Tokens of Love

by Mary Balogh

  The ancient manservant who opened the door to his knock, blinked at him in surprise. It would have been easy to have the servant announce his title to Barbara, but Hunsdon considered it the coward’s way out, and merely gave his name instead. In another minute he was ushered into the drawing-room, where Barbara sat sewing on the fringe of a curtain that lay across her lap. The contrast to her appearance yesterday gave him a considerable shock.

  The green-sprigged muslin gown she wore was well-worn and somewhat behind the mode, but it revealed enough to make him wonder how he ever could have thought her a child. When she saw him she smiled, and he thought to himself that he had underrated her attractions.

  “Mr. Fitzhugh! I did not expect to see you this morning, but it is a pleasure. I am so glad you are not limping now. I would rise, but this blasted thing is so heavy.”

  The word shattered today’s impression of a well-bred young lady, but he hoped he did not let it show.

  He took the seat she indicated and assented when she asked if he cared for tea. Most young ladies would never be left alone in a room with a gentleman, particularly a strange one, but he had already guessed that this was an unusual household. Barbara rattled on as if there were nothing out of the ordinary.

  “Rob Roy is quite in disgrace today, but I told Mama that it was the sort of thing that would happen if persons insisted upon leaving the doors open.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “He’s torn the fringe again, you see.” She resumed her normal tone of voice. “Mama was ready to have him shot, but I reminded her that there would be no chance of my getting a pheasant without him—and, of course, she could say nothing, for she knows as well as I do that it is her fault that the spaniels are useless.”

  He was studying her as she spoke. Really, he had been much too hard on her. Her appearance and her manners were both rather rough, but it was as Anne had said. If her hair were fashionably arranged and if she wore a gown that was up to snuff, there was no doubt that she would attract male attention. With only a little polish to her manners, she might easily find an eligible husband, except of course that her family could not afford a Season. He looked at the long fingers unskillfully plying the needle, just as she stabbed herself with it.

  “Blast!” She unconsciously put her finger in her mouth, looking endearingly childish once more.

  He had risen. “May I be of assistance?” He took the wounded digit and extracting his handkerchief, wrapped it about it. The monogrammed “H” might have puzzled her, but Barbara did not notice it.

  “Thank you.” The tears had sprung to her eyes, but she made no complaint. “Please be seated again. I should have a handkerchief with me. I am sorry to be so foolish. I dread what Mama would have to say if I dripped any blood on the curtain.”

  He scowled and would have spoken, but they were interrupted by the arrival of the elderly manservant with the tea. He had just set down the tray on the ancient gate-leg table in the corner, when a tall, handsome, and imperious lady swept into the room.

  “Barbara. What is the meaning of this? It is most improper of you to be entertaining a stranger without telling me of it.” Trailing her, three overfed spaniels wandered in and sniffed interestedly at the tea tray.

  Hunsdon had risen and now he bowed as Barbara introduced him.

  “Mama, this is Charles Fitzhugh, who is a friend of Sir Roger Blakemore’s and is a guest in their house. We met yesterday when I was out and he was kind enough to call upon us today. Mr. Fitzhugh, this is my mother, Lady De Neresford.”

  Somehow, by her tone of voice and by introducing Roger’s name, she managed to imply that he had also been present and had introduced them in a proper manner. There was an anxious expression in her eyes, and Hunsdon guessed that her mother would undoubtedly ring a peal over her head if he betrayed her. Poor lonely girl! She had been only too eager to talk at length to a sympathetic stranger. He resolved to preserve her secret.

  “I am charmed, Lady De Neresford. Sir Roger had not informed me that he had such lovely neighbors.” Discerning what was required, he let his gaze rest upon her admiringly as he straightened himself.

  Even though her hair was graying, she was still a remarkably beautiful woman, dark-eyed and regal, and she softened visibly at his words. “It is a pleasure to meet you also, Mr. Fitzhugh. Barbara! Why haven’t you poured tea for our guest already? Oh, I suppose I must.”

