Simply Love (18 page)

And how foolish to have hoped she could lie with Sydnam Butler and taken pleasure from the experience just as if she were a normal woman.

Memory was like a raw wound that each passing mile only aggravated.

She had
known
him. She had been known
by
him. And yet her body had somehow remained aloof from the wonder of it.

She had been terribly afraid that he would not come to say good-bye.

She had been terribly afraid that he would.

And then when he
had
come, when she had looked for the very last time into his handsome, damaged face, there had been only pain.

And the terrible temptation to tell him that she had changed her mind.

She had not.

They had gravitated toward each other during the past month and spent time with each other—ah, yes, and lain together—because they were both lonely.

But that explanation was wearing very thin.

Surely it was not just the knowledge that she was alone again, without a man in her life again, that caused the sharp pain in her throat and chest that would not go away?

She supposed she had fallen ever so slightly in love with Sydnam Butler. Or perhaps a whole lot in love with him.

She had fallen in love with an impossibility.

The carriages stopped outside Lady Potford's house on Great Pulteney Street, since Joshua and his family were to stay there for a couple of nights before returning to Cornwall. The one carriage was to continue on its way to Daniel Street with the baggage, but Anne and David chose to walk the rest of the way in order to stretch their legs. Joshua insisted upon accompanying them. He offered Anne his arm. David walked close to his other side.

“Anne,” he said, “it was a pleasant month, was it not?”

“Very pleasant indeed,” she assured him. “Thank you so much for thinking to invite us, Joshua.”

“And yet here you both are,” he said, “Friday-faced on a Tuesday.”

“I am not—” Anne protested.

“I wish we could have stayed forever and ever,” David cried passionately. He had come very close to shedding tears again a short while ago as he said good-bye to Daniel and Emily and shook hands with Lady Hallmere.

“Yes, it would have been desirable,” Joshua agreed. “But all good things end, lad. If they did not, there would be no new good things to look forward to. If Miss Martin can spare you, perhaps you will both come to Penhallow for Christmas. That will give us all something new to look forward to.”

David, Anne suddenly noticed, was actually holding Joshua's hand, something he normally considered quite beneath his nine-year-old dignity.

“Anne,” Joshua said, turning to her as they made their way up Sutton Street toward the school. “I am sorry Sydnam Butler does not live closer to Bath. Yours was a friendship we all watched with interest.”

She was very glad she had not realized that at the time.

“It was
just
a friendship,” she assured him.

“Was it?” He looked into her face.

But they had rounded the corner onto Daniel Street, and Claudia and Susanna, alerted by the arrival of the carriage with their bags, were out on the doorstep watching for them. Anne was swallowed up in hugs and greetings and laughter. And just as she drew free and looked beyond them to the doorway, she saw another lady standing there, looking tall and dark and slender and elegant and exquisitely fashionable—and smiling joyfully.

“Frances!” Anne exclaimed, and stepped into her open arms.

“Lucius and I are just back from the Continent,” Frances, the Countess of Edgecombe, told her, “and came to Bath on our way home to see if one of you would like to spend the final two weeks of the holiday with us at Barclay Court. Susanna is going to come. Anne, how
delighted
I am that you have arrived home just in time for me to see you. I never stop missing you. And just
look
how bronzed you are!”

Frances had found love in a snowstorm when her carriage ran into a snowbank, driven there by the reckless driving of the earl and his coachman as they overtook it. It had been hate at first sight—and love ever after. For some time after Frances's wedding the three remaining friends had looked at life with more hope, though they had not admitted as much to one another.

“I would have
hated
missing you,” Anne said. “Oh, Frances, just look at
you
.”

But she turned back to the doorway before going inside and could see that David was right up in Joshua's arms out on the pavement, his arms wrapped tightly about Joshua's neck, his face buried against his shoulder. Joshua had one hand spread over the back of the boy's head and was kissing the side of it.

Anne's eyes were blinded by tears and she blinked them away.

Why did everything wonderful have to be left behind? she wondered. Why was life so heavily punctuated with good-byes?

