A Lady's Point of View (13 page)

He wished he knew more of her.
Now that she had become acceptable to society, no doubt the opportunity would
present itself. Nevertheless, Edward determined silently, he would not call on
the chit. He would never give his sister the satisfaction.

Angela was experiencing emotions
for which her placid childhood had left her unprepared. Her feelings toward Mr.
Cockerell had changed sharply from the previous week. At first, she had
considered him harsh and rag-mannered. Then she had been forced to concede that
at least he attempted to be fair, which was more than one could say of most
fashionable ladies and gentlemen.

Today, seeing him again, she
noticed small details that had escaped her before. His habit of rubbing the
bridge of his nose when considering a serious matter; the way a smile
transformed his sharp-featured face into gentleness; the erectness of his
posture, and the natural facility with which he assumed leadership of any
situation.

Seeking him out privately had
been foolhardy. But she hadn’t been able to resist trying to learn whether he
loved the countess, and her relief upon finding that he did not confused her.

Regarding him from across the
lawn after their return, Angela became aware of a powerful desire to waltz
close to him and inhale his rich masculine scent. Whatever could be the matter
with her? How could she have such feelings toward Edward Cockerell, whom even
his own sister regarded as hard-hearted? He would never have given her a
moment’s consideration had it not been for Helen’s insistence.

So Angela passed the hours acting
pleasant and making conversation, never far from an awareness of her own
tight-clenched heart. How she wished Meg were here to talk over the matter. Meg
always had a common-sense solution to one’s problems.

It cannot be that I love him,
Angela
thought in alarm.
If I do, then I must never let him know. He would only
despise me.
Nor would she give him reason to think further ill of her, she
decided, and went to seek out Helen.

The older girl greeted her
merrily. “Are you having a good time?” she asked. “I heard about the
contretemps with Lady Darnet, that witch! Thank goodness for Aunt Emily.”

“Helen, I need your opinion on a
serious matter.” Angela drew her friend aside where no one would overhear.

“Yes?” Miss Cockerell raised an
eyebrow.

“We haven’t been entirely honest
with your brother,” Angela said. “As you know, I told him about Meg’s eyesight,
but I said nothing of our financial difficulties.” She awaited her friend’s
response, aware that Helen had not been advised of the full truth, either.

“I know you’ve been on short
rations for some time,” the girl replied with sympathy. “Meg never said as
much, but I could tell. And your dress. I’m sure no one else has recognized it,
but I couldn’t help doing so.”

“Things are sorry indeed,” Angela
admitted. “Please don’t let my mother know I told you. It’s only that your
brother will think he’s been tricked if he learns the truth later. I believe we
owe him our honesty.”

“Oh, pooh,” said Helen. “He
doesn’t deserve it!”

“But he sponsored this garden
party for me,” Angela pointed out. “And because of me he quarrelled with Lady
Darnet.”

“Nevertheless,” said the hostess,
“he has such a stiff-necked notion of honour that he might refuse to introduce
you to eligible gentlemen unless they knew the whole truth.”

“That’s his right, if he wishes.”
Agitated, Angela twisted a fold of the silver gauze skirt in her hand.

“He might even refuse to let me
frequent your company,” Helen added ominously.

“I can’t believe he would be so
cruel as that!” cried Angela. “It is not our fault, and he is a fair-minded
gentleman.”

“Perhaps,” said his sister. “But
he would consider our patronage of you likely to entrap some other young man
into an ill-considered marriage. Not that he could find you unsuitable, for you
are well bred. But you know that many families count upon the bride’s marriage
portion. For myself, I think love is all that matters, but Edward is impossible
on the subject.”

Impossible? Angela thought,
gazing at Edward where he stood conversing with an elderly couple. She could
only admire the fierceness of his convictions, and the depth of his regard for
honesty.

She still wished to tell him the
truth about her situation, and would have done so had there been only her own
welfare to consider. But she couldn’t betray her mother and sister. Their
futures must come first, even though protecting them might ultimately mean
sacrificing the regard of the man Angela cherished.

“Well—” she linked arms with
Helen “—let’s not stand here gossiping like a pair of duchesses!”

