“Very well, Mr. Rogers. As you are intent on considering my future so carefully, I should like you to visualize me married to one of these eligible men you have in mind for me. Not Brackenbury or Langham, I think that is going too far. Even I would never contemplate accepting such fools. But someone else, say . . ."
“Lord Dunn. You seemed to thrive in his company last night.” His gaze was on a squirrel scampering up a nearby tree.
“Yes, a very easy man to talk to. Do you know I had a bouquet from him today?”
Mr. Rogers said nothing.
“Now Dunn is a family friend and I consider it unlikely he would ever offer for me, but as he is the best of the crop of suitable gentlemen, we shall suppose that I marry him. I really couldn’t do better, I think, from your point of view. Although he is only a viscount, he has other virtues to offset such a mediocre title. I can’t think of any earls, marquesses or dukes just offhand who would do as well. We would be married in town, of course, a large, extravagant wedding with everyone invited, including you. And I suppose he would take me to Waverton Street for the night, before traveling to France. My maid would select the most luscious of my new nightdresses from my bride clothes and I would wait in my bed—or possibly his—for him to come to me."
Since he sat very still and refused to look at her, Anne swallowed painfully and continued. “Perhaps you think you know how I would feel then. You don’t. It is difficult enough for a woman to contemplate sharing a bed with a man for whom she has a great deal of affection, almost impossible to judge the distress when she doesn’t. But Lord Dunn is an experienced man, a considerate man. I don’t doubt for a minute that he would be very patient. But eventually, Harold, he would take my body—with my mind rebelling every step of the way. For you see, Harold, I was not raised to prostitute myself for position and luxury. Ah, but you can say to yourself, ‘In time she will grow to love such a man and actually welcome him in her arms.’ I don’t think so. With the loss of respect for myself such a course would engender in me, I would be incapable of respecting him, either, and without respect there can be no love—for me. But heaven knows that’s irrelevant, isn’t it? I would have an enviable position in society, an inexhaustible source of funds at my fingertips, children—oh, yes, I would bear him children, but would I have anything to give them? Does not every worthwhile virtue spring from self-respect? And that, Mr. Rogers, is what it would be like—provided I could induce Lord Dunn to marry me. In all likelihood it would be someone a great deal less acceptable.”
Anne blew her nose; Mr. Rogers looked sick. Only the twittering birds and distant hoofbeats broke the silence.
Eventually Mr. Rogers cleared his throat. “I apologize, Anne. It was I who did not understand. Please don’t put me through such agony ever again. You may be mistaken in thinking that you will not eventually find another man you can go to with your heart, but I have no intention of allowing you a chance to discover him. As it is I shall never view Lord Dunn in quite the same way again!”
“How absurd you are, Harold. I told you he would never offer for me."
“He shan’t have the opportunity, if I have anything to say about it. Dear Anne, are you quite sure this is what you want? I want so much more for you, my love.”
“If you want my happiness, you will have to give yourself.”
“There is nothing I would rather do.” He regarded her misty-eyed smile with distinct approval and drew her into the circle of his arm. “I am not going to kiss you now. We will seal our agreement if the marquess and marchioness approve. If they don’t—“
“Will you speak with them now?”
“As soon as we return, provided they’re receiving. I don’t want Dunn to have a chance to follow up his stupid flowers.”
"They were quite pretty,” she protested, laughing.
An hour later Anne was descending the stairs after urging her brother Will to get a move on so that they could have a glass of champagne when she encountered Lord Dunn in the hallway waiting to see if the marchioness and her daughter were receiving. She grinned impishly at him and said, “Character has won out, my lord. Would you care to join us in the library for a toast on my engagement?”
“I doubt this is a time for me to intrude, Lady Anne.” He grasped her hand and pressed it. “May I offer my congratulations? And find out at last of whom we were speaking last evening?”
“I shan’t tell you. You must come with me if you wish to learn his identity.”
