The Loving Seasons

by Laura Matthews

  Again she nodded.

  “These were done in the country. At your home?”

  “Yes.”

  He faced her, his countenance serious. “Let us set a time when your brother will be here for me to see what works you have available. I can see you’re uncomfortable being here alone with me. You needn’t be, but I don’t suppose I could convince you of that. Say, Wednesday morning at eleven. I have an appointment with M. Persigny that morning and could come here afterward.”

  Helena was well aware that he came to M. Persigny every Wednesday morning. "I will try to arrange for my brother to be here. He often has business in the City.”

  Mr. Hatton was not the least daunted by a gentleman’s connection with the City. “So do I,” he assured her cheerfully. “If he can’t be here Wednesday, we’ll set another time. Now, before I go, I want to tell you how much I like ‘The Fencer.' You’ve flattered me, of course, but the sheer movement you’ve captured is remarkable. I hope you’ll not stop at one such effort, though from what I’ve seen here I wouldn’t want you to abandon your watercolors, either. Does that sound patronizing? I don’t mean it to. I simply want to tell you I think you have a marvelous talent. Different from Miss Berryman’s. Hers has a brilliance, a flamboyancy, that yours cannot, and should not, aspire to. Your work has a shining simplicity, an enduring delicacy that she could not achieve if she tried a thousand years. But I’m sure both of you have the sense, the integrity, to stay with those things you do best. There, that’s all I wished to say—except that I like your white hair!”

  Too astonished to do more than rise, Helena speechlessly watched his elegant bow and graceful departure from the room before collapsing back onto her chair. So that was Mr. Hatton. A rather outspoken fellow but with excellent taste, she told herself, amused. She had watched him come and go, observed his fencing, and wondered about him. More than wondered, she scolded herself.

  She had allowed herself girlish daydreams about him, adding to his fantasy dossier whenever nothing more pressing kept her busy on Wednesday mornings. Had she not invested him with a love of art?

  And a philosophical turn of mind, despite the careless good humor his very walk denoted? There were times when she had even envisioned Mr. Hatton having some business transaction with her brother in the City, and Harold bringing him home to dine with them.

  One would think I hadn’t a thing better to do than let my mind gather wool this way, Helena thought as she rose. Being in London is always disconcerting in a way. At Farthing Hill I would mingle the painting with the mending, but here . . . Well, if I haven’t found a subject with Mr. Hatton’s fascination to paint, at least I have the friendship of Anne and the stimulation of meetings of the Philosophical Society. And, she mused, her eyes dancing, the possibility that Mr. Hatton will decorate his breakfast parlor with her watercolors!

  * * * *

  It was not necessary for Adam to go to the shop in Bond Street for his portrait, since it had never been there. Emma had had it sent over to his town house in Half Moon Street a week after he and Maggie had gone to see it there. His likeness hung, temporarily, in the hall outside his wife’s room, and he sat gazing morosely at it now, seated on a chair that had been placed there for him. Eventually the portrait would be taken to Combe Lodge to be hung next to that of his wife in the gallery, but he wasn’t thinking about that. He was thinking about Margaret, and for possibly the first time in his life he felt sick with anxiety. When the door opened, he jumped to his feet, attempting to peer into the room before his sister firmly shut it after herself.

  “How is she?”

  Cynthia smiled and pressed his hand. “She’s doing very well, Adam. The first baby always takes the longest to put in its appearance. Maggie is a regular trooper.”

  “But the doctor thinks everything is going all right, doesn’t he? There’s no danger, is there?”

  “Nothing whatsoever unusual, I assure you. Dr. Botley asked if you would have a glass of brandy sent up to him.”

  Adam frowned. “I don’t want him foxed when it comes time to deliver the baby.”

  “Oh, Adam”—she laughed—"you remind me of James. Dr. Botley is not likely to become foxed on a glass of brandy. Remember, he’s been here for eight hours now."

  “We’ve fed him,” Adam muttered, “and we’ll feed him again, I daresay. Cynthia, I hear her cry out sometimes.”

