Miss Richardson Comes Of Age (Zebra Regency Romance) (17 page)

 

 

In the Rolsbury box Thorne was pleased that Catherine was enjoying herself so. She and Brideaux were quite content in their country living and it was entirely by choice that they so seldom came to town.

“At home, I always forget how much I enjoy things like shopping on Bond Street and going to the theater.” Her eyes were bright with eagerness. “Thorne, who is that lovely girl who seems to have attracted so much attention?”

Thorne looked up just as the “lovely girl” trained her sweeping glasses on his box. Annabelle. She quickly lowered her glasses and turned her head.

Before Thorne could reply, Helen Rhys answered, “Oh, that is Annabelle Richardson.” When it became apparent to Helen that the name meant nothing to Catherine, Helen added, “It has only recently come out that
she
wrote the books attributed to an Emma Bennet.”

“Ah, yes. Of course. I just bought the newest one—her fourth or fifth work, I think. I have read all the others, but not the latest yet.” Catherine quickly looked again at the subject of their discussion.

Brideaux’s gaze followed his wife’s. “Pretty girl,” he said. “Looks too young to have written that much.”

“Looks can be deceiving,” Helen said. “And so can Miss Richardson, I am afraid.”

Thorne was aware of the look Helen slanted at him, but he refused to respond to it.

“Do you refer to that story she wrote, ‘Innocence something-or-other’?” Catherine asked.

“Innocence Betrayed.
Yes. It was quite clearly a
betrayal
—of her friendship with your brothers.”

“In all fairness,” Thorne said, “I must point out that she and I had not yet even met when that was written.”

“Which makes her caricatures even more unfair,” Helen said.

Thorne merely shrugged, unwilling to defend that particular work, but also strangely unwilling to enter into criticism of Annabelle. He racked his brain for a change in topic that might divert both Catherine and Helen.

“As I say, I have read her work,” Catherine said. “Even in the country, popular fare eventually comes to us.”

“Do you not agree that that piece was unfair to the people she so cruelly depicted?” Helen persisted.

“As a matter of fact, except for the portrait said to be Thorne—whom the author clearly did not know—I felt the characterizations were amazingly on target.”

“Are you serious?” Helen sounded appalled.

“Not gentle, mind you,” Catherine said. “Perhaps not even kind. But she apparently had ample motivation for what she wrote.”

“Well, she has apparently had second thoughts,” Helen said. “She dedicated this new book to R.”

“R?” Catherine asked.

“It has to be R for
Ralph.
Ralph Nettle is the Viscount Beelson,” Helen said knowingly. “He was the most severely maligned in the earlier work.”

Thorne noted a sharp intake of breath on Catherine’s part and quickly pointed out, “Miss Richardson is accompanied tonight by Lord Stimson.
His
given name is Robert.”

“So it is,” Helen said.

Thorne was glad when the curtain finally went up—and equally glad that he, Catherine, and David were provincial enough to find what happened on stage fascinating.

But he found it difficult to concentrate on the play. Who was the R of Annabelle’s dedication? Of course it was within the realm of possibility that it referred to himself, but given the strained relations between them of late, that was highly unlikely.

 

 

“The Post has a nice review of your book, Annabelle,” Harriet said as Annabelle entered the breakfast room the next morning.

“Oh? Read me the pertinent parts, please,” Annabelle said as she began making her selections from the breakfast buffet.

“ ‘Miss Bennet—or should we say Miss Richardson?—has written a readable, well-paced story. Beyond the particulars of action and character, she attempts to explore one of mankind’s more admirable traits. We refer, of course, to the heroism of the title. A weaker writer might have dealt only with physical courage of, say, a battlefield. Miss Richardson recognizes and presents other kinds of heroism as well.’ ” Harriet folded the paper back to the review and laid it beside Annabelle’s plate. “There is much more, and almost all of it praises your achievement.”

“As it should do,” Marcus said matter-of-factly.

Annabelle flashed him an appreciative smile and delved simultaneously into her breakfast and the review. When she had finished reading, she looked up to see Harriet watching her expectantly.

“Quite nice, is it not?” Harriet asked.

“Yes, it is, but I do wish the reviewer had not alluded to
Innocence Betrayed
as he did. This is the third reviewer who felt he had to mention that infernal earlier story.”

“I suppose it is only natural to compare a new book with an author’s earlier work.” Harriet poured herself another cup of coffee and lifted the pot to offer more to Marcus and Annabelle, who both declined.