Dunn sighed woefully. “Do you know you are a very provoking young lady? I would come, of course, but this is a family celebration.”
Anne linked her arm with his. “You are a family friend, sir. And I must admit that I used your name shamefully this morning to entice —Ha—my fiancé to overcome his scruples. Not that I suggested you had an interest in me exactly, but, well, it would be difficult to explain. I proposed a hypothetical situation and my friend suggested your name to fill in the story. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. Feel free to bandy my name about at your whim. I’m sure it has never served so useful a purpose before.”
Smiling at his sardonic tone, Anne continued cheerfully, “My friend may be just the least bit chilly toward you, Lord Dunn. He took my fairy tale very much to heart, as I meant him to, since in theory it was no more than the truth. I think men don’t understand women as well as they believe they do.”
“I’m sure of it.”
The library door was open and from the hall they could see Lord and Lady Barnfield talking to Mr. Rogers and Jack. Anne turned questioning eyes to Dunn.
"I didn’t guess, though I might have. Really, he fits your description extraordinarily well—from your slightly exaggerated estimate of his character to his ‘stern’ look. I am currently involved with him in building some houses off Grosvenor Place and have the greatest respect for his judgment. Ah, I see you are right. He does not usually bestow his ‘stern’ look on me, but on the builder when he does shoddy work. Whatever did you say to him?”
No answer but a grin rewarded his query. Anne led him into the room, announcing to her mother that she had found Dunn in the hall and invited him to join their celebration, “being a family friend and well known to Mr. Rogers.” Her fiancé could not maintain his “stern” look in the face of Dunn’s enthusiastic congratulations, but he did manage to shake his head in mock censure at Anne for her mischievous conduct.
Lady Barnfield observed the interchange with a reminiscent sigh. Meeting her husband’s understanding gaze, she murmured, “I do believe our Anne has been very fortunate, John. Imagine her keeping such a secret from my watchful eye! The only disadvantage is that we don’t know him as well as we might, but I think I am going to like him very well, don’t you?”
“Definitely, my dear."
Not until there had been three interruptions to inform the family that there were callers did the party break up, with Viscount Dunn being the first to announce his absolute intention of leaving. Anne accompanied him to the door.
“I haven’t thanked you for your flowers, Lord Dunn, or for being so gallant to me last evening."
“Was I gallant?” He accepted his hat and gloves from a footman, his gray eyes thoughtful. “Perhaps I was, but I should not like the word to get about and have to make a habit of it.”
“Oh, pooh. Don’t you remember our ball last year when you were so annoyed with Emma and I made you stand up with her?”
“I remember it vividly,” he said, turning to go. “And she cozened me into teaching her to drive my curricle. The effects of gallantry are far-reaching."
“Yes, but now Sir Nicholas has taken over the instruction,” she called after him, “and you needn’t be bothered.”
“My good fortune overwhelms me,” he said dryly as he stepped out into the sunny street.
Anne stared after him with a puzzled expression but eventually shrugged and returned to the library, where Harold awaited her, alone. She felt suddenly shy, and a little fearful that she
had pushed him into something he might not have wanted so very thoroughly as she did. As though he could read her mind, he held out his hands to her, murmuring, “Thank God you had the resolution to show me the error of my reasoning, Anne. Your family have been generous in their acceptance of me, but it is your own acceptance which I never even allowed myself to contemplate seriously. You aren’t having second thoughts, are you?”
“Never,” she assured him shakily as he drew her into his arms.
“Then I think it is high time we sealed our betrothal.”
If their first kiss had been a bit of a surprise, and their second given with reluctance, their third in no way compared with either of them. Free from the torment of indecision and hopelessness, Harold displayed an ardor that would have astonished anyone who had judged him by his rather ascetic countenance or his occasional stern look.
But Anne had judged him by neither; had always suspected the depths of desire not only in herself but in him, and allowed herself to be crushed to his chest with a delight she had never before known. A considerable time passed before she exclaimed, “Oh, my God, we haven’t told Helena yet!”
