A Kiss from the Heart (6 page)

He was soon on the correct floor and pushed open the glazed-oak doors that led to a corridor full of dressing rooms.

Constance was playing the lead role in Mrs. Henry Wood's
East Lynne
as
Catherine, the ill-fated heroine who runs away with her lover only to spend the remainder of her days regretting her decision of leaving her two children with her abandoned husband.

The Earl had dismissed the production as women's nonsense and had refused to watch a single performance, a fact that had irked Constance a great deal.

Pausing outside dressing room number twelve, the Earl adjusted his top hat and white cravat. He wished he had changed out of his sombre mourning suit, but it was now too late.

He knocked softly on the door twice and waited.

“Come in!”

Constance's lovely voice was low and melodious.

When she was on stage it was impossible to hear any trace of her Devon burr that belied her origins. Yet when offstage and not on guard, her extenuated vowels and rolling
rs
betrayed her.

Now as he strode in, he could see that Constance's dresser, Lily, was still present. She was carrying the white gown that Constance wore in the final death scene.

“Good evening, Robert,” she welcomed him, not looking away from her own reflection in the large mirror in front of her. “I am glad you received my note.”

“I am sorry I did not see your performance – ” he began, taking off his top hat.

“Lily, shoo!” pouted Constance, suddenly turning around to flap her hands at the young girl. “Leave it until tomorrow.”

The girl did not say anything, but simply scuttled towards the door and closed it quietly behind her.

“That's much better,” she purred, her long Devon
r
curling around her lips like a cat's paw.

She turned to face him and, in one swift movement, leapt to her feet and threw her alabaster-white arms around his neck. Her warm red mouth sought his and they kissed.

“I am so glad to see you,” she murmured, nuzzling his neck with her thick curls. But, as she spoke, the Earl could feel himself disengaging from her.

Even though he had been looking forward to seeing her and enjoying her charms, now that she was wound around him like a climbing plant, he felt suffocated.

Her bright brown eyes shone as she handed him a bottle of champagne to open.

He thought that perhaps some alcohol would make him feel more receptive to her, but even after draining two glasses, he felt numb inside.

‘What ails me?' he asked himself, as Constance now invited him to sit down and then immediately installed herself upon his lap. ‘I do not feel the slightest desire for her tonight. When I received her note, I was eager to see her and now I find myself longing for solitude.'

Constance chattered away and paid him a great deal of attention, calling him “her own” and “dearest”, all the while failing to sense his distance. Or perhaps she did – which is why she became so affectionate towards him.

“I am quite famished!” she declared, once the bottle of champagne had been finished. “Bobby, shall we go and eat?”

The Earl looked at her and inwardly winced. He hated it when she called him ‘Bobby'! No one ever called him by that name, as it was so low and vulgar.

He frowned and she instantly realised her mistake.

“Oh, I am so sorry,
Robert,
” she corrected herself, with what she was hoping was a winning smile. “Just a little steak perhaps?”

She twirled a lock of red hair around her finger and pouted. For a moment, he debated whether to return home – and that was by far the more unappealing prospect of the two.

“
Sheridan's
?” he asked, standing up and tipping her off his lap.

“Let me get dressed!” she cried delightedly.

*

A few hours later, after they had finished dining at
Sheridan's
, the Earl found himself with her in a Hackney cab on his way to Stockwell and her house.

He thought of the maroon-coloured parlour with its rich velvet curtains, numerous ornaments and Constance's bedroom with the carved French bed and the fancy bedding from Paris.

Constance clung to him throughout the cab journey and, once inside her home, took him by the hand and led him straight upstairs to her bedroom.

The Earl sighed as she untied his white cravat and began to kiss him – her red hair hung loose down to her waist. Then, as if to show willing, he grabbed her roughly and pushed her on to the bed.

An hour or so later, feeling empty and devoid of emotion, he found himself unable to stand a single moment more in the oppressively over-feminine boudoir.