“They
do
usually say something to the effect that ‘Innocence’ was not typical of your work,” Marcus noted.

“I know. And I am an ungrateful wretch to object so,” Annabelle said, “but they keep it alive when I should like to forget about it!”

“Give it time.” Marcus rose. “I must be off.”

When he had gone, Harriet put her cup down and said, “You
are
pleased about the responses to the book, are you not?”

“Oh, yes. Of course I am.”

“I sense a certain degree of hesitation. Do you regret publishing under your own name?”

“No. However, my own name has raised a few eyebrows. Not everyone approves a woman putting herself forward so.”

“Never mind the tabbies,” Harriet comforted. “Some people—and a surprising number of them are female—would have a woman of intelligence and talent hide her abilities. And they are particularly judgmental if such a woman has youth and beauty besides.”

Annabelle smiled. “You always manage to make me feel better.”

“Good! Now, while you finish your breakfast, I shall just run up to the nursery for a few moments. Then, I should like your assistance in the library.” Harriet rose and placed her serviette on the table beside her plate.

“Of course. With what?”

“Writing out invitations to a ball.”

“A ball? You are planning a ball—here?”

“That I am. And I need your help with the guest list.”

“Is there some occasion for such a grand undertaking?” Annabelle asked.

Harriet assumed a mockingly formal tone. “The Earl and Countess of Wyndham, my dear, are giving a lavish birthday ball for their one-time ward to mark the occasion of her coming of age.”

“For me? You are planning a ball for me?”

Harriet laughed and hugged her. “Unless you know of another ward we might have had.”

Thorne had scarcely seen the adult members of his family for three days. During the day he had been busy with business matters or with issues before Parliament. As usual, Luke had an engagement of some sort every night. One night Thorne attended a dinner for the officers of his regiment, hosted by Wellington at Apsley House. Another night the Brideauxs were invited out by friends.

He had, however, spent some time with the nursery set, and found himself growing increasingly fond of these small persons. Samuel had recently acquired a set of toy soldiers and had endless questions about how they should be arranged for battles. Thorne had no idea, really, of how one dealt with children, so he merely treated them as adults, albeit on their terms. To his surprise, the three older ones responded amazingly well to such treatment. Late one afternoon, Catherine discovered him seated in a big overstuffed chair, Katie on one knee, Benjamin on the other, and Samuel on an ottoman in front. Thorne was reading them a story with appropriate sound effects for the animal characters of the tale.

“Well! I see my offspring have found a new champion,” she said.

He grinned. “We are getting along quite nicely, thank you.”

“Do not allow them to plague you to death, now will you, Thorne?”

“I assure you, dear sister, I am here voluntarily.”

“Oh, well, in that case, I shall cease worrying.”

He finished the story, then joined David and Catherine in the drawing room, where they shared a settee.

“I must say, you looked quite natural in the guise of doting uncle,” Catherine observed.

“I enjoy your children,” he said simply, taking a chair across from them.

“They
are
a joy—most of the time. But believe me, rearing children—at least doing so properly—is a full-time job. Even when one has capable help as we do, you worry about them all the time—and hope you are not doing some abominable thing that will mar them for life. Right, darling?” She patted her husband’s knee.

“Right,” he grunted.

“So? What have you been doing with yourselves?” Thorne asked.

“David spent most of the day with bankers and at his club. And I finished Miss Richardson’s book. Have you read it yet, Thorne?”

“No. Nor do I intend to do so.”

She looked surprised. “Whyever not? It is quite good. And the reviews have been positive. Do not say you are developing one of those too-nice sensibilities that despise fiction.”

“No. I merely have little interest in reading any more of this writer’s work.” He did not add that he would find that a painful task.

“Well, I really think you should read this one. I think you, in particular, would find it most . . . interesting.”

“How so?”

“Well, it is about a soldier, for one thing. You always used to devour such tales.”

“Having been to war, I doubt any woman could write very tellingly of what it is like.” Thorne looked at his brother-in-law. “Would you not agree, David?”

“In general, yes . . .”

Catherine was not giving up. “Apparently Miss Richardson agrees with you, for she carefully skirts the details of battles.”

“And she still writes about ‘heroism rewarded’?”

“She does, indeed, for she deals with many types of courage.”

“Such as ... ?”

“The courage to overcome personal obstacles or some trait in oneself, the courage to persevere in the face of great opposition, the courage to place oneself in a precarious situation for the sake of others—and ‘precarious situation’ may or may not be physical danger.”