  She seated herself in front of the table on a scrolled-back sofa, its green plush covering worn thin in spots. She then waved Hunsdon into an elaborately carved, caned-back chair in the Flemish style. “For heaven’s sake, Barbara, put that curtain down and find yourself a chair near us. Mr. Fitzhugh will think you have no manners at all!”

  The girl said nothing, but laid aside the heavy curtain and crossed the room.

  “Only see how you have let it crush your dress. You must learn to be less careless. Nan will have to press it again. I vow I do not know why you must persist in being so unthinking. Milk and sugar, Mr. Fitzhugh?”

  He pressed his lips together to stifle a protest and managed a civil response instead. It was likely to be even harder on Barbara if he defended her.

  He remained only as long as politeness dictated. There would be no further opportunity for private conversation with Barbara, it was clear. He did not wish to make his confession to her in front of her mother, particularly given the circumstances. At the same time, he felt increasingly uncomfortable about having let his innocently begun deception extend to another person. Lady De Neresford would probably be furious when she learned the truth. It was no more than she deserved for her officiousness, but now he realized that her wrath would vent itself upon Barbara. Perhaps if he bent his mind to it, he could hit upon some scheme to help her. He must think about it.

  ———

  When he arrived at Blakemore House, Hunsdon realized that his visit must have taken longer than he thought, for it seemed that most of the other guests had already arrived. He met Roger outside, busy giving directions to the head groom.

  “And how is Miss Fostwick today? Lovelier than ever, I suppose?”

  “I went… for a drive instead,” replied Hunsdon, more or less truthfully, to Roger’s teasing query.

  “Ah, showing excellent restraint, my dear fellow.”

  Roger clapped him on the back absentmindedly before signaling to the groom once more. “And Simms, remember—Lord Brandville’s gray is to be kept anywhere but in the box next to Aghadoe’s—they’ll be kicking and biting at each other all the time otherwise.”

  “Brandville’s here? I’ll have to go and greet him.”

  Roger had not even heard him, for now the groom was shouting about a problem with one of the mares.

  “In season? Good Lord! She’ll have to be put out to pasture.”

  It was a fortunate thing that he had arrived when he did, for none of the other guests had reason to wonder where he had been and Roger and Anne were too busy to give the matter thought.

  He was half afraid that the question might surface at dinner, but his host and hostess were occupied with seeing that none of their guests was neglected. He would have liked an opportunity to talk to Brandville, but the latter was courteously devoting his time to Miss Eldridge, a quietly pretty girl who had been designated as his dinner partner. Neither could Hunsdon manage to single his friend out after dinner, for as soon as the ladies had departed, talk turned to the Congress of Aix-la-Chapelle and the conversation became general. Wasn’t it an absurd suggestion on Czar Alexander’s part? That an international military force be maintained to protect countries from violence? It was all well and good to say that the Barbary pirates must be stopped, but could the Russian ruler really expect Britain to donate its ships and crews to an international naval pool? If they truly wanted the pirates stopped, they and the rest of the countries would permit the Royal Navy to stop and search their vessels. If they had nothing to hide, why shouldn’t they cooperate?

  Perhaps it was the port, but Hunsdon could not keep hi
s mind on their discussion. Bonaparte was safely imprisoned on St. Helena. The details of peace could not matter beside that fact. Instead, his thoughts turned to Mariabella. She would be expecting him tomorrow; he must go to see her. Perhaps he might ask Anne for a posy from their hothouse. Such an offering would certainly be in order. It was, after all, almost February. Provided her affections had not altered (and he doubted that they had), he was prepared to make a declaration in form on St. Valentine’s Day. But first he meant to woo her with all the sorts of romantic trifles in which she might delight. In spite of its interruption last summer, she should not be cheated out of a complete courtship. She was entitled to it, after all.

  He did not awaken from his reverie until he heard the squeaking and scraping of chairs and realized that they must be ready to join the ladies.