Even during their lovemaking, he had not felt much pleasure and now longed for the solitude of his own bed. He rose from her bed and put on his shirt, buttoning it firmly over his well-formed chest.

When he started to pull on his trousers, Constance propped herself up in bed and cried in a hurt tone,

“You're not leaving already?”

“I am afraid so, my dear,” he replied in a slightly strained voice. “I don't feel quite myself and I wish to return home.”

Tears began to form in Constance's brown eyes. Her lip trembled as she wrapped a sheet around her naked shoulders.

“Have I displeased you, Robert?”

“I am tired, that is all.”

He began to slip on his shoes and everything just seemed to take twice as long, dammit, without Monkhouse there! He next retrieved his cloak and left his white cravat slung untied around his neck.

With a casual peck on Constance's cheek, he turned to leave.

“You cad!” she spat. “Is that all I'm worth?”

He looked at her, but found himself unable to reply.

“Get out! Get out! I never want to see you again!” she cried, flinging a pillow at him.

The Earl ducked and made a hasty exit.

He had to walk almost to Vauxhall before he found a cab, but the fresh air had done little to dissipate his sense of self-loathing.

‘I was never brought up to treat women in such a fashion,' he growled to himself, as he slung himself into the cab. ‘Yet I find I cannot prevent myself from doing so. Constance was right – I am an utter cad.'

*

The next day dawned overcast and the windows of The Grange, the home of Sir George and Lady Whitby, looked out onto grey skies.

Sir George moved to the French windows at the end of the dining room and sighed.

“I am sorry that I could not make the weather better for you, my dear,” he said, pacing anxiously up and down, squinting for signs of a patch of blue above him. “And I am sorry that your mother is not here either.”

“Oh, Papa! Just to be home and with you again is enough!” cried Miranda, his pretty daughter. She unfolded her napkin as Mervin, their butler, placed a plate of eggs and bacon in front of her.

“Did you eat such fine fare in London?” asked her father, pointing at her breakfast.

Miranda smiled.

“Papa, it's not so very much different from here. You forget that the City is surrounded by farms.”

But now she had to admit that her breakfast this morning was especially delicious, as the bacon was fresh from their own herd and cured by their own cook. In the distance, she could hear the clucking of the hens and her spirits lifted.

She felt safe for the first time in weeks.

Miranda's return to Worcestershire and The Grange had not been planned.

She had intended to stay in London for the Season, but then, after a series of most unfortunate events, she had fled home.

Sir George had not pressed his daughter last night for an explanation.

When her carriage had pulled up at half-past nine in the evening, none had been more surprised or delighted to see her standing there.

She had burst into tears and flung herself into his arms. His wife was away, tending her sick sister and had just written to him saying she would be away for at least another week.

Surprised by his daughter's unexpected arrival at The Grange, Sir George decided to leave Miranda to offer her explanations in her own good time.

He returned to the table and sat down in front of his breakfast. He watched as Miranda finished hers heartily and then requested more toast and marmalade.

“You don't usually eat so well at this time of day!” he commented.

She cast her eyes down and murmured, almost half-apologetically,

“I did not have – dinner last night.”

Sir George hesitated.

“You left London in a hurry, my dear?”

“Yes, Papa. You see – ”

Her voice trembled and tears sprang into her eyes. She bowed her head and her voice became no more than a whisper.

“I was forced to leave – ”

“Forced?” cried Sir George, getting up. “Why?”

“Oh, Papa! Don't be angry with me!” she wailed.

“I found myself in a terrible dilemma – please, promise me you will not shout at me?”

Sir George sighed inwardly.

More than ever, he missed his wife, and wished she had not been so quick to spring to the aid of her sister in Bath.

“Of course I shall not,” he replied in a low voice. “Whatever the matter is, you must tell me!”

“You will not blame Aunt Emma either?”