“Well, I can see she certainly got to
you,”
Thorne said, wondering at this unusual degree of enthusiasm.

“Yes, and I think she will get to you, too. I think she will get to
you
on a very special level.”

He threw up his hands in defense. “Very well. I shall read it—someday.”

“Read it now.”

“Why? Is there some urgency involved?” he asked disbelievingly.

“Sooner is better.” Her voice was firm.

“Give it up, Thorne,” David said. “When she gets that tone, a mere man is lost. You must at least
pretend
to agree with her.”

“What do you mean—‘pretend’?” she asked, her twinkling eyes belying the attempt at shock in her tone. “Of course you agree with me.”

“Yes, dear.” David’s tone was a parody of a submissive husband’s. He pulled his wife close and kissed her on the cheek.

It was an innocent and casual display of affection, and so utterly natural that Thorne found himself—again—in the position of envying one of his siblings.

“Read it
now,”
she repeated through her laughter.

Thorne made a great pretense of giving in with a heavy sigh. “Very well, now.”

She pointed behind him. “ ’Tis on that table by the door.”

A few minutes later, as he left to dress for dinner, he picked up the book and took it to his chamber. He tossed it on the bed and set about dressing for dinner and a ball he had agreed to attend only to lend his support and his presence to Catherine and David.

 

 

Annabelle had not wanted to attend the Carstairs’ ball. She suspected she was on the guest list because of her association with the Wyndham title and because of the recent stir caused by
Heroism Rewarded.
However, Harriet had insisted, so here she was.

Early in the evening, she was sitting out an energetic country dance when she was approached by none other than the Viscount Beelson.

“May I have this dance, Miss Richardson?”

She did not bother to hide her aversion to the very idea of dancing with him. “I just this instant refused Lord Torrance—I could hardly stand up with you.”

“Well, then—I shall just sit this one out with you.” He plopped himself in the empty chair next to hers.

“You might have waited for an invitation.” She knew she sounded testy. Mentally, she was even testier as she added to herself, And you would have waited and waited and . . .

“Yes, I might have done,” he said cheerily, “but I did not think such formality necessary between us anymore.”

“Whyever would you come to such a presumptuous conclusion? I do hope you do not intend pressing me for funds again.”

“Not at all, my dear. That was merely in the way of a joke—”

“A joke? You have a very curious sense of humor, Lord Beelson.”

He ignored her and went on, “And now that I know your real feelings, I am prepared to forgive you and renew my suit. I must say, love, you have pushed coy reluctance to a new level.”

Annabelle felt her jaw drop in surprise at this. The man was mad. Totally addled. “My real feelings? Forgive me? What
are
you talking about?”

“I saw the dedication of your book. ‘To R—with apologies.’ ” He grasped her hand. “And I
do
accept your apology, my dear.”

She discreetly jerked her hand away and stood, afraid there were spots of color on her cheeks that would display her agitation to dowagers and wallflowers nearby. “You, sir, are completely mad.” She turned abruptly and walked away, even as he rose from his chair, and she had a fleeting glimpse of astonished rage on his face.

Harriet was just coming from the dance floor. “Annabelle? Is something wrong?”

“You will never credit the conversation I just had!” She drew Harriet aside so the two of them were nearly hidden by some large potted plants. Then she described her encounter with Beelson.

“Good heavens!” Harriet exclaimed. “The man is delusional.”

“My thoughts precisely. That—or very desperate.”

“Be careful, my dear.”

They came from the semiseclusion of the potted plants to see Marcus coming toward them, accompanied by the Earl of Rolsbury and the guests who had been in his theater box a few nights before.

“Lady Wyndham, Miss Richardson, may I present my sister Lady Catherine Brideaux and her husband Baron David Brideaux?” Thorne spoke formally, his tone neutral.

They exchanged appropriate greetings, then Catherine said, “I am very glad to meet
you,
especially, Miss Richardson, for I’ve only today finished reading your book.”

“I hope you liked it,” Annabelle said politely.

“Oh, I did. Very much. I am now persuading the rest of my family to read it.”

Why is she telling me Thorne has not read it? Annabelle wondered. She gave Lady Brideaux a penetrating look, but it was returned with only a bland smile. Annabelle shifted her gaze to Thorne, but could not read his expression.

“I understand the book is doing well,” Lord Brideaux said. “The reviews I have seen have been positive.”

“Yes. I am gratified that the reviewers have been so kind,” Annabelle replied.

“She is far too modest,” Harriet said fondly, linking her arm with Annabelle’s.

