Marjorie Farrel (21 page)

Robin cleared his throat and, sounding more polite than Simon had ever heard him, said, “Excuse me for having intruded. I only came to see if you wanted me for anything, Simon.”

Simon was too exhilarated, and he felt too natural with Diana to imagine what Robin might be feeling. He only saw an opportunity to bring them together.

“Thank you, Robin, but Diana and I were just waltzing. I’m afraid I stepped on her toes a few times, but she was kind enough to overlook it. One dance is enough for me tonight. Why don’t the two of you go out and enjoy the next one? I am sure she would welcome a more adept partner?”

Neither Robin or Diana could easily get out of the dance, as Simon well knew, without being openly rude to each other. And since both wanted to pretend indifference, they were left with no alternative.

“I will be back directly,” Robin said, wanting to strangle Simon, both for dancing with the lady and for putting him in such an awkward position.

“Thank you, your grace,” Diana said. “Perhaps on another occasion we may waltz again?”

“If you save one for me, I will gladly partner you,” Simon said. He smiled to himself as he heard Robin and Diana uttering polite nothings as they walked out the door.

“I shall be back soon,” Robin repeated, wasting an angry glance on Simon. Simon might not have been able to see his friend’s face, but he could certainly sense his annoyance. He was glad, for all that, that he had forced the two together. Indeed, he thought, all they need is enough time and they will realize they still care for each other. And I will do my best to engineer another encounter.

When Robin returned, Simon innocently asked him to bring him over to Diana to bid her good night and thank her. “For it felt wonderful to waltz again, Robin, and I would never have attempted it without her encouragement. Of course, I will have to confine my dancing to anterooms, but I believe I will make sure I am down for one waltz an evening with the lady, if she will have me.”

Robin could not refuse to lead Simon over without looking foolish. He had chosen not to confide in his friend about what had occurred between Diana and him and the reasons for their estrangement. Indeed, he had made it sound like they had only indulged in nothing more than a light flirtation, so he could hardly blame Simon either for his response to Diana or for throwing them together. Nevertheless, he found himself jealous and resentful, and ashamed of both feelings. I am acting the dog in the manger, he thought. She rejected me, and I accepted that; indeed, I was relieved by it when I realized how shallow she is. I do not want her, he protested to himself, so why should Simon not enjoy her company?

When Simon had made his farewells, he and Robin decided to walk rather than wait for the carriage. They were both quiet. Robin felt a certain constraint because of his mixed feelings. Simon, on the other hand, was enjoying the memory of his encounter with Diana. She had inspired in him a certain playfulness, a letting-go as they danced, that had been missing from his life for months.

Two years of campaigning and then his months of recovery had seemingly wiped out his capacity to just enjoy life. All of his energy lately had been focused on proving his independence and finding a renewed purpose in life. Aside from riding and his companionship with Robin, he had, he realized, become too serious. Diana had given him some moments of carefree pleasure. The remembrance of moving confidently to music again and holding an attractive woman in his arms made him want to see her again. It was because Diana was attached to Robin that Simon had enjoyed her company so much. They both could and had flirted with each other, knowing it meant nothing beyond the moment. Simon was planning to call upon her, for his own enjoyment and, he hoped, slowly and subtly bring her into contact with Robin.

Simon’s thank you to Robin was therefore rather distracted, and Robin’s ritual disclaimers less wholehearted when they reached the house. But they planned to ride the following afternoon and so each went to bed reassured that nothing had changed, while somewhere, under the surface, aware that everything had.

While Simon was relearning the waltz, Judith was re-learning discipline. During her three years as governess, in spite of—or, now she thought, perhaps because of—her limited hours to herself, she had taught herself to keep a schedule and made sure that she had had some time for her art every day. She had no illusions about herself: she had some talent, but not genius. She knew what her limits were: no large oils, though she longed to be capable of them, but small, detailed pen-and-inks and watercolors. She was excellent at nature drawing and had notebooks full of sketches of birds, trees, and “weeds,” as the children used to call her pictures of wild-flowers. London was hardly the place for a nature artist, particularly a female one. Taking her sketchbook to the park was possible in the early morning, before many were out, but up until now, most of her mornings had been taken up by her reading for the duke and riding with the Stanleys. A long day tramping around Hampstead Heath would have been just the thing, but was dangerous alone. And so, between getting the house in good order and her post with the duke, Judith had been neglecting her drawing.

