Elisabeth Kidd (23 page)

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” he remonstrated gently. “The ladies will hear you.”

Indeed, the footman who had opened the door for their departure stood holding it, fascinated by this scene, and feminine voices could be heard down the hall.

“I venture a guess that my esteemed sister-in-law is preparing to conduct a tour of the picture gallery,” Lewis went on. “She always does, given the least occasion for it. Perhaps we ought to join in.”

He had pushed Henry slightly aside by judicious use of his chair, and Henry, again taking the rebuke graciously, fell back, out of Richard’s view. Lewis continued to gaze pacifically at Richard until he, too, gave over.

“Very well, then, let us get on with it.”

Breathing a sigh of relief, Fletcher held Robert back for a moment before they proceeded out of the room.

“I thank you for your consciousness of the situation this evening, Captain Ashton, and for your efforts to ensure a congenial gathering.”

“There is no need to say so, Lord Bromleigh. You must know that peace between our families is my chief concern—apart from one other, of course, which I am sure you can guess.”

“Indeed. It is of that I wished to speak with you. There are some new developments—well, never mind, this is not the time. Perhaps tomorrow?”

“Send word to me of when would be convenient for me to request your permission—somewhat belatedly, to be sure—to court your sister.”

Fletcher stared, as if he had not expected this answer. He would not, of course, if Sabina had reported their last meeting to him, as Robert now saw she had done.

“How will I contact you?” Fletcher said, after a moment’s hesitation.

Robert smiled. “Consult your brother’s wife, my lord. Lady Henry will know.”

With that, he left the room, leaving Fletcher even more nonplussed and wondering what else he did not know.

The ladies came out of the drawing room just as the gentlemen emerged from the dining room and met them in the hall. Alicia, accustomed to guiding visitors around the grounds on public days, put her hand on Richard’s arm and drew him along with her to the front of the tour group entering the long gallery by way of the public rooms. These, Sabina noted, had been made more impressive by the addition of various valuable pieces of furniture and bric-a-brac culled from other parts of the house.

“There are some fine views of the country hereabouts, Lord Kimborough, which I am sure you will recognize and admire. Many of the artists are local as well. Perhaps you will be acquainted with some of them.”

Richard professed himself ignorant about the fine points of art, but declared a partiality for a good picture of a horse, and Alicia was able to say they had a very fine Stubbs which he would be bound to appreciate.

Sabina supposed that the family portraits had previously been inspected for possible black sheep or common ancestors, although she was not prepared to admit that there were any of the latter. She did recall her father describing some of the family scandals, which she would not dream of repeating, but the memory brought a smile to her lips just the same.

She wiped it away, however, when Robert Ashton caught up with her and detained her just long enough to ensure their position at the rear of the line of march. He took her arm and, despite her fulminating look, did not release it.

“Will you not walk on the terrace with me?” he whispered. “I should like to speak with you privately.”

“I cannot imagine anything you may have to say which cannot be said in public,” she replied. She sounded overly petulant, even to her own ears, and would have apologized had she thought he would then let her join the others.

In truth, she did not wish to be alone with him because she could not control what she said or how she behaved with him, and she was beginning to despise the person who said and did the things she had because of him. She did not care to be reminded of that unpleasant female. If only he would give her an opening, she might summon the courage to take it in order to begin again with him—or at the least, take back those unjust accusations she now wished she had never voiced.

“Very well,” he said, when she said nothing more. “I wished only to tell you that I will be away from home for a few days, so you need not fear encountering me when you venture out of doors. I give you back your freedom of movement.”

She felt a sudden oppression over her heart, as if a weight had been laid on it, rather than lifted from it. He was going away again. She would not see him again for days. That must be a good thing. Yet somehow, the future looked even less appealing without the possibility of encountering him unexpectedly on the road or in the village. Certainly the past fortnight, since she had learned from Edina where he was, had been far from comfortable as she imagined what he might be doing.

She had never used to be so given to self-recrimination.