“I agree,” Lady Brideaux said. “I quite liked the book and I wonder—that is, if you would not consider it too presumptuous of me—I wonder if I might call upon you, Miss Richardson, to discuss it? I have some questions I should very much like to ask you.”

Surprised, Annabelle looked from Lady Brideaux to Thorne. He seemed taken aback by his sister’s request, too.

“Why, I ... of course you may,” Annabelle said. “Tomorrow, perhaps?”

It was agreed upon and Rolsbury drifted away, his guests in tow.

“What do you suppose she has in mind?” Harriet asked.

“To discuss the book?” Marcus offered, sounding practical.

“I wondered, too,” Annabelle said.

“That
lady is not an overly impressed, undereducated enthusiast dabbling in literature,” Harriet asserted. “She has a purpose.”

“A method in her madness?” Marcus teased.

“We shall know tomorrow,” Annabelle said.

 

 

Thorne was surprised at Catherine’s wanting to meet Miss Richardson and then at her wanting to call on her. It was out of character for Catherine. Nor was he sure if he wanted the two women to know each other. Then he shrugged. What difference should it be to him? He just hoped they would not become bosom friends, for if they
did,
it would make forgetting Annabelle that much more difficult.

As he climbed into bed, he had to move Annabelle’s book. Well, he would just look it over—scan a few pages—before he went to sleep.

The first thing to catch his eye was, as he expected, the dedication. “To R—with apologies.”
With apologies?
She was apologizing to Beelson? Perhaps. He had seen her sitting with him briefly earlier in the evening, though he had thought then she did not appear to be in charity with the man.

Still, R could also refer to Stimson.
Or
to yourself, he thought in a fit of self-disgust. Face it—that is what you
want
it to be. Just read the damned book!

And so he did.

For the rest of the night and into the morning.

He found himself absorbed in the struggles of the heroine, Portia, as she worked to perfect her artistic technique and develop a style of her own—and then had to face Society’s censure in getting her work accepted. He sympathized with Portia’s longing to have her work recognized even as she sought to protect an aristocratic family name. Portia also faced censure and contempt within her own family, for her father was violently opposed to her daubing paint on canvas and always smelling of turpentine instead of roses.

Except for this last, Thorne recognized the parallel between Portia and Annabelle. Annabelle, after all, enjoyed the wholehearted support—and unswerving loyalty—of her “family.” But she must have faced—be facing—similar slights in certain other quarters. Yet, she had chosen to publish this book under her own name. The addition of a disapproving family added poignancy and drama to Portia’s story.

Then Annabelle began to intertwine Portia’s story with Nathan’s. The two clashed because Portia was headstrong and Nathan was stubborn. Nathan was a much-acclaimed war hero whose feats on the battlefield were famous far and wide. Home on leave, he was feted by royalty and cheered by commoners.

“Overdoing it a bit there,” Thorne muttered to himself, but read on.

On his return to the wars, Nathan was terribly wounded and would have died but for the ministrations of his batman. Thorne was struck by the accuracy of Annabelle’s descriptions of the return of wounded on overcrowded troop ships and hospital conditions once they arrived in England. She had apparently talked with men who really knew.

Then she launched into what she obviously felt was Nathan’s greater heroism—his struggle to walk. And now Thorne knew for sure he was reading about himself.

“I shall kill that errant brother of mine,” he grumbled. But, again, he read on.

The details did not always coincide with his own situation, but the essence of the tale did. He was especially moved by the faithful servant patiently aiding Nathan, keeping up appearances with his short-tempered employer, and then dissolving in “unmanly” tears below-stairs.

“I’ll be damned. I had no idea,” he said quietly, humbled. He knew it was true, though. This was not merely a detail she made up to add emotion to her story. “Hinton deserves a raise.”

The author was not finished with her at times irascible hero and his courage. Now, as Nathan worked not only to cope with matters of his estate, he also took up social issues that had long been overlooked. And now, Thorne observed, Annabelle had created a composite figure, drawing on not only the Earl of Rolsbury, but also the Earl of Wyndham.

The sun was well and truly up when he closed the book. Knowing sleep would be impossible now, he arose and donned riding clothes. A hard ride would clear his mind, he was sure.

 

 

Annabelle and Harriet welcomed Thorne’s sister cordially as she was shown into the drawing room. Harriet rang for refreshments and the three of them talked of mundane matters for a while. Then, Harriet excused herself, murmuring something about seeing to her son in the nursery.