She found it difficult to get up, particularly in the middle of the week, and know there was no possibility of seeing Simon. She missed him terribly, more than she would have thought possible. They had developed a friendship unlike Judith had ever had with a man. Close as she was to her brother and however much she enjoyed Robin, neither of them knew her as well as Simon. How amazing, she thought, that someone you have known only for weeks, could know you better than a brother. Even her intimacy with Barbara, deep and long-standing as it was, was quite different from the intimacy developed in the duke’s library. Barbara and she created their closeness by long talks over tea and the conscious sharing of their feelings.

Although Simon and Judith had certainly built their friendship with words, it was in the silences between that Judith was most aware of their connection, and this connection was something not created, but seemingly discovered, having been in existence before they met, only waiting to be found by them.

And so, at first, she had to make herself go through the motions: setting aside some time in the mornings and the late afternoons, when the light was what she wanted; only adding one more day of riding; and going off by herself to find the right tree or a small bird puffing its feathers against the cold. Inside, she worked on still lifes: three apples, two whole and one sliced open crosswise to expose the star hidden in its center; Hannah’s hands kneading bread; or Stephen’s profile as he sat by the fire in the evening, engrossed by his work.

There was some solace in realizing the world was still there, waiting for her to see it. As she filled her sketchbooks, she could not think of Simon. Imagine missing this, she would think as she drew a winter tree, branches feeling like her own veins. Or the pink-tipped white flesh of an apple. I would die if I lost my sight, she thought as she rediscovered it. All of London would not be enough to destroy in her rage, and Simon had only laid waste one library.

Through Robin and Barbara she heard about Simon. He had hired a new reader, they said, and surely must be missing her, since this Mr. Wiggins seemed to be a nondescript man and hardly the reader Judith was. The duke was riding with Robin, as usual, and beginning preparation for a speech on the Corn Laws. And most astonishingly of all, he was attending the occasional ball and had actually waltzed with Diana Grahame.

“In fact,” said Barbara one afternoon over tea, “Simon has been in Diana’s company quite frequently. Except for his never failing to spend some time with plain little Alice Hyde, Diana is most definitely his most frequent companion. And I am not sure if I am pleased or not. Dev is devastated—and I don’t mean to be humorous,” chided Barbara as Judith laughed at her phrasing. “I can’t help but be relieved that Diana is not serious about him, but he is convinced his heart is broken and he will never love another woman. And maybe he won’t ...”

“From all I have heard,” Judith said, “I think this was certainly a case of infatuation, sudden and all-consuming. He had never been in love before, had he?”

“No, not since he was ten and in love with the Honorable Melissa Norfolk, who came to his birthday all in pink and white and was afraid of everything. Dev hovered over her all afternoon—it was quite touching and just as infuriating as it is now, I must say!”

“So even then you cared about him?”

“Yes, even then, the more fool I,” Barbara said.

“I think,” said Judith slowly, “he must have been drawn to Diana for some other reason than the obvious attraction of the older woman. He is quite warmhearted, the viscount, and likes to be the protector, I think.”

“Well, no one could use a protector less than Diana,” protested Barbara. “She managed to jilt Robin when they had almost come to an understanding. And that is the other thing. I am happy to see Simon enjoying himself, but it must be a strain on Robin. He accompanies them riding and is usually Simon’s companion in the evenings. I know he does not mind being Simon’s guide, but it means he is constantly with them. I have seen Simon and Diana laughing, and Robin just standing there with a polite smile fixed on his face. Of course, he has never admitted his feelings to Simon, so it is not Simon’s fault ... but what a tangle! No one is happy but that harpy.”