“I assure you, your presence in the neighborhood has never stood in the way of my freedom.” She pronounced this lie even as she watched herself, as if from outside herself, and was astonished at the cool way she still spoke to him. Why could she not simply ask him to stay, to help her begin anew with him?

“I was under the impression that you had just returned from London,” she went on, unable to stop herself. “Are its attractions such that you must return so soon? I suppose we must be flattered that you came home to honor us with your presence tonight.”

He smiled—condescendingly, she thought, no doubt unjustly—and said. “My dear Sabina, I cannot think where to begin to point out all the misconceptions you reveal by that remark. I am not, however, returning to London. I was fêted to within an inch of my life there, but I couldn’t stand the place. All the rooms have low ceilings.”

She suppressed an answering smile at that, turning her head to hide it. She remembered feeling the same way when she spent three months with one of her aunts in Leicester in lieu of a London season. She too had felt closed in, but she bit her lip and did not tell him about it.

He did not seem to notice her hesitation, however, and said then, “The fact is, I am going to a wedding in Devon.”

That surprised her into looking quickly up at him, but she saw only a mischievous smile in his eyes. “I don’t suppose you would care to come with me—see how it’s done, and meet the bride? You’d like Jane, I think, even if she is marrying a Frenchman. Or rather, remarrying him.”

“What?” The inelegant question was startled out of her.

He gave her a thoughtful look. “Ah, another misconception, I perceive,” he observed mildly.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do, but I won’t point it out to you.”

He was as good as his word and did not pursue the subject, although Sabina’s mind raced with speculation, and she was having an increasingly difficult time of it to maintain her cool demeanor. How could Edina have mistaken Robert’s relationship with this Jane? How could she have believed what Edina said rather than what her heart told her?

They strolled for a few minutes behind the others, making inconsequential remarks about a rustic landscape by Morland here, a Kneller portrait there, and at last she felt her breathing become more regular. She suspected that he was deliberately allowing her to compose herself before presenting her with some fresh shock.

She tensed slightly when they paused in front of a portrait of a striking-looking cavalier in blue silk and profusions of lace. He stood for the artist with one hand on his hip and the other on the head of a huge dog.

“At the risk of offending a Bromley,” Robert said, grinning, “this fellow reminds me forcefully of Viscount Markham.”

Sabina could not help seeing the resemblance as well. “I will not renounce any connection we may have with the Markhams out of hand.”

“I am glad to hear it. Nicky said he might visit here again when he returns from Wales.”

“I should be pleased to meet him.”

They continued along the gallery, whose polished parquet floor echoed back the swish of Sabina’s skirts. Alicia’s musical voice was lost to them as she and Richard turned into another room. Walking just ahead of them, Henry had his arm around Dulcie’s waist and was whispering something in her ear. Sabina tried not to look at them. She knew her defenses were crumbling, and the forced contemplation of another couple, happy in their love, the storm of their initial difficulties long gone, might undo her totally. She wondered where Georgina and Lewis had gone. Somewhere they could be alone together, she did not doubt.

“There is something I must ask you,” Robert said, detaining her when Henry and Dulcie had also moved out of their sight.

“Well, what is it?” She wished he were not so near. She wished she were not alone with him—it was too disturbing. Yet so comforting. She tried to move more quickly, to catch up with the others, but his hand on her arm detained her.

“Why do you despise my family so, Sabina?” he asked impersonally, as if inquiring whether she liked tea or coffee with her breakfast. “What have we ever done to deserve your scorn?”

Her anger flared again, briefly. “What have you done—!”

He waved his hand impatiently, silencing her. “I do not mean all this nonsense about rights of way and stolen manuscripts and so on.”

“It is not nonsense!”

“It involves only
things
, Sabina, not people. Like these portraits—they seem like people, but they are only paint and canvas. We Ashtons have never done anything to try to destroy the Bromleys as a family. Indeed, it could be argued that in the case of Lady Henry, we contributed to your family happiness—at our expense.”