  “Childbirth is not a painless activity, my dear brother, as I am sure you are aware. It won’t do you the least good to sit here and worry about her. Go down to your library and try to engross yourself in a book. You may be sure we will call you if there’s anything you should know. And don’t forget to have a glass of brandy sent to Dr. Botley.”

  “Oh, very well.” Adam wandered disconsolately down the stairs, feeling woefully left out of the important events transpiring in his own house. He did remember to have a footman take brandy up to the doctor but paused undecided in the entry hall. A few weeks ago, or perhaps months, he would have considered distracting himself by going out to White’s, but he hadn’t the slightest desire now.

  What he needed, he decided rather forlornly, was someone to talk to, and the idea of sending a message around to Stephen Midford occurred to him. No, that was impossible: the captain had gone off to Newmarket. The idea of writing to Dunn edged into his mind and he tried several times to dislodge it. This was no time to have the viscount berating him for something he didn’t even know he’d done. But once the idea took hold, there was no denying the plan. If Dunn would come, Adam would be grateful for his companionship.

  The note was penned and dispatched in a matter of minutes and Adam prowled about the downstairs receiving rooms waiting for a reply. His eye fell on the art book that he had intended to lend to Miss Berryman. The works of Sir Joshua Reynolds, Gainsborough, William Beechey, George Romney, Sir Thomas Lawrence, Sir Henry Raeburn, and John Constable were represented among others, and he felt sure Miss Berryman would be interested in the collection.

  Had Margaret paid her for the portrait? Would Miss Berryman have allowed it from one of her best friends? Adam carried the book into his library, absently gave his setter a quick pat on the head, and seated himself at his desk. By Jove, he would just send the book to her from the two of them, whether she had been paid for the portrait or not. Margaret would be pleased with him for doing that. If they wanted a copy of the book themselves, they would simply go out and get another one.

  The footman, who was requested to bring some brown wrapping paper and string, showed no surprise. Adam was hard at work wrapping the package, a task with which he was unfamiliar and hopelessly devoid of expertise, when Lord Dunn was shown into the library.

  “Your problem,” Dunn informed him with twinkling eyes, “is that you need a pair of scissors. Then you could cut the paper to size, and you wouldn’t have to struggle with breaking the string. Did you send for me to help?”

  “Certainly not!” Adam pushed the package away from him with a disgusted motion. “Scissors, you say? Margaret could have done it a lot better but she’s started her lying-in, you know.”

  “I didn’t know,” Dunn replied, taking the seat to which Adam waved him. “This must be a very alarming time for you.”

  “Well, it is and all. Cynthia says she’s doing just fine, but, Dunn, it must hurt like hell. I’ve never heard Margaret cry out like that, except when she lost the first one.”

  “You mustn’t dwell on that. Is Dr. Botley here?”

  “Oh, yes, he came eight or nine hours ago.” Adam scratched his head with an unconscious nervous gesture. “Cynthia said the first one takes a long time. I don’t know if I could go through this more than once."

  Dunn regarded him sympathetically. “I’m sure you could if you had to. Lady Greenwood is a resolute woman. I don’t think you need fear for her endurance. Is your sister with her now?”

  “Hasn’t left her side since she got here, and she got here before Botley did. Do you think Botley knows what he’s doing? I me
an, a man and all. What can he know of how a woman’s body works?”

  “He has a solid reputation,” Dunn soothed him. “I believe he studied surgery before he became a man midwife. Your wife has confidence in him; that’s the important thing.”

  “How do you know she has confidence in him?”

  “Because she told me so, Adam, when I asked her.”

  Adam groaned. "I never thought to ask her that. Will I ever learn to be a proper husband?"

  Although Dunn’s eyes remained serious, he smiled. “Do you know, I think you have. I admit to having had my doubts at the start—but we won’t go into that. These last weeks your wife has shown more than the surface calm she always projected. There’s a deeper peace, a real happiness, that I don’t think she could have achieved without your concurrence. I don’t think she ever expected you to change, Adam. Probably all she ever wanted was your affection.”