* * * *
Helena was studying the chipped and bedraggled canvas with interest. “How did it get in such horrendous condition?”
With a shrug Mr. Hatton pointed to the water stains on the frame. “I suppose it was stored somewhere damp long ago. Why it was ever stored at all is the mystery. Since I was a boy it has hung in the white saloon. Not in the place of honor, of course, because of its condition, but off to the side. Do you think you could restore it? Or if not, could you duplicate it?”
“I’m afraid I know nothing about restoration, Mr. Hatton. Harold could possibly direct you to a professional.” She could understand why he had brought it to her however. There was a similarity of style between the painting and her own work. Although the purpose of the work had obviously been to portray the manor house, the unknown artist had chosen to view it along a lime walk and spring garden, both treated with a delicacy rare to such paintings. “It’s a shame to see such deterioration in a fine painting, but you might best employ someone to come to your estate to attempt another. Duplication would not have quite the same effect, I think.”
"You don’t understand. The old manor house burned down fifty years ago. This is the only surviving picture of it, and I fear a few more years will see it in such poor condition that it will be a mockery even to hang it.” He set the painting aside carefully and accepted the chair she had previously offered him, smoothing his pantaloons with an absent gesture. “The modern house sits in the grounds like a whale. My grandfather designed it himself.”
Helena laughed. “I take it your grandfather’s taste in architecture is not to your liking, sir. How unfortunate that the old manor should have burned. From this view of it I would assume it was a lovely old house.”
He startled her by saying, “I think he burned it. That’s how bad his taste in architecture was: he didn’t like it. Or maybe he was just crazy. No one seems to know now, or care. But it’s important to me to have a painting of the old house. It’s part of the Hatton heritage, such as it is. Won’t you give some thought to my suggestion of duplicating it?”
“Duplication is a mechanical task, Mr. Hatton. I would find it restrictive, lacking in challenge. Please don’t misunderstand me. I think the painting is well worth being restored or copied, but that isn’t the sort of work I enjoy doing. And, as you know, I haven’t worked much in oils. You would do better to employ someone more familiar with the medium.” They could hear the sounds of arrival downstairs and Helena said, “That is probably Harold now. If he can’t give you some advice, I’m sure Mr. Wigginton could.”
Disappointment was plain in Mr. Hatton’s doleful gaze. “I went all the way to Suffolk to bring the painting back so that I might convince you to work on it. While I was there I showed my mother some of your watercolors and she was tremendously enthusiastic about you doing the manor house painting. I thought—”
The door to the drawing room stood open. Mr. Hatton had not only called on two occasions to look at Helena’s watercolors, but had developed the habit of paying a call when he was in Argyll Street for his fencing lessons. After the second visit, when he had purchased half a dozen works under Harold’s interested guidance, Helena felt she could no longer relegate him to the breakfast parlor. Mr. Hatton’s eyes had danced when he was first shown into the drawing room where Helena sat alone. “Ah, I can see that I have advanced in the world,” he had quizzed her.
“If you will keep calling, I can see no reason why I shouldn’t be comfortable,” she had retorted.
Helena was surprised now to see her brother and Anne appear in the doorway. A barely suppressed excitement glowed in Anne’s eyes, and Harold, staid, undemonstrative Harold, had an arm about her shoulders. For a moment she sat immobile, casting a hasty glance at Mr. Hatton as though he might have some explanation for this unusual occurrence.
The frozen tableau was broken up when Anne hurried across the room to grasp Helena’s hands. “You’re astonished, aren’t you? I told Harold on the way here that you would be! He said I had been so brazen that you couldn’t have missed it.”
“I never said any such thing,” Harold laughingly protested. “I said Helena must have been able to guess how things were with me, though she never said a word.”
“You’re ... going to be . . married?” Helena gasped.