Joshua set David down, cupped his face with both hands, kissed his forehead, and turned to Anne.

“You have done a fine, fine job with him, Anne,” he said, reaching out his right hand. “He is a great lad. I'll write from Penhallow.”

She set her hand in his as David darted past her into the school, not pausing to greet any of the ladies or even Keeble, one of his favorite people.

“Thank you again,” she said.

“Anne,” he said, lowering his voice and tightening his grip on her hand, “you
are
doing a fine job, but that lad needs a family. And there is one waiting to acknowledge him in Cornwall—Prue and Ben, Constance and Jim Saunders, Freyja and me. And Chastity and Meecham too, though they don't live there. David has aunts and uncles and cousins even if he
was
born out of wedlock. You must at least think about telling him something of his lineage. Will you?”

“I can look after my own son, Joshua,” she said stiffly, withdrawing her hand. “But I do thank you for being so kind to him.”

“I'll write,” he said, shaking his head, clearly in frustration.

“Good-bye, Anne.”

“Good-bye,” she said, and watched him until he had turned the corner and gone out of sight.

But there were different kinds of good-byes, she thought. This one was not heart-wrenching for her, though it clearly was for David. She would see Joshua again—perhaps as soon as Christmas.

She would never see Sydnam again.

Not ever.

Susanna linked an arm through hers and she stepped inside the school with her friends.

She was back home and it was good to be here.

But never was an awfully long time.

By the time Anne got David to bed that night she seemed finally
to have convinced him that Christmas was not so very far away. He had been partly consoled too by the interest Matron and several of the girls had shown in his holiday. He had regaled them with tales of where he had been and what he had done.

“Mama,” he admitted after she had told another episode of an ongoing bedtime story and tucked him in for the night, “it
is
good to be back. I like having my little room all to myself.”

Yes. It was good to be back. And there would be much to do in the coming days. Susanna was going to Barclay Court with Frances and the Earl of Edgecombe, and so there would be only Anne and Claudia to amuse the girls. And there were classes for the coming year to prepare. There were letters to write—of thanks to the Duchess of Bewcastle, of simple friendship to Lady Aidan and her aunt, to Lady Rosthorn, and to Miss Thompson and the other Bedwyn wives.

It was good to be back.

Tired as she was after the long journey and the teeming emotions with which she had left Glandwr, Anne sat up late in Claudia's sitting room, the quartet of friends complete again with her return and Frances's visit. Frances was staying the night at the school despite the fact that the earl had taken rooms at the Royal York Hotel. He had come to dinner but had then left, telling the ladies that he realized his presence would be decidedly de trop for the rest of the night, besides which he needed his beauty rest but realized they would all sit up talking for at least half the night.

Anne liked him. They all did, and they all rejoiced in Frances's happily-ever-after.

They talked about Frances's travels and singing successes on the Continent, about Anne's month in Wales—minus all reference to Sydnam Butler—about the school holiday in Bath, and about numerous other topics. They had always been able to talk to one another about anything and everything. It had always seemed to Anne that they were far more like sisters than mere friends. They still missed Frances's constant presence among them, even though she had been gone for two years.

It
did
feel good to be back.

Anne hugged Susanna and Frances the following morning when the earl came for them in his carriage and waved them on their way from the pavement, Claudia at her side. And then they smiled at each other and went back inside the school to organize the girls for their planned walk and picnic in nearby Sydney Gardens.

Two weeks passed with busy holiday-time activities, including walks and picnics and games in the meadow beyond the school and treasure hunts within the school itself. Sometimes Anne sat with the girls, in the common room or in their dormitory, talking with them, listening to them, trying to give them some sense of family, some realization that there were adults who cared about them. But inevitably the new school year approached. There were to be a number of new girls. Indeed, the total number of both boarders and day pupils was to increase, since the school was prospering. Lila Walton, a promising senior pupil from last year, had stayed on in order to become a junior teacher—just as Susanna had done four years before. Anne spent several hours with her, helping her to prepare.