Together the two girls moved
forward to mingle with their guests.

Edward Cockerell!
Meg
thought in amazement, reading Angela’s letter for the third time.
My sister
in love with Edward Cockerell! The poor girl.

She laid aside the sheets of paper and stared out
her bedroom window. For once, she failed to enjoy the crystal-clear details
revealed even in twilight by her spectacles.

If one were to believe Angela’s
letter, the gentleman had given no indication of returning the sentiment.
Indeed it was difficult to imagine that particular fellow possessing any
sentiment whatsoever.

And she asks for my advice?
Meg reflected woefully.
A fine one I am to be telling others how to handle
their finer feelings.

In the week since the party at
Squire Roberts’s, Meg had reached a painful conclusion of her own. She had
fallen in love with Lord Bryn.

If Angela’s chances of success
were slim, her own were hopeless. The man was all but engaged to Miss Geraint,
and furthermore showed no sign of developing a tendre for Meg. Indeed, he had
been scrupulously careful to keep a distance between them since that night.

Yet despite her best intentions,
Meg searched for him everywhere. When she walked with the children in the
garden, her heart leaped at the distant sight of his tall figure astride his
stallion. When she conducted lessons, she listened with one ear for his
footsteps. In vain, for the most part. Since last Saturday, the marquis had
made a habit of calling upon the children only when they were in the care of
the maid Jenny.

Meg had begun giving Vanessa
deportment lessons as an excuse for marching her up and down the front stairs.
No doubt the sound of girlish laughter had given his lordship sufficient
warning, and he had kept away.

I? Give advice?

With a mirthless laugh, Meg
turned from the window, and drew out her pen and paper. The time had come to
tell her mother and sister the truth.

Perhaps not the entire truth; no
need to confess the futile attachment she had formed. But they must know where
she was, and under what pretence.

Her mother could best advise her
whether to continue on to Derby or return to London. For in another week Miss
Geraint and her family would be arriving, and Meg was determined to leave soon
after.

She tried to imagine her family’s
reactions. Amusement and admiration, perhaps, on Angela’s part; shock and
outrage, justifiably, on Lady Mary’s.

Guiltily Meg wondered if she had
betrayed her mother’s trust in her. A harmless misunderstanding—but why had she
played along with it these past two weeks?

The answer, she was forced to
admit, was that her affection for Lord Bryn had begun the moment she’d first
set eyes on him, however blurrily, as he rode up with those two ragamuffins in
tow. His easy manner, both with the children and with the woman he believed to
be their governess, had contrasted delightfully with the pompous gentlemen she
had known in town.

Not only that, but she had come
to understand from the moment he kissed her, what it meant to be a woman. Such
mysteries were kept carefully from the ears of unmarried misses. The marriage
bed, so far as Meg had known, was a place for sleeping and, by some unknown
means, for conceiving children.

Even now, she had only vague
suspicions of its true function, but they were solidifying night by night.
Dreams troubled her slumber, dreams in which the marquis drew her close against
his body, making her flesh burn with indescribable sensations. She longed to
return his wild kisses, to feel his touch upon her soft skin...

Was this love? Or only wantonness
against which to shield oneself, even in marriage? Would a husband be shocked
by such abandon? Meg wished desperately that she knew.

Wrenching herself back to the
task at hand, she began to compose a letter to her mother and sister.

The answers came swiftly. Meg
read Lady Mary’s first. Her mother expressed dismay but also understanding. She
had been young once, and knew that Meg’s high spirits had been much confined by
her dismal experiences in London and her inability to see properly.

If no one were the wiser, Meg
might perhaps escape censure. Neither Lord Bryn nor Germaine Geraint ever came
to town; and should Germaine’s cousins learn the truth, neither Helen nor
Edward was likely to talk. Helen might be a gossip, but her loyalty to Meg was
such that she would not risk hurting her.

“Lord Bryn is reputed for his
proper conduct, and so I know that nothing untoward has occurred, but one must
be concerned with appearances,” Lady Mary wrote. “It is imperative that you
leave as soon as possible.”

Then came the part that softened
Meg’s pain. “Matters are well in hand here in town, and Mr. Brummell has made
it clear he harbours no resentment against you.

