A Victorian Christmas (35 page)

Lady Cooper sat down again on the settee and gazed at her husband. Sir William stared back at his wife. Finally, she cleared her throat.

“Surely you are aware, my dear Rosalind, that marriage is most commonly born of necessity. In time, a certain fondness may develop between husband and wife. Children are born, and this solidifies the bond of mutual affection. Perhaps the sort of blissful communion you dream of may become a possibility, but it is never required, and it is not to be expected.”

Stafford watched as his future wife absorbed this information. He was relieved that his friends had so clearly expressed the truth about marriage. And yet, there had been something strangely compelling in Miss Treadwell’s impassioned plea. Her face softened, and she gave a nod. “You are right, of course, Caroline. But I have never longed for mere fondness and mutual affection. I can share those emotions with a favored rat terrier.”

“Terrier? Upon my word, Miss Treadwell, I am more than a dog.” Stafford set down his teacup and leaned forward on the settee. “I am a gentleman, and I shall not be regarded as anything less.”

“Of course,” she said.

“I have come to believe that this woman has been away from enlightened company far too long.” Stafford addressed his friends, while nodding at his intended. “She has read too many books and has looked after her father for so long that she does not know the true pleasures life has to offer. Rather than take her comments as an insult, I am determined to take them as a challenge.”

“Good show,” William said. “Bravo, my dear man. You intend to share your heart with her, then. To make of your wife a true soul mate.”

“A soul mate? Of course not. I intend to shower her with every luxury that life has to offer, to so overwhelm her with the pleasures of wealth and fine company that she abandons her silly notions of becoming bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh. Whatever that means.”

“Aha.” William glanced at Miss Treadwell.“There you are, then. You have set him a challenge, and I have never known Mick to fail at any challenge. Your husband will give you everything your heart desires, and you will become truly the happiest of wives.”

“Thank you, I’m sure.” The woman herself rose from the settee. “I shall ask the servant to show me to my quarters now, Lady Cooper,” she said in a soft voice.

“But have you no response to Mick’s plan?”

“He already knows I do not respond well to plans or schemes,” she said. “If a husband of mine wishes to give me my heart’s desire, he has only to provide me with one thing.”

“And what is that, my dear girl?” Caroline asked.

“Love,” Rosalind replied. She gave the party a curtsy. “His true, abiding love. Good afternoon, Lord and Lady Cooper, Sir Michael. Caroline, I shall be ready to visit your millinery shop within the hour.”

“Is this not the most divine color?” Lady Caroline Cooper smoothed a hand over her silk evening gown, two weeks later, as the two prepared for the promised engagement party. “I have never seen a purple of quite this shade, have you, Rosalind?”

“Indeed, I believe that in these past two weeks, I have seen every possible hue of purple available in London’s shops.” She sat before the mirror as her lady’s maid arranged a decoration of blue ribbons and tiny white roses in her curls. “But it is a lovely gown, Caroline, and I greatly admire the sleeves.”

“Your sleeves are far more beautiful than mine. That flare displays the fringe-and-tassel trim to great advantage. My seamstress was quite correct in recommending it. Honestly, Rosalind, have you ever known a better seamstress than my dear Mrs. Weaver?”

“Never.” Rosalind wished for a fan to hide her smile. Before coming to London, she had known only one seamstress, and the aging villager certainly had no use for purple silk or fringe-and-tassel trim. Her tastes ran to common brown muslin, and Rosalind was comfortable with her simple wardrobe.

“I would wager that Mick will fairly swoon when he sees you tonight.” Caroline stood back as Rosalind rose from the dressing table. “You have never looked lovelier.”

“And who is this Mick fellow of whom you speak?” Rosalind asked. “Have I met the man?”

“Oh, don’t tease,” Caroline scolded.

“Caroline, during this fortnight, I believe I have come to know you far better than I know the man I will call my husband.”

