are you?” Perhaps this was the explanation for her friend’s odd lack of vitality.

  “A little,” Emma confessed, accepting with thanks the glass Greenwood handed her after his wife. “I suppose it’s like someone coming up to your new baby and saying, ‘By God, he’s ugly.’ It tends to make one a bit defensive.”

  Adam accepted her rueful smile at face value. “Pay no heed to ‘em, Miss Berryman, is my advice. I’ve talked to several chaps who were most impressed, and the others . . . well, what do they know?”

  “That’s what I ask myself,” she said, managing a laugh. “I’m almost satisfied with my portrait of you, Lord Greenwood. Why don’t you bring Maggie around to see it?”

  “Are you?” Maggie asked, surprised. “But I thought you said..."

  “I did, but I have a better vision of him now, so to speak.”

  “We could come tomorrow morning,” Adam suggested, “just after we go to the gallery. I’ve never understood why you had so much trouble with mine when you hadn’t the slightest problem with anyone else, after the start.”

  “Perhaps it was because you have such a complex personality,” a voice behind them remarked dryly.

  “Dunn!” Adam looked guiltily at his friend’s brother. “I didn’t know you were here. Whatever possessed you to come to such a tame party?”

  “I rather fancy my motives were similar to yours,” the viscount replied with a glance in Emma’s direction.

  “Couldn’t have been,” Adam declared stoutly. “I came because Margaret wished to have an evening out. I never urged her to come! Promise you I am seeing that she gets all the rest and exercise the doctor recommends!”

  “I’m sure you are,” Dunn said absently. “You look in blooming health, Lady Greenwood. I wonder if you would mind my borrowing Miss Berryman for a moment.”

  “Not at all,” Maggie agreed, assuming this was precisely what Emma might wish.

  Emma reluctant
ly moved off with him as he helped himself to a serving of the lobster salad. With his back to her he asked, “Is your headache better?”

  “It didn’t develop after all. Seeing Maggie quite cheered me.”

  “When is her lying-in expected?”

  “A few weeks yet.”

  “Did you find partnering Mr. Jackson particularly trying?”

  Emma stiffened. “No, not really. I don’t enjoy cards very much.”

  He lifted one dark brow. “I’m surprised that you came, then.”

  “Aunt Amelia is fond of a card party. I think she’s tiring of the larger entertainments.”

  "The season has hardly begun.” He surveyed her skeptically and added ham to his plate. “Can I help you to something?”

  “No, thank you. I’m not hungry.” As they walked past the heaped plates he added several other items to his before directing her to some chairs in the corner. “Have people been annoying you with their comments on your portraits?”

  “No, no. Hardly anyone has even mentioned them this evening. I don’t think this particular group frequents art galleries.” She smoothed the skirt of her lilac gown with nervous fingers.

  Silence descended as he sampled the various items on his plate. Emma could think of nothing to say. When from time to time he glanced at her, she gave a perfunctory smile and looked away.

  “I think probably you are in need of some fresh air and exercise,” he remarked at length. “Shall I give you another driving lesson tomorrow afternoon?”

  “Oh, no, I can’t! Thank you. You’ve been very kind to take the trouble.”

  “You can’t stay locked in your studio all day. I’m sure even Reynolds takes a break.”

  It was difficult to summon up a smile for his attempt at lightness. Emma tried. “He probably doesn’t go out every night, though.”

  “Are you worn down by the season already? I was used to think you possessed of boundless energy.”

  “It seems to have deserted me.”