And finally Susanna returned, relaxed and bronzed and full of energy and stories of her holiday at Barclay Court.

Claudia was engaged to dine that evening with the parents of one of the new day pupils. Anne and Susanna sat up alone together in Anne's room after everyone else had retired for the night, Susanna seated on the bed, her arms clasped about her raised knees, Anne on the chair beside her small desk.

“I hated to lose Frances when she left here two years ago to marry the earl,” Susanna said with a sigh. “But, oh, Anne, she made the right decision. I am so very envious. The earl is very charming. And he is terribly proud of her. He does not at all resent having to travel such long distances so that she can sing. Indeed, I believe he revels in her fame.”

“And he is as much in love with her as he always was when he pursued her so relentlessly,” Anne said. “That was obvious when he dined here with us.”

Susanna sighed again. “Was it not like a fairy tale, their romance?” she said. “He would
not
let her go, would he, even though he was
Viscount Sinclair
and heir to the earldom and Frances was a lowly teacher at our school. But she was
so
beautiful. She is even more so now. Marriage and travel and a singing career obviously agree very well with her.”

They were quiet for a moment, both glad of Frances's happiness, both rather melancholy for their own sakes.

“And what of you?” Anne asked. “Did you really have a lovely time? Did you meet anyone interesting?”

“Like a duke to sweep me off my feet and bear me off to his castle as his bride?” Susanna laughed. “No, not quite, alas. But Frances and Lord Edgecombe were very obliging, Anne, and made sure there was some entertainment for me to attend almost every day, even though I am sure they would have been just as happy to relax and be quiet together after being away for so long. I met some amiable and interesting people, most of whom I knew from before, of course.”

“But no one special?” Anne asked.

“No,” Susanna said. “Not really.”

Anne raised her eyebrows.

“Only one gentleman,” Susanna admitted, “who made his intentions very clear, and they were not honorable ones. It was the old story, Anne. Yet he was very handsome and very amiable. Never mind. And you? You told us a great deal about your Welsh holiday the evening before I left, but nothing that was very personal. Did
you
meet anyone interesting?”

“The Bedwyns,” Anne said, smiling, “are all quite fascinating, Susanna—and that is actually an understatement. The Duke of Bewcastle is every bit as formidable as he is reputed to be. He has cold silver eyes and long fingers that are forever curling about the handle of his quizzing glass. He is quite terrifying. And yet he was unfailingly courteous to me. The duchess is a delight and not at all high in the instep, and it is quite clear that he adores her though he is never ever demonstrative in public. He also adores their son, who is a cross, demanding little baby—except when his father is holding him. And he holds him rather often. He is a strange, mysterious, fascinating man.”

Susanna rested her chin on her knees.

“All this talk of married dukes is depressing me,” she said, her eyes nevertheless twinkling. “Was there no one who was
unmarried
?”

“No dukes.” Anne smiled too, but she had a sudden, unbidden memory of sitting on the stile at TÅ· Gwyn, smiling down at Sydnam Butler and setting her hand in his before descending. And of the perfect summer day that had surrounded them.

Susanna was looking very directly at her.

“Oh, Anne,” she said.
“Who?”

“No one really,” Anne said quickly, shifting position on the chair. But she felt instantly contrite. “Oh, what a dreadful thing to say of another human being. He very definitely is
someone
. He is the duke's steward at Glandwr. He was alone and I was alone, and so it was natural enough that occasionally we walked out together or sat together on evenings when he was invited to dine. That is all.”

She willed herself not to blush.

“All,” Susanna repeated, still gazing steadily at her. “And was he tall, dark, and handsome, Anne?”

“Yes,” Anne said. “All three.”

Susanna continued to gaze.

“We were merely friends,” Anne said.

“Were you?” Susanna spoke softly.

“We were.” Anne could not quite bring herself to smile. And she could no longer sit still. She got to her feet and crossed to the window. She pulled back one curtain and looked out onto the blackness of the meadow. “We were very…dear friends.”

“But he did not make an offer,” Susanna said. “Anne, I am so sorry.”