“Now, Rosalind, you know your future husband has been very busy arranging the wedding and putting his business affairs in order. Men don’t have time to spend as we do, making calls and reading books and embroidering screens.”

“But truly, Caroline, he has dined with us no more than three times, he has taken me to the theater only once, and he has managed to get himself to a mere handful of the myriad parties I’ve attended. He has never taken me for a carriage ride through the park or sat beside me at tea. He dances with me, certainly, but he is loath to talk. We have not spoken more than five words alone in all this time.”

“What do you want with talk anyway?” Caroline slipped her arm through Rosalind’s and led her out into the wide corridor. “Men talk about the most boring things. Commerce, interest rates, trade agreements. If not that, they must converse on such ghastly topics as foxhunting or cricket or shooting tigers in India.”

“India, there! I should love to know about Sir Michael’s life in India. But every time I broach the subject, he gives me a polite smile and changes the topic.”

“He doesn’t like to talk about the past. He mourns his late uncle so greatly, you know. You must speak to him of the future, of your enjoyment of his gifts, and of the schedule of events you will attend in the new year. Why not tell him your dreams for refurbishing the family manor house at Bridgeton? That would please him very much, for I know he is interested in such things.” Caroline broke off as the two ladies noticed the object of their speculation standing at the foot of the stairs. “Hello, Mick!” she called cheerfully.

“Lady Caroline.” Sir Michael removed his hat and stepped toward the women as they descended the long stairway. “Miss Treadwell, you are looking lovely this evening.”

“What did I tell you?” Caroline elbowed her friend. “I knew he would adore your blue brocade and never even notice my purple silk.”

“Your gown is enchanting, Caroline, of course.”

“You have very elegant manners, Mick, but I see you can look at nothing but your dear fiancée. Is that not the most perfect neckline? Square is quite the fashionable shape this season, and it does show off her new pearls in a most excellent manner.”

“The pearls are exquisite,” Rosalind chimed in. “I have not had time to write a note thanking you for them, Sir Michael.”

The man beamed. “You must not write me so many notes, Miss Treadwell. My footman is quite exhausted with running back and forth between our houses.”

“Then you must not bestow so many gifts, Sir Michael. I am overwhelmed.”

“As I had hoped.” When Lady Cooper set off in search of her husband, Sir Michael took her place at Rosalind’s side. “It has been my goal to so overwhelm you with pleasures that your heart melts completely. Are you feeling a bit less put off by our coming nuptials, Miss Treadwell?”

“Would you be pleased if I told you that thirty new gowns, fifteen pairs of earrings, and seven necklaces of diamonds, pearls, rubies, and emeralds had transformed my heart? Or do you prefer that I be overcome by the sheer numbers of parties to which I have been invited? Or perhaps the endless array of succulent foods was intended to thaw my icy heart?”

“Well, I should hope that
something
in all that might have done it.”

“I confess I was nearly done in by yesterday’s potted partridge. I saw it, and my heart began to pound with passion for you.”

“Potted partridge, Miss Treadwell?” He was chuckling as he escorted her across the crowded ballroom toward an alcove that contained a settee and several chairs. “I shall have to remember that. If potted partridge makes your heart pound, what might happen with stewed pigeon?”

“I am not at all fond of pigeon. Too many bones.” She could feel heads turning as she and Sir Michael stepped into the alcove. As this was their formal engagement party, they were clearly the center of attention. “I believe this gathering to be unanimous in its admiration of you, Sir Michael,” she said as she sat down beside him on the settee.

“I am hardly the object of their approval tonight, unless it be for my choice of companion. Do you not know how lovely you are?”

“You flatter me.” Rosalind could feel herself flush. “But I do not qualify for such a compliment. My hair has a will of its own, and my fingers are frightfully—”

“Beautiful.” He took her hand and kissed it. “Miss Treadwell, my attempts at wooing you with pearls and potted partridge may not have been completely successful. But if my words could suffice, I should like to tell you how very much I have come to admire you since our first meeting.”