“Since you inform me that Lord
Bryn has paid you generous wages, you may use them, if you wish, to take the
mail coach back to London. I cannot promise that you will find many of your dresses
remaining unaltered, but at least we may enjoy your company. We miss you very
much.”

Angela’s letter was livelier but
at the same time sadder. She wrote that they were invited everywhere, even to
Almack’s, and had been out nearly every night. Mr. Cockerell and Helen often
joined them, but although he spent considerable time in Angela’s company,
Edward showed no sign of affection.

“My only consolation lies in the
fact that he displays no warmth toward Lady Darnet when we encounter her,”
Angela went on. “What do you suppose this signifies? Is he attempting to make
her jealous by attending on me, or does he do it only at Helen’s insistence?”

Meg wished she knew the answer.

Well, she had her own plans to
make. The Geraints would be arriving Friday next. Meg decided that to prevent
undue disruption to the children, she could remain until Monday, but no longer.
Then it would be the task of their future mother to supervise the hiring of a
new governess.

She requested an audience with
his lordship, and was told he would see her in his study. Carefully she
reviewed in her mind the tale she’d composed, having decided that after their
embrace the truth would only embarrass them both unduly.

Never having visited this
masculine room before, Meg entered timidly. Such a dark chamber, she noted,
observing the mahogany furniture and deep-stained leather. How the marquis
suited it, standing behind his desk, an ominous frown on his countenance.

“How may I help you, Miss
Linley?” he asked

Meg clutched her hands together
nervously. “My lord, I’ve received a letter from my mother. She writes that she
is ill, and begs me to return to London.”

His eyes contained an expression
Meg could not read. “I’m sorry to hear that. I hope she will be soon mended.”

“She didn’t say.” Meg inhaled
deeply. “I realize this comes at an inconvenient time, with your visitors on
their way. I thought I might remain until Monday.”

“The children will miss you
deeply.” His lordship tapped one finger upon the desktop. “Are you certain this
is so great a crisis as to require your permanent departure? Perhaps a visit of
a week or two—”

“I think not,” Meg said. “I was
given to understand she will need a nurse for some time.”

There was nothing more to be said
between them, and no words to say it. The air crackled with unspoken longing—at
least for Meg.

“Very well,” said the marquis at
last. “I will have arrangements made for your conveyance.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Meg
curtseyed and turned away.

“Miss Linley?”

“Yes?” She looked back.

“You may keep the spectacles,” he
said. “We wouldn’t want you getting on the wrong carriage.”

Meg nodded dumbly and hurried
away. He had meant the remark as a jest, of course, a reference to the “joke”
she had told when she arrived; but for some reason she found herself near
tears.

Later, when she revealed her news
in the schoolroom, Tom’s small face crumpled and sobs wracked his frame. Meg
held him close.

Vanessa took a more pragmatic
viewpoint. “When I have my come-out, will you be in town to advise me how to go
on?” she asked.

“I do hope so.” Meg felt grateful
for the distraction, since she feared the girl might join Tom in his weeping.
“Although that will be a few years hence.”

The girl shrugged off this minor
inconvenience. “Nevertheless, you shall assist me. I would like that very much.
I shall have piles of new gowns, and you can tell me the best dressmakers.”

“Oh, don’t be such a
prattle-box!” wailed Tom. “Why can’t Uncle Andrew marry you, Miss Linley,
instead of Miss Geraint!”

“Don’t you like her?” Meg asked.

“We’ve never met her.” Vanessa’s
nose wrinkled. “But I’m sure I shan’t like her at all. She never goes to
London, and they say her wardrobe is abominable.” Her tongue twisted a bit over
that last word, but she managed to make herself understood.

“I’m sure you’ll love her,” Meg
said briskly. “And since you’ll have no one to give you lessons next week, we
shall work doubly hard today. Ready?”

They nodded reluctantly, and the
business of daily living gradually took the edge off Tom’s misery.

On Thursday morning, the day
before the Geraints were to arrive, Lord Bryn gave Meg permission to ride with
Mrs. Franklin into the town of Macclesfield. Although farther afield than
Stockport and Marple, it boasted excellent shops.