  ———

  Mariabella looked beautiful, lovelier even than his memory had painted her. The dark curls, the porcelain complexion, the large eyes of that unusual shade of grayish-blue—he had remembered them, but not the sheer perfection of her features, the graceful curve of her neck, the elegance of her bearing. She was most fashionably attired in a gown of fine jaconet muslin with a Henrietta ruff, epaulettes on the sleeves, and a frilled double flounce about the hem of the gown. It was quite short, as the current mode dictated, allowing him a full view of slender ankles. Her appearance was in keeping with the rest of the house—elegant, wealthy, and modish.

  She seemed to have anticipated his arrival this morning and had received his flowers with practiced ease. For a wild moment he had thought to take her in his arms, but he recovered instantly. Of course he could not do such a mad thing. It would probably utterly disconcert her.

  Her mother had seen them to the parlor and tactfully disappeared for “a moment” to see that tea was brought to them.

  “I have missed you, Mariabella,” he said.

  She accepted the compliment with a smile.

  He inquired about her father’s health, her own, and that of the rest of her family, receiving positive responses to each of his questions. He mentioned the weather (so pleasant for February), his drive here (just a short distance from Blakemore House) and the charming dress she was wearing. He asked if she missed London, how she had been occupying herself, and whether she thought they might yet have another snow.

  It was odd how difficult conversation could be without company about them to discuss or the music of a concert or the refreshments at an assembly to occupy their time.

  In desperation, he mentioned the only other thought that occurred to him. As he reclined upon the damask-covered French sofa, ornamented with tassels, cord and fringe, he could not help comparing his opulent surroundings to those of yesterday. Seeing Mariabella dressed so strikingly had brought to his mind’s eye a picture of Barbara, wearing her much simpler and less fashionable gown.

  “I met one of your neighbors, young Lady De Neresford, the day before yesterday.” He realized it was a tactical error. Mariabella would undoubtedly wonder why he had not called upon her yesterday.

  She did look very surprised, but apparently that was not the thought that occurred to her. “You met Barbara? But how… ?”

  “I was out riding and only narrowly avoided landing on her when we took a hedge.”

  Her hand flew in front of her face, but it was impossible not to discern her mirth. “I am afraid that she is our local quiz.”

  “She was out hunting a pheasant.”

  She lowered her hand, and though she did not laugh out loud, her smile danced about her eyes and mouth. “Then I can just imagine how she was dressed. No”—she held up a hand to prevent his words—”you may tell me if I am wrong. Let me see. Probably a greatcoat of her father’s, a bonnet which looked as if a horse had landed upon it, a pair of boots with the toes curling up, and in general she looked as if she wished to convince you that she was the village idiot.”

  He flushed. She had come much nearer the mark than she could imagine. He suddenly felt irritated with her for her amusement, and angry at himself for reacting to Barbara in the same way. He spoke more heatedly than he intended.

  “I felt sorry for the girl.”

  “So do we all.” He must also have spoken more loudly than he should, for as Mariabella’s mother glided into the room, she joined the conversation. “I am sorry that it took me so long, my dears. There was a crisis in the kitchen which required my attention.”

  She crossed over to her daughter and kissed the top of her head affectionately. “Don’t let Mariabella deceive you into thinking that she feels no sympathy for Barbara. There are some young ladies hereabouts that delight in ridiculing the poor child, but Mariabella has always remained her friend.”

  She gave her daughter a gentle hug and then settled herself in a mahogany-and-gilt chair with red silk cushions. “If she seems to jest about Barbara, it is only because she is far too familiar with her unhappy situation. Is that not right, my dear?”

  “Of course, Mama.” She returned her mother’s gaze with equal affection. “Who could help but pity her?”

  Hunsdon smiled warmly. “I could not believe otherwise.”