“It does not seem to me that your brother is nurturing a broken heart.”

“No, I trust he is not. Even if he were, I will not be drawn into another quarrel about it. I have some family pride too, you know.”

He stopped before a still-life and turned her toward him. “Surely we can resolve our difference over things, over rights and possessions, easily enough if we just talk to one another. It need have nothing to do with the relationship between us two. If you wish, that subject need never be raised again. I ask you only to think about this, my dear, while I am away. I should not like to see my nephews inherit this absurd difference between neighbors which ought never to have begun. And somehow I cannot believe that you wish to inflict it on your niece and nephews any more than I do.”

His words were so sensible, his request so simple, that she could not dispute them. Neither could she think about them. Only his suggestion that they never speak again about their relationship echoed in her mind, and the knowledge that he was going away gave her no joy and no relief. She should accept his offer to never again speak to her of love and be glad that she need never again be reluctant to meet him for fear he would reawaken her love for him.

But no. She did not love
him
. It had been James Owen she loved, and he was gone as surely as if he had died beside Peter Ogilvey in the war.

It seemed she was to spend more time mourning lost love than enjoying its pleasures. She would never fall in love again; that was the only solution. She was doing right in removing to Carling. She would become a hermit if need be.

It was too painful to depend on someone else for her happiness.

If only she never felt this crushing hurt again.

He delivered the final blow to her pride then, when he leaned close to her ear and whispered, “Am I wearing you down yet, Miranda?”

She could not prevent a sob from welling up and nearly undoing her. She jerked herself out of his arms, but he would not give her an inch this time and brought her back to him, raising her chin to look into her tear-filled eyes. Through the mist, she thought she saw James Owen—or at least a look in Robert’s eyes that she remembered seeing in James Owen’s eyes—and threw her arms around him, heaving a sigh of despair.

He showed what little sympathy he had with her wounded pride by chuckling and saying, “Sabina, what has come over you? Much of what I love about you is your lively spirit, and something has thoroughly dampened that. I sincerely hope it was not I who made you into such a shadow of yourself.”

“Oh, no,” she said, sniffling and searching in her sleeve for a handkerchief. She finally accepted his and blew her nose. “It is all my fault, Robert. I have been so foolish—indeed, I can no longer remember what I was being so stubborn about.”

He smiled. “I shall not remind you then.” He looked at her more somberly and said, “And I promise never to mention it again, if you will forget it.”

“But—can you possibly forgive me? I cannot forget—and I cannot ask you to love me still, but—”

“Of course you can ask me anything. I forgive you. I love you. I agree with any foolish confession you wish to make, only do stop behaving like a watering pot.” He stroked her hair lightly with his hand, making her scalp tingle with the whisper of his touch. “After all,” he said then, so softly that she almost missed the words, “I cannot have a wife who weeps all day. What will the servants think?”

She looked up at that. “Wife…?”

He took advantage of the opening she offered by raising her chin and lowered his head to capture her mouth with his. His firmer touch paralyzed her for a moment, but then she put her arms around him more tightly and pulled the kiss out of him, giving it back a moment later in double measure.

“Sabina, Sabina,” he murmured into her hair. “I can think of no greater happiness than to be married to you.”

She gazed up at him wonderingly, drinking in his loving words while at the same time fearfully anticipating the next shock, the next revelation or lie or hurt that would separate them again and prove that this moment was too perfect to last.

It came from an unexpected quarter.

“I tell you, that is Lady Seraphina!” came Lady Kimborough’s voice, stridently, from the next gallery.

Sabina frowned, not sure what was happening, so caught up was she in her own confusion, but Robert muttered, “Damn and blast!” He took her arm, saying, “Come. Something has happened to cause a fresh outbreak of hostilities.”

They hurried into the gallery to find everyone but Lavinia bending over a glass display case. Lady Kimborough was standing furiously erect, pointing an accusing finger at the case, in an attitude worthy of Miss Siddons at her histrionic best.