There was a lengthy silence, during which Anne did not contradict her friend.

“Do you think,” Susanna asked as last, “life would be easier, Anne, if one had parents and family to take one about, to make sure one met suitable people, to arrange for one to meet eligible suitors? Would it be easier than living at a girls' school as one of the teachers?”

“I am not sure,” Anne said, closing the curtains again, “that life is ever easy. Very often girls and women make disastrous marriages even while surrounded by family to help guide their choice or make it for them. I think given the choice between a bad marriage and life here, I would choose being here. In fact, I am certain I would.”

She set her forehead against the curtain for a moment before turning back into the room.

“It was
so
ungrateful of me,” Susanna said, “even to ask that question. Good fortune was smiling on me when I was sent here to school, and I was blessed beyond belief when Claudia offered me a position on the staff. And I have such very good friends here. What more could I ask of life?”

“Ah, but we are women as well as teachers, Susanna,” Anne said, sitting down again. “We have needs that nature has given us for the very preservation of our species.”

Needs that could sometimes be horribly damaged but not destroyed.

Susanna stared at her for several silent moments.

“And sometimes,” she said, “they are very hard to ignore. I was
very
tempted this summer, Anne. To be a man's mistress. Part of me is still not convinced that I made the right choice. And will I be able to make the same choice next time? And the next?”

“I don't know.” Anne smiled ruefully at her.

“What poor, sad spinsters we are,” Susanna said, laughing and pulling herself off the bed. She brushed out the creases from her skirt. “I am for my lonely bed. The journey has tired me out. Good night, Anne.”

Three days later all the boarders returned to school from their holiday and greeted one another—and their teachers—with boisterous good cheer and noisy chatter, and all the new girls arrived with stiff apprehension on their faces, especially the two charity girls who came alone, without even the comfort of parents, sent by Mr. Hatchard, Miss Martin's London agent. The fees of one of them were being paid by Lady Hallmere—though Claudia did not know her identity, of course.

Anne took the two under her wing and noted almost immediately that one of them was going to need extra lessons in elocution, since her Cockney accent made the English language on her lips virtually unintelligible and that the other was going to have to be coaxed firmly and patiently—and with large doses of love—out of her unfortunate manner of belligerent bravado.

The following morning, the day pupils arrived and classes began.

For the next month life was busy. Anne fulfilled all her teaching duties and gave special care to the new charity girls. She spent most of her free time with David—who was excited at the promise Mr. Upton had made to introduce oil paints to his art classes after Christmas. She wrote and received several letters from the Bedwyn ladies and Joshua. She helped David reply to the letters Davy and Becky and Joshua had written to him.

Indeed, life seemed remarkably normal considering the fact that it was becoming increasingly obvious to Anne that there was nothing normal about hers at all. She had missed her courses before school started and had desperately tried to convince herself that it was merely because of the upsets in her life during the previous month. She had continued to hope even when she started to feel slightly nauseated after rising in the mornings—as she had done ten years ago.

But of course—had she expected a miracle?—she missed her courses for a second time at the end of September and thought about what Sydnam Butler had once said about choices. She had chosen a month and a half ago to lie with him because she had wanted him and he had wanted her and it was their last day together. And that choice had forever changed her life.

It was a terrifying thought.

But there was nothing she could do now to change that choice or avoid its repercussions. She could only move onward with her life.

She waited for a chilly Saturday morning after Susanna had taken most of the girls outside for games in the meadow and David had gone with them. Then she knocked on the door of Claudia Martin's office and let herself in when she was summoned.

“May I disturb you?” she asked. She and Susanna and Lila had sat in Claudia's private sitting room just the evening before, drinking tea and chatting on a wide variety of topics, and Anne might have remained when the other two retired for the night. But she had known that she needed a more formal setting for what she had to say.

Claudia looked up from her desk.

“The last of the stragglers has just paid the school fees,” she said. “I do believe we are going to do well financially again this year, Anne. Within two or three years I hope to be able to inform Mr. Hatchard that we no longer need the assistance of our benefactor.”