  “She has it,” Adam said fervently, and flushed with embarrassment. In a gruff voice he changed the subject. “Cynthia sent me away, told me to busy myself elsewhere. I thought I would just wrap this art book to send to Miss Berryman. She finished my portrait."

  A guarded expression settled on Dunn’s face. “Did she? It wasn’t in the exhibition.”

  “Oh, she finished it after the show opened. We’ve hung it upstairs in the hall until we can take it to Combe Lodge.”

  "Might I see it?

  Adam was more than eager to have an excuse for being in the hall outside his wife’s room. Actually, he hadn’t liked being as far away as the library, so he was perfectly willing to stand and talk with Dunn, whose intense interest in the portrait did not seem out of the ordinary to him in his present distracted state.

  "I understand Miss Berryman started it at Combe Lodge,” Dunn remarked conversationally.

  “Some months ago, yes, but she couldn’t seem to get it right. I overheard her talking with Margaret one day, and Miss Berryman said the strangest thing. Well, I can’t really go into that, of course, but when Margaret told her that I thanked her for something, Miss Berryman said, ‘How sweet! Perhaps I shall be able to finish his portrait after all.’”

  Dunn stared at him in the dim hallway light. “Did Miss Berryman say anything about her other subjects? How she had come to paint them, perhaps?”

  “No, she was annoyed with Sir Nicholas for something. I don’t remember what. Oh, yes, it had to do with his teasing her. I gather he’d kissed her once and wouldn’t let her forget it.” Adam strove to recall the conversation. “Ah, yes, I have it! She was angry with him for always teasing her in front of you. Told Margaret she wished your good opinion. Isn’t that a kicker, after the way she has pinched at you for the last year?”

  “Very amusing,” Dunn remarked in a strangely tense voice. “Did she say anything else?”

  “Not that I recall. I had other matters on my mind.”

  There was the faint sound of an infant’s wail from Maggie’s bedroom and Dunn immediately clapped him on the shoulder. “I think the worst is over, and since there’s been no chaotic activity, things must have gone well. I shan’t stay. Would you like me to deliver the package to Miss Berryman?”

  Adam hardly heard him. His eyes and ears were trained on the closed door. “Why doesn’t someone come?”

  “Someone will, in a moment,” Dunn assured him. “They will have to wrap the baby and Lady Greenwood will want to see it. Ah, here is Mrs. Morton now.”

  Cynthia stood in the doorway, her eyes brimming with joyful tears. “Maggie’s fine, Adam. It’s a boy. If you will be patient just a few more minutes you may come in and see them.” And she closed the door abruptly behind herself again.

  Feeling as though he had been holding his breath for hours, Adam let out a long, grateful sigh. “She’s fine, and it’s a boy,” he told Dunn, either momentarily forgetting that the viscount was not hard of hearing, or simply wishing to say the words aloud himself.

  “Congratulations to you both!” Dunn shook his hand firmly. “Now I really must disappear. This is no time for me to be intruding. Shall I take the package to Miss Berryman?”

  “Certainly, certainly. I’d meant to write a note, but my handwriting’s so poor she probably wouldn’t be able to read it, anyway. She’ll want to hear the good news and you can tell her. Thanks for stopping by, Dunn.”

  “Anytime. Give my best to Lady Greenwood.”

  * * * *

  Dunn had the inelegantly wrapped package under his arm when he descended the front steps into Half Moon Street. He had walked from his home but now debated the wisdom of returning for his curricle, on the extremely remote possibility that Miss Berryman would agree to accompany him for a drive. More likely she would be out with Sir Nicholas at this very moment, he decided, pulling his watch from his pocket.

  Almost five. No, even Nick wasn’t likely to have her out so late, when the traffic in the park became unnervingly heavy for a new driver. She would be in Bruton Street, perhaps preparing for the evening. His mental scan of the night’s parties added no pleasure to his somber thoughts. Without intentionally deciding, he had begun to stride along Curzon Street, his pace more rapid than usual. She could be cozzened into seeing him, if she was at home. The news he brought would be of great interest. But what if her aunt was there, or Sir Nicholas?