Aunt Emma was Sir George's younger sister and one whom he often felt lacked good common sense.

“I promise,” he added with a note of resignation.

“I was so foolish, Papa. One evening, Aunt Emma said that she did not feel like going out and it was such a lovely evening that I simply could not stay at home. So, I sent a note to Effie Chambers and asked her if she cared to come for a drive with me around the Park. She sent me a message back at once, saying that she had a better idea and would I fancy an adventure? Her brother had just returned from Cambridge and he had a friend or two with him.”

“Gentlemen friends?”

“Y-yes, Papa.”

There was a disapproving silence as he cleared his throat and then decided against a lecture. After all if he showed any signs of anger, Miranda might not tell him the whole story.

“Pray continue I am listening.”

Miranda nervously twisted her napkin around her fingers.

“I went to Effie's house and met with the young gentlemen – and they were indeed gentlemen, Papa, from well known and aristocratic families.”

She looked at him pleadingly.

He nodded his head for her to go on.

“And then we took the Chamber's carriage to – ”

She hesitated and looked down.

“ – Vauxhall Gardens.”

“
Vauxhall Gardens
! What on earth possessed you to agree to go to somewhere so low and vulgar? Were you harmed in some way?”

“No, no, Papa. Let me continue!”

Sir George leaned back in his chair, but his hands curled into fists of displeasure.

“We had a most enjoyable time and Charles, Effie's brother, happened across another old friend of his there – a Lord Brookfield.”

A hint of recognition stirred in Sir George's head. The name seemed curiously familiar to him, yet he could not recall why.

“Papa, please don't be cross with me, but he was just so very nice, charming and handsome. After making his acquaintance, I allowed Lord Brookfield to call on me at Aunt Emma's.”

She looked up at her father waiting for a comment, but his lips were firmly closed.

“It was innocent enough at first. He took me to the Opera and allowed me to bring Aunt Emma as a chaperone and we drove around Hyde Park in his carriage, also with Aunt Emma.

“He behaved just like a complete gentleman until one evening, quite out of the blue, he proposed to me. Of course, as I knew nothing of him or his people, I refused. Besides – I had deemed him too old for me.”

Her father heaved a sigh of relief.

“You were very sensible, Miranda,” he commented.

“It was after my refusal that he turned unpleasant. I said I thought it would be best if we cut off all contact, yet he pursued me relentlessly. He terrified poor Meek, Aunt Emma's butler, with his threats and began to follow me whenever I left the house. There was a rather unpleasant scene in
Liberty
one afternoon – ”

She paused.

“And so that very evening, Aunt Emma made her carriage ready for me and I packed my bags.”

Sir George said nothing as her words fell away. His first instinct was to hunt this Lord Brookfield down and shoot him with his field gun. He felt enraged on his daughter's behalf.

“You're not – cross with me, Papa?”

“No, my dear,” he replied at last. “Once rebuffed by you Lord Brookfield should have respected your wishes and withdrawn. You certainly did the right thing if he was becoming troublesome. I am just sorry that your mother is not here to comfort you.”

“I have now instructed Aunt Emma that should he appear again to tell him that I have gone to the Continent,” added Miranda. “I don't want him following me here.”

“You will be safe at The Grange,” he murmured. “And now, I have some very sad news for you that we did not tell you about earlier as we did not wish to spoil your stay in London. Lord Templeton died recently.”

Miranda caught her breath.

“Oh, Papa! That is terrible! But why did you not write to me? I would have come home to be by your side for the funeral. He was one of your dearest friends!”

“I did not wish for any fuss, my dear. Also your mother and I wanted you to have a wonderful time and not to concern yourself with such sad news.”

“And so Robert is now the Earl?”

“Well, in a manner of speaking,” he replied looking up at the ceiling.

“What do you mean?”

There was a long silence as Sir George tapped his fingers on the tabletop.

“He seems to have abandoned his responsibilities.”

“How so?”