Jenny was away helping her ailing
sister, and so the children were entrusted to the timorous Bertha.

“She’ll do well enough. They
never drop the mouse down anyone’s skirts twice,” said Mrs. Franklin as she and
Meg set off in the curricle.

In town, Meg selected hair
ribbons for herself and gifts to take Lady Mary and Angela. For her mother, she
chose a pair of gloves, and for her sister a lace-edged handkerchief, which
could be used to fill in a low neckline when the season ended and they
retreated to the country.

Mrs. Franklin took considerably
longer selecting household items. Meg spent the time strolling about the
silk-manufacturing town, admiring its medieval architecture, hilly streets, and
picturesque black-and-white-timbered houses.

The two women treated themselves
to luncheon at the Cat and Fiddle Inn in a splendid moorland setting three
miles to the east.

‘‘It’s right sorry I am that
you’ll be leaving,” said Mrs. Franklin. “By the by, Lord Bryn mentioned that
you’re invited to attend the ball he’s holding for the Geraints Saturday
night.”

Meg bit her lip. Suppose someone
should know her? Unlikely, but dangerous. However, she saw no polite way to
decline. And after all, the only ones at the ball would be the Geraint family
and the neighbours.

“I fear I haven’t a proper gown,”
she said.

Mrs. Franklin waved away the
objection. “With your beauty, girl, you’d look splendid in my old gingham! And
your clothes may not be fancy, but they’re quality.”

The real objection, Meg
considered as they returned home in the curricle, was that at the ball the
marquis was expected to announce his engagement. Would she be able to hide her
unhappiness and congratulate the couple as she ought?

You got yourself into this
situation, Meg Linley, and you shall carry it off!
she commanded in a
mental approximation of Lady Mary’s tones.

They arrived at Brynwood to find
the place in turmoil.

“The bloody children have
disappeared again,” snapped the marquis, his temper overcoming his usual good
manners. “They’re nowhere to be found, and Bertha’s in hysterics, shrieking
about a ghost.”

Meg fought a smile. “Have you
searched the attic? Vanessa tells me they like to play dress-up.”

“We’ve examined all the usual
places,” Mr. Franklin interjected smoothly. “We believe they may have gone
berrying again, as they did the day you arrived, Miss Linley.”

“Then I shall go and look for
them.” Unwilling in her haste to take the time to change her clothes—her attire
was sensible enough—Meg set off in a southerly direction. Lord Bryn and the
servants headed elsewhere.

It was well past midday as Meg
started out. She wasn’t overly concerned for the children’s safety, but she
knew that Tom would do whatever Vanessa commanded, and it was impossible to
tell what notion the girl might take into her head.

After a time, Meg’s voice grew
hoarse with calling, and her legs began to ache with the unaccustomed walking.
Still she pushed on, growing more and more anxious as the sun descended through
the western sky.

At last she saw a figure on the
horizon, north of her. A man and horse.

He galloped toward her, and Meg
saw that it was Lord Bryn. At any other time, she would have been lost in
admiration of his fine figure and splendid horsemanship, but now she waited in
a torment for news of the runaways.

When the rider drew up, Meg saw
with relief that he was smiling. “We’ve found the little rascals!” he called.
“They were in your room, Miss Linley, playing dress-up with your clothes.”

Meg shook her head ruefully. “If
only I’d gone up to change before coming out to search.!”

“You must be weary.” His lordship
swung down from King Arthur. “I’ll give you a ride back, then.”

She regarded him askance. “I’m
hardly attired for riding, Lord Bryn.” Indeed, Meg had never ridden astride,
for Lady Mary insisted that a gentlewoman rode only sidesaddle.

“No one’s about to notice nor
care,” he replied. Relief at finding the children had dispelled his dour mood,
and he grinned boyishly.

“Oh?” Meg gazed up at the horse,
which seemed enormous. “Are you sure this isn’t an elephant, my lord? He seems
large enough to me.”

“What? My Meg a coward?” he challenged.
Without giving her time to reflect on his use of her given name and the
possessive pronoun, Bryn clamped his hands about her waist to lift her.