A Lady's Point of View (11 page)

From that moment on, Veronica
became Jeffrey’s protégée, and for the rest of the evening she felt him
regarding her afresh. He complimented her on every small improvement and paid
her the bulk of his attention, to the evident mystification of Miss Conley.

While Veronica did not imagine
the war to be won in a single skirmish, she felt grateful that she had made a
good showing on the battlefield.

“Will you come and see my rose
garden?” the squire asked when the waltz finished.

“At night?” countered Meg,
restraining the urge to rub her foot where he had stepped on it.

“Ah, indeed, ‘tis dark.” Squire
Roberts stared at the window accusingly, as if the sky had darkened purposely
to thwart him. “The orangerie, then? I have a lemon tree all in bloom.”

The image of the heavy,
phlegmatic squire framed by the delicate blossoms of a lemon tree struck Meg as
humorous, and she began to laugh.

“I say!” The man clearly wasn’t
sure how to respond.

“Pray forgive me.” She controlled
her mirth. “It’s only that one thinks of lemons as sour, and I cannot imagine
one in bloom!” It was the only excuse that came to mind, and a weak one at
that. In truth, she had seen such trees in London and loved the rich fragrance.

“I see.” Despite his words, the
squire sounded puzzled.

The marquis approached and said
coldly, “I believe we should be going, Miss Linley, if we are to arise in time
for church in the morning.”

“Of course.” Meg excused herself
from the squire’s company with barely disguised relief. That he appeared
saddened by her departure gave her a twinge of guilt, as she did not deserve
his good opinion. Yet in her observation, ladies in society never refined upon
the hurt they might inflict on members of the opposite sex. Nor did gentlemen,
for that matter.

After a ripple of farewells, Meg
found herself being handed up into the curricle by his lordship. Taking his
place beside her, he lifted the reins and slapped them against the horses’
backs. She wished some other members of his household had accompanied them, but
none had done so.

The night was warm and they rode
for a time without speaking. Meg gazed up through the lenses, marvelling at the
beauty of the heretofore invisible stars.

The silence weighed on her,
however, and she wondered if she should speak. She hesitated to invite trouble
by asking the marquis what had overset him, and yet she disliked to go on
wondering.

“Have I given offence, my lord?” she asked.

“Offence?” The indifference in
his tone was feigned, she felt certain.

“Perhaps it is my gown,” Meg
ventured. “It is the best I possess, but I fear not so fine as those of some of
the ladies.”

“I have no complaint about your
gown. If I had, I should blame myself for not paying you a better wage,” said
the marquis. The curricle rolled on through the night amid the soft, familiar
noises of hooves thumping against dirt, and leather harnesses creaking.

The man was impossible! Meg
studied his frozen profile. A very handsome profile, she conceded, with high
cheekbones and a sharp nose. It bespoke character, Lady Mary would have said.

At the thought of her mother, Meg
felt a pang of homesickness. What were they doing tonight? Which gown would
Angela wear to the garden party? How would the
ton
respond to her?

If only she could be there, Meg
wished heartily. But how was she to take her leave? After that kiss in the
countryside, how could she confess the truth to Lord Bryn?

“Am I correct in assuming that
you do not wish to remain a governess for long?” enquired the marquis icily.

Fear flashed over Meg. “I beg
your pardon?”

“From your conduct with Squire
Roberts, I take it that you have some interest in that regard,” he said.

“Interest?” She stared at Lord
Bryn in amazement. Did he believe that she had set her cap for Squire Roberts?

“Or is it your custom to flirt
boldly with whatever gentleman seeks you out?” he pursued relentlessly.

“I—” Meg stopped. She had been
about to protest that she didn’t mean to flirt, but that was not true. She
could hardly admit that her conduct had been a demonstration for Veronica; that
would require violating the girl’s confidence.

“How you conduct yourself with men of your own
acquaintance is none of my affair,” his lordship continued, “but when you behave
with such ...
 
such shameless abandon
under my very nose, I cannot but remark upon it.”