  What a contrast this visit was to that of yesterday, this mother and daughter both amiable, exhibiting polished manners, clearly enjoying his company and each other’s. No casual observer might have guessed from their demeanor that either of the two women looked upon Hunsdon as Mariabella’s marital prospect, even though all of them knew it was his sole purpose in visiting there. A younger sister of Mariabella’s appeared and was introduced, as well as her brother, Alfred. Hunsdon found himself scrutinizing Alfred rather closely. A skinny and unlovely lad of about seventeen, with a prominent Adam’s apple and an unruly dark shock of hair, he did not favor his sister at all. It was easy to see why Barbara did not regard him highly as a possible spouse. Still, Barbara might fare worse, Hunsdon supposed. He might consider doing what he could to promote the match, after he and Mariabella were married, of course.

  It was most difficult to tear himself away, but the moment was made somewhat easier by Mrs. Fostwick’s invitation that he join them for dinner the following evening. He accepted with alacrity. Roger and Anne would surely forgive his absence since they knew his motive.

  He should have been a completely happy man, but a troubling thought occurred to him as he drove away, still considering the differences between the two families. The Fostwicks, though far inferior to the De Neresfords in birth, were markedly superior to them in fortune. Wasn’t it probable that if their financial situations had been reversed Barbara might be the reigning local belle and Mariabella, beautiful as she was, the object of neighborhood scorn? If Barbara had the money for governesses, and trips to town and proper gowns and such… It was a new and disturbing train of thought, and as he recognized, an unproductive one. He was relieved to spot a tall and elegant figure in front of him. It was Lord Brandville, walking in the direction of Blakemore. When Hunsdon’s curricle had reached his friend’s side, he pulled up his horses and inquired whether he wished for a ride. Brandville accepted, taking the seat beside him.

  “Why were you out on foot?”

  His friend gave a sardonic smile. “Since I cannot afford to keep a carriage, it is unlikely that I should have one here to drive about, isn’t it?”

  Hunsdon rarely allowed himself to be pricked by Brandville’s barbs. “What blether you speak! As if Roger mightn’t be happy for you to take one of his carriages out. Besides, I overheard Roger say that you brought that devilish beast of yours here yesterday. You might be riding.”

  “True, but…” Brandville heaved a’sigh. “Sometimes walking is a more effective way of purchasing solitude. But tell me, how fares Miss Fostwick? As lovely as ever, I assume?”

  His dark visage was inscrutable. There was never any sense in asking Brandville what he meant when he determined to be enigmatic. Hunsdon therefore wisely ignored the first part of his remarks, instead answering Brandville’s question. “Quite well, thank you.”
Really, it was a trifle irritating to have every person within thirty miles or so cognizant of his affairs. Perhaps he was too romantic, but he wished there might be at least a little pleasurable anticipation involved in the process of becoming engaged.

  “Well, if anyone is to fall into the parson’s mousetrap, better you than I, I say,” remarked Brandville cynically. “I am certain that her family must be delighted.”

  “Her family is charming and I wish you would drop that odious sneering manner,” replied Hunsdon stiffly. “I also wish you would refrain from discussing the matter as if it were settled. I have not asked Miss Fostwick for her hand yet, you know.”

  “Oh, but you will, my dear fellow, you will. It is what you were born for—to fulfill some family’s grandest hopes. I cannot help it if I wished better things for you.” He saw that Hunsdon had set his mouth and was looking quite offended, so he reached over to tap his friend gently on the chin. “Come now, don’t be angry with me. It is all base envy, you know. I am sure that I will wish you and Miss Fostwick most happy… when the matter is settled, of course.”

  It was impossible to tell whether or not Brandville were secretly laughing at him; it was equally impossible to resist him. Hunsdon gave a reluctant smile. “Very well, but I will expect you to refrain from discussing the matter until I have good news for you—and I mean that you will refrain from discussing it with anyone.”

  “My dear fellow, mum’s the word.” He settled back in his seat with his arms crossed and his legs stretched out in front of him. He regarded the bleak countryside about them indifferently. “D’you know, I happen to detest the country. I wonder why I torture myself by coming here?”

  “Because Roger and Anne are two of your dearest friends and you are quite as fond of them as they are of you,” replied Hunsdon stoutly. He did not add that Brandville’s circumstances frequently made him more or less dependent on his friends’ hospitality.