“Isn’t it wonderful?” Anne squeezed the limp hands. “My parents hadn’t the slightest objection. Oh, Helena, we are going to be sisters.”
“Sisters,” Helena repeated blankly. “But when ... How could I have been so blind? I had no idea. I . . . I don’t know what to say, except that I am so very happy for you both. Has this . . . just happened? I mean, nothing was said last night.”
“I twisted your brother’s arm this morning when he came to tell me that under no circumstances would he marry me,” Anne explained, her eyes dancing. "I have no patience with such snobbery.”
Helena’s mind whirled with the impact of the announcement. It was good news, she informed the panicky part of her that kept throwing up questions like: What will I do? Where do I belong in this arrangement? How will I cope with having my poor placid life so thoroughly disrupted? She forced herself to behave properly, to smile and squeeze Anne’s hands in return, to salute her brother’s cheek, but her stomach was suddenly in knots.
Over and over she chastised herself for only thinking of how their marriage would affect her. Somehow she felt embarrassed to have Mr. Hatton there as a witness to this scene of her replacement in Harold’s household. Oh, my God, she thought, no one has even acknowledged Mr. Hatton in the excitement. She turned to find that he was watching her curiously from the far side of the room to which he had retired.
"Anne dear, I don’t know if you remember Mr. Hatton. He came by to show me an old painting he wishes to have restored. Mr. Hatton, Lady Anne Parsons.”
The subsequent exchanges gave Helena an opportunity to compose herself. Mr. Hatton excused himself almost immediately, taking Helena’s hand before leaving. It was the first time he had done so and she was left in no doubt as to his purpose. He dropped his voice so the others could not overhear and, green eyes merry, announced, “You are likely to have more time on your hands now, Miss Rogers. May I leave the painting and hope that you will change your mind? As a project to keep you busy I’m sure it would have its merits.”
She frowned and looked away from him, but replied, “Very well. Leave it and I’ll see how I feel about the work another day. I may decide against doing it, but I can check with Harold about alternatives when he is less . . . occupied.”
His gaze went to the other couple who stood talking by the windows. “Every change has advantages and disadvantages. In time they sort themselves out and become new patterns, quite as easy to live with as the old ones. Good day, Miss Rogers. I shall look forward to hearing your decision about the painting.”
The sound of his footsteps had receded down the stairs before she turned to her brother and Anne, smiling. “Shall I ring for some champagne to celebrate?”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Emma watched as her aunt read the short letter from Lord Bradwell and set it aside with a sigh. “Is he well, Aunt Amelia?”
“Apparently.” Amelia retrieved the embroidery frame she had put aside and set a stitch. “As usual he hasn’t much to say to me. My quarterly allowance was sent to the bankers, but I already knew that. They notify me, and it was some time ago. The spring planting went well and he has hopes of a good crop. His favorite stallion is suffering from an infection. Sometimes I wonder that he bothers to write at all.”
“He doesn’t, very often.”
“No.” Amelia stared into space for a moment and then brought her attention back to her niece. “How are Lady Anne’s plans progressing for the wedding?”
“Marvelously. Every time I see her she’s aux anges. I still cannot believe that I never suspected her affection for Mr. Rogers. Helena didn’t either, though. She’s a bit at loose ends, I think—Helena, that is. Oh, she’s helping Anne with any number of things—shopping for a trousseau, making lists of wedding guests, arranging for the move to the new house—but she’s not sketching at all. I’m a little worried about her.”
“New house? I hadn’t heard of that. They’re not going to live in Argyll Street?”
“No, Mr. Rogers is involved in building some houses off Grosvenor Place and they intend to live in one of them.” Emma shifted in her chair. “I think Helena will miss the house in Argyll Street. She watches the men fence across at M. Persigny’s. That’s how she met Mr. Hatton, who has bought a number of her watercolors. You remember I told you he was the subject of her painting ‘The Fencer,' which he bought after the exhibit.”
The Loving Seasons Page 34