“Shameless abandon!” Meg sat up
angrily. “My lord, I realize that as my employer you may say what you wish—”

“I don’t stand upon such
privilege,” he snapped, his eyes fixed on the moonlit path before them. “You
may reply however you wish without fear of retaliation, Miss Linley.”

“What have I done to merit such
an accusation?” she demanded. “Danced with the squire once—”

“A waltz,” he pointed out
tersely.

“Spoke with him privately for
brief spell—”

“Placed your hand on his arm,”
the marquis added.

“And refused his invitation to
stroll in his rose garden,” she finished. “Or smell his lemon tree.” At the
memory, she began to laugh again.

“I fail to see the humour.” Lord
Bryn guided the team around a pothole.

“Pardon me.” She chuckled. “It
was only that I imagined Squire Roberts standing solidly beneath one of those
airy little trees, doing his best to look poetic, and succeeding only in
looking entirely absurd.”

At this outburst, the marquis’s
visage softened. “You don’t take him seriously?”

“Not in the least,’’ Meg
affirmed.

His lordship clucked to the
horses. “Then I have spoken out of turn, haven’t I?”

“No, you haven’t.” Meg wished she
understood his conduct. Had she not known of his lordship’s feelings for
Germaine Geraint, she might almost have supposed him to be jealous. “If I
offended propriety, you were right to rebuke me. But I assure you, it’s only
that I don’t know the customs in this region.”

“You did not offend propriety,”
said the marquis. “I’m merely in a bad temper. It was hot today, and we’ve been
short of rain this summer. I’m concerned about my tenants.”

“I see,” she said, but, like the
squire a few minutes past, she did not.

As they rode the rest of the way
home in silence, Bryn wondered why he had criticized the governess. It had been
his object to find Miss Linley a husband. Why then should he be so irritated to
see her dance in the arms of that aging Romeo?

Surely it was paternal concern
for a valued member of his household, he told himself. The late Mrs. Roberts
had been a timid woman, cowed by a bullying husband, and- despite his charming
manners tonight, the squire was known to be a rough man when crossed.

That was reason enough for
concern.

The marquis glanced at Meg,
riding dreamily alongside him. What was she thinking? Emotions played across
her face, soft and intriguing. One might almost guess that she was reliving the
evening, waltzing again with the squire. Or was she recalling the first set of
country dances which she had performed with Bryn himself?

The marquis wished he knew more
of her. A careful review of Standish’s note had revealed little. Excellent
references, but how long could she have been working when she was only
nineteen?

Nevertheless, he had behaved very
badly this evening. How worried she’d appeared when he chastised her, as if she
feared dismissal. Would he never learn to think of anyone but himself? He
dreaded someday causing injury to another as he had to Harry, through his own
selfish disregard for their welfare.

As they passed from one shadow to
the next beneath the three-quarter moon, the marquis reflected for the first
time that perhaps he despised London society not so much because of the
frailties of others, but because of his own. How easily he might slip into
gaming, into attending the sales at Tattersall’s, visiting his tailor, dining
at his club, and never sparing a thought for anyone else.

Here in the country, one lived
close to one’s subordinates. The marquis kept a sharp eye on his tenants,
making certain they were provided for, and discreetly aiding them when
misfortune struck. He cherished his two little wards, and strove to deal fairly
with his servants.

Why then did Miss Linley knock
asunder his best intentions? He had been prepared to quarrel with her tonight,
to cast her in the worst possible light, when she had only behaved as any young
lady might in the presence of a marriageable gentleman.

A marriageable gentleman? That
bounder Roberts! If the chap ever laid one hand on Miss Linley, the marquis
would call him out!

Astounded at the ferocity of his
sentiments, Lord Bryn spent the rest of the ride home staring moodily at the
back ends of the horses.

“I cannot think why I let you
talk me into coming,” said Lady Darnet, adjusting her chip straw bonnet as the
landau carried her and her cousin Sir Manfred along Kensington Road.