Judith raised her eyebrows. “Surely too strong a word, Barbara. After all, we cannot know what she is thinking or feeling. Although I certainly wish I did. I know Simon needs to discover he is still attractive to women, but I hate it that he does it with someone other than me.”

Judith went home that day as unhappy as she had ever been in her life. It was all very well, she thought that night as she lay in bed, to have grand ideas about love and freedom, but why had she sent Simon out to find out how lovable he was? Why was she such an idealist? If the price of integrity and honesty was loneliness for the rest of her life, she was not sure she was prepared to pay it. It was one thing to see Simon regularly and know he could never be a husband or lover. Their enjoyment of each other’s company made it easy to live in the moment, and then go home and dream he would fall in love with her and sweep away all social barriers with the force of his feeling.

In fact, she thought, looking at herself honestly, I reacted as much out of hurt pride at having my daydreams shattered as I did out of care for Simon. Judith blushed in the darkness as she realized how she must have sounded to him. He had been realistic; she hadn’t. She had been living for some sort of dream of what marriage might be, when marriage wasn’t even likely for her at all. Simon’s offer of companionship was the only offer she would ever receive. Why hadn’t she accepted it, as Robin had suggested, in the quite realistic hope that friendship would develop into love? But, no, she was still too much of a green girl who read love sonnets and believed that they described real life.

To know that she herself had sent him out to fall in love with a more suitable woman out of pride and romantic idealism, hurt in a particularly devastating way. Giving him up because there was no possibility of ever having him generated a pain that was, in a way, rather soothing. I could have lived on dreams of “what might have been” quite happily, she realized, going to his library and reading to him for twenty years. This pain was different. It felt like a scouring of her insides, a burning-off of old illusions, with no promise of a new life. She felt like a burned-off field, one that would remain unplanted, dead, and dry.

In addition to the desolation, she felt a stirring of jealousy. Why should Lady Diana be loved by Simon? She had her choice of anyone; she had rejected Robin; she had encouraged Dev; she had money, rank; and Judith had nothing. Her art! Small consolation at this time of night.

It seemed to Judith that all the hurt at losing her father and being forced to work as a governess and all the buried anger at her lost freedom were rising up in her, swelling her throat until she could barely swallow. When at last the tears came, they came in great wrenching sobs. She buried her face in her pillow and let them come, until she fell asleep against the cold, wet linen.

When she awoke the next morning, she looked and felt awful. Her eyes were still swollen, and she had to bathe her face for a few minutes before she was presentable enough to go downstairs.

Stephen looked up quickly from his paper to greet his sister and stopped in midsentence.

“Whatever is wrong, Judith? You look dreadful.”

“I am fine now, Stephen. I just had a restless night.” Judith had not confided in her brother. He was, as young men are, quite absorbed in his work. She had not spoken about the duke very much, but Stephen could see she found the position satisfying and stimulating. They would often find themselves discussing politics after dinner on the days Judith had been to read, and his sister, who had always been more conversant in literature and art, was becoming an astute commentator on the domestic economic situation. Stephen was too young and too oblivious to emotional subtleties to think more about Judith’s obvious enjoyment of their new life together.

He would never have dreamed that his sister would be thinking of the duke as anything but her employer. A companionable and sympathetic one, to be sure, but the social distance was great enough that Simon would not imagine bridging it. He knew something had caused a disagreement, but Judith had chosen not to burden him with the details of her dismissal beyond a bland “It was mutually decided we would no longer suit. The duke needs someone now who is more familiar with parliamentary language,” was the way she had put it. She had not wished to tell her brother of Simon’s offer and her refusal. And it all seemed so fantastic now, the offer itself and her scruples, that she wished to forget she had ever met the duke.

“Why don’t you go back to bed, my dear, and let Hannah bring you some chocolate? It looks like you need a day devoted only to rest and pleasure.”