“And how is that, when we have barely seen each other?”

“But I am told all manner of good things about you. You are said to be polite and witty and altogether charming. I know you are kind, for I have seen how you cared for your father for so many years. And your intellect is reputedly of the highest degree, owing, I suppose, to the great number of books you have read.”

Rosalind thought about this for a moment. “But have you been told that I screech when I lose at cards, Sir Michael? And that when I embroider screens, one can never tell which side is the front and which is the back because both are all of knots and loops? Or that I like to take off my shoes and walk barefoot in streams?”

She could tell she had thrown him off course again, and she was pleased. This was a man who wanted controlled perfection in everything, including a wife. But real people weren’t perfect. They were flawed and sinful, and she longed to be loved in spite of—and because of—all that made her real.

“Screech?” His blue eyes widened. “Have you . . . screeched . . . since coming to London?”

“I haven’t had opportunity to play at cards yet. I’ve been too busy opening your gifts.”

“I shall have to keep them coming,” he muttered. “Miss Treadwell, have you any other
interesting
habits?”

“I’m sure I do. Let me think . . . ah yes. When I don’t feel well, I must have someone read to me, someone dear and loving and warm. And what I want to be read is the book of Psalms, very softly.”

“I see.”

“And you might as well know that when I am angry, I weep.”

“Weep?”

“Indeed. All my rage boils up and then spills over in tears. But surely you have some minor flaws as well, Sir Michael. Or do you not?”

He studied her for a moment, and she felt the intensity of his blue eyes. “I am not perfect,” he said finally.

She let out a breath. “Well, of that I am mightily relieved! In fact, I feel myself more moved by this declaration than I did by your potted partridge. I declare, I am all atremble.”

“Is it your practice to make light of every one? or only of me?”

“Forgive my teasing, sir. But it’s true that hearing you acknowledge your shortcomings would move me more than receiving three pearl necklaces and seven silk gowns.”

“Would it, indeed?” He leaned forward. “Then you shall hear that as a child I taught myself to swear most vilely by listening to the sailors on the docks of the Thames—but I have given it up since becoming an adult.”

“I am glad of that.”

“And I have a strong affection for garlic.”

“Oh dear! I suppose you developed your taste for that flavor in India.”

“Exactly right. Garlic and curry.”

“But if you were in India as a boy, when were you learning to swear on the docks of the Thames?”

He swallowed. “Well, I was . . . it was before, of course.”

“Before? Before the swearing or the garlic?”

“Dash it all, this is exactly why I never—”

“Oh, there you are, Rosalind!” Caroline rushed into the alcove, her purple silks aflutter. “I have been searching everywhere. You must come at once!”

“But what is the matter, Caroline?”

“Your father! Lord Buxton has fallen down the stairs just now. William sent for a doctor at once, but we cannot make your father move or speak. Oh, dear Rosalind, I fear for his life!”

CHAPTER THREE

“Are you still in the library?” Sir William Cooper held a candle before himself to illuminate his path as he crossed the large room lined with countless leather volumes. “You’ve been in here for hours, Mick. May I inquire as to the object of your search?”

“A book. Poetry, I should imagine.” He turned, aware for the first time how out of sorts he must appear in the eyes of his good friend. The engagement party had ended almost before it began, the entire assemblage returning to their homes on hearing the news of the Viscount Buxton’s dire condition. A doctor had been summoned, Rosalind had vanished into an upper room to be with her father, and Mick had been left to wander the house— uncertain and confused for the first time in many years. “Lord Buxton. Is his condition much altered?” Mick inquired.

“No, I fear he is quite the same. My wife has visited the room, and she reports that he remains senseless and unmoving. The physician has determined that no bones were broken in the fall down the staircase. Yet, it may be that a blow to Lord Buxton’s head has rendered him permanently . . .” He stared at the candle flame for a moment. “It is feared he may never recover.”