She glanced out at the
vegetable-laden carts and pedestrian fruit-sellers heading in the opposite
direction, for Kensington provided much of London’s produce. With annoyance,
she noted how her carriage was forced to slow as it made its way through the
throngs of girls with their baskets of cherries, apricots, and strawberries. It
was not the countess’s nature to concern herself if a child stumbled beneath a
heavy load, or wept over the spilled contents of a basket. She despised
obstacles.

Her rotund companion shrugged. “I
thought you might enjoy the outing, dear cousin,” he said. “And the events of
the day may prove amusing. One talks of nothing else at White’s.”

“One must be excessively dull
then,” Cynthia retorted.

She hadn’t recovered from her
pique the previous Tuesday at seeing that Linley creature making up to Mr.
Cockerell. Having married once for money, Cynthia fully intended to claim a
handsome young man this time, and Edward Cockerell met her requirements.

Indeed, in his admiring glances
and increasingly frequent visits to her home, the young man had shown every
sign of offering for her. His tardiness in doing so she attributed to the
reluctance of a longtime bachelor to relinquish his single state, and so had
determined to encourage his suit with some strategy of her own.

She had been on the point of
speaking to him at Vauxhall, in hopes of arousing his jealousy toward her
elderly companion, when the Linleys cut off her approach. Why had he permitted
them to join his family?

Cynthia wished she knew what he
and the chit had been discussing so earnestly after the quadrille, and why he
was sponsoring this ill-advised come-out party.

Perhaps she had been wrong about
him, Cynthia mused. He might not be suitable as a husband. But no. She had been
aware of him for years, even before her aging spouse stuck his spoon in the
wall, and this was the first time Mr. Cockerell had made a serious blunder.

It might well have resulted from
the influence of his unruly sister. She posed a special sort of problem, for
Cynthia could hardly slight Helen and hope to retain the attentions of the
brother. Best to concentrate on discouraging the Linley girl.

“A fellow can’t help noticing
she’s a taking little thing, that Angela,” noted her cousin, oblivious to the
countess’s mood. “Such big blue eyes.”

Big blue eyes indeed! How common
they were, Cynthia mused, silently congratulating herself on the subtle
elegance of her own grey ones.

Yet she well knew the advantage
eighteen has over seven and twenty in the freshness of youth and the soundness
of constitution. She nursed a toothache at the back of her mouth, and feared
the tooth soon must be replaced by a china one from Wedgwood. Nor could even
the whiteness lent by a Spanish paper entirely disguise the roughening of her
delicate skin by harsh cosmetics.

“I was dancing with the elder
Miss Linley that very evening at Almack’s,” Sir Manfred remarked as the
carriage turned onto Kensington High Street. “Didn’t snub me. Can’t say why she
took it into her head to cut Brummell.”

“You don’t suppose he’ll be
attending today?” asked Cynthia with a spark of interest.

Her cousin shook his head. “He’s
out of town, and so is Prinny, but I warrant the Cockerells will not lack for
amusing guests all the same.”

The Cockerells’ second home was
located between Kensington Palace and Holland House, the turreted Jacobean
mansion where Whig statesmen, scholars, writers, and wits gathered. Cynthia had
wished to see the affair poorly attended, but her hopes were dashed by the
crush of carriages approaching the location.

“What? Not Lady Jersey!” she
declared on recognizing a coat of arms.

“One could hardly keep her away
from an event which is on every tongue,” said Sir Manfred. “Then there’s this
business of being sponsored by the Cockerells. Suppose the chit turns out to be
the Incomparable of the season? Sally Jersey will want to see for herself.”

Cynthia sniffed. “I can’t imagine
that the Linleys will be granted any more vouchers to Almack’s.”

Her resentment of Angela Linley
derived from more than ordinary jealousy. Despite her marriage, Cynthia’s
ancestry contained its share of dubious elements, among them a grandmother who
had married her coachman. With such questionable relations, she felt ill placed
beside a young lady whose grandfathers had been a viscount and an earl.
Therefore she begrudged Angela any small advantage in their mutual quest, as
she saw it, to bring Edward Cockerell up to scratch.

The gentleman in question was, at
that moment, seriously questioning his own sanity as he greeted yet another of
the hundreds of guests who thronged the garden.