  When he handed his hat and gloves to the butler, Dunn felt a twinge of trepidation. The butler had been instructed on every recent occasion (when Lady Bradwell was out) to inform him that Miss Berryman was not receiving. Taking no chance of another rejection should she be home, Dunn asked him to convey the message that he had word from Half Moon Street. Obligingly North led him to the front drawing room, remarking blandly that be would see if Miss Berryman was available.

  There were several magazines spread on the low table by the sofa and he sorted through the fashion gazettes to find the sporting journals that Lady Bradwell invariably had ready for her gentlemen friends. He had barely begun to thumb through the Turf Remembrancer when Emma burst through the door.

  “Is she all right? Has she had the baby? Have you just come from Half Moon Street?’’

  “Yes, to all of your questions,” he replied, rising rapidly. It moved him to see the anxiety in her face fade and be replaced by a wide smile. “Not half an hour ago. It’s a boy.”

  “A boy.” Emma appeared to give this a great deal of consideration. “Well, I’m glad it’s a boy, for Lord Greenwood’s sake, of course, though I think a girl might have been easier for Maggie to raise. Did you see them?”

  “No, no. I was with Greenwood at the time. He was showing me his portrait, which was excellent, by the way. Mrs. Morton and Dr. Botley were with Lady Greenwood. I left before Adam went in to see them. He was wrapping this when I arrived.” Dunn picked up the disreputable bundle and handed it to her. “He wished to send it to you as a token of his appreciation for the portrait, I think.”

  “How could he think of sending me something at such a time?”

  "I gather Mrs. Morton wanted him out of the way.”

  His eyes were laughing and she allowed herself an answering smile. It seemed to him a long time since she’d done that. Then quickly she lowered her gaze to the package. “He’s not much of a hand at wrapping, is he?” She pulled the loose string over the corners and unfolded a long sheet of brown paper, twice as much as would have been necessary. “How very thoughtful of him!” she exclaimed as she glanced through the book. “Sometimes he amazes me."

  “He’s progressed a long way in a year. I think your friend need not despair of him any longer.”

  “She never did!” Emma told him, a note of reproach creeping in. “Maggie is the most accommodating person in the world. I’m sure she never voiced a word of complaint.”

  “No, probably not.” She hadn’t offered him a seat and he picked up the brown paper she had dropped, carefully folding it in smaller and smaller squares. "Miss Berryman, have I done something to offend you?”

  “Offend me? Of course not. Wherev
er could you have gotten such an idea?”

  “It wasn’t difficult,” he said grimly. “You stopped allowing me to teach you to drive, you won’t stand up with me at dances, you are not at home to me. I promise you I am not aware of having given you cause to treat me so cavalierly. I had thought we were becoming good friends.”

  Emma had retrieved the string and was wrapping it round and round her fingers. “I certainly hope we are. I should hate to be at outs with any of Aunt Amelia’s friends. If you think I am not grateful to her for taking me under her wing, you are mistaken. She has been the soul of kindness to me and I wouldn’t do anything to hurt her.”

  The speaking glance she gave him did nothing to alleviate Dunn’s confusion. “It never entered my mind that you weren’t grateful to her or that you would do anything to hurt her. I think Lady Bradwell was pleased that we weren’t forever going hammer and tongs at one another.”

  Emma’s smile was bleak. “Yes, I think she was.”

  Again she seemed to stress this, and Dunn did not understand her. Trying to be reasonable, fighting against an intangible resistance, he said gently, “Then I think you can only be upsetting her by keeping such a cool distance from me. She will think that we are once more at odds.”

  "You mistake, Lord Dunn. I am not keeping you at a cool distance, as you phrase it.” Emma jerked the string from her fingers and set it firmly on the table. “There is no excuse for my infringing on your time when Sir Nicholas is willing to teach me to drive. I’m sure I haven’t refused to stand up with you for any other reason than that the dances were previously accounted for. And as to not being at home to you... Well, you better than anyone must know that my work has become important to me. Just last week I sat with you and Aunt Amelia for some time one afternoon. I am often out, and when I am here, I am frequently painting. You make it sound as though I am avoiding you!”