A Lady's Point of View (15 page)

“You are indeed clever, Sir
Manfred!” she declared.

Her apparently genuine admiration
flattered his sensibilities, until he remembered the cruelties which his cousin
had claimed she uttered behind his back. The baronet harrumphed mightily. “How
kind you are. And how very lovely this evening. May I compliment you on that
particularly becoming gown? And you, as well, Miss Cockerell. A bevy of
beauties. Well. Such splendid company. I cannot tear myself away.”

His back was to the entrance and
so he failed to see the scowl upon Edward’s face when he entered and spied them
sitting together. Sir Manfred had intended to remain in place for the second
act, but he found himself firmly steered away by Mr. Cockerell, and thrust from
the box with a firmness approaching insult.

“Can’t understand it,” muttered
the baronet as he rejoined Lady Darnet. “Fellow was practically rude to me.”

Cynthia shook her head, lost in
conjectures. Why had Lady Jersey not spread the gossip? For if she had, word of
it would surely have reached herself by now. And how far had matters got, if
Edward still behaved in such a proprietary manner toward Angela?

The countess was not dissuaded,
however. Despite the failure of her first attempt, she resolved to continue
passing along such titbits in future. One of them would surely strike to the
heart.

In the following days, Sir
Manfred frequently visited the Linley household, ignoring the coldness
displayed him by Mr. Cockerell when they chanced to meet. He took Angela
driving in Hyde Park, plied her with flowers, and gave everyone to believe he
was dangling after her.

The girl had other suitors, but
none so persistent. Most were fops still tied to their parents’ purse strings,
or younger sons who must marry an heiress, which she was not.

As the days passed, the baronet found
himself enjoying more and more the sweetness of Angela’s disposition. When he
dropped the reins during a ride through the park, she made a game of it, and
soon had them both laughing. He was even given to understand by an acquaintance
that she had chastised an acquaintance who poked fun at the baronet’s girth.

Sir Manfred began to wonder at
the cutting remarks his cousin had attributed to this delightful miss. Had she
truly made them? Didn’t suit her character. Must have been misheard. How like
Cynthia to put the worst interpretation on things. Impossible to remain angry
with such a taking little thing.

Indeed, the baronet was tending
in an entirely different direction. He’d never been eager to find himself
leg-shackled, but if a man must marry, he could scarce do better than Angela
Linley.

Lady Darnet’s noose was
developing snarls, although she did not yet know of them. Another such
concerned the reactions of her intended husband, Edward Cockerell.

Often, when he and Helen came to
call on the Linleys they found Sir Manfred had arrived before them, and he
stayed until they left. At other times Angela was away from home, having gone
riding with that same gentleman.

Sir Manfred! Driving home from
the Linleys’ on such an occasion, Edward clenched his fists and would have
pounded the seat but for his sister’s presence. He had nearly succeeded in
dissuading himself from further involvement with the young lady, but the
presumption of the baronet infuriated him.

“I think it entirely too
unfortunate,” said Helen.

“What?” Her brother glared at
her, resenting the interruption of his thoughts.

“That Angela should marry such a
weak sort of chap,” she said with a sniff.

“Marry?” Edward wished his heart
wouldn’t pound in that tiresome manner.

“Well, I don’t suppose he’s asked
her yet, but clearly he will,” Helen went on. “I can’t think he’s right for
her.”

“Then she must refuse him.”
Edward felt his pulse return to normal and his common sense reassert itself.

“How can she?” said Helen. “He’s
her only serious suitor. And she’s seen too well the pitfalls into which a girl
can fall if she goes unmarried for long. She’d hardly dare wait and risk some
other scandal, especially with a certain person spreading false rumours about
her.”

“I beg your pardon?” Edward said.

“Far be it from me to name any
names,” Helen replied. “But I have contradicted two nasty stories this week,
and I can only guess where they began.”

With a shock, Edward remembered
Lady Jersey and the nonsense about Angela’s gown. Had she told him where she
heard it? Oh, yes, it had been repeated to her by Lady Darnet.

Repeated, or invented?

This revelation so disturbed the
young man that he steered his horses perilously near an apple cart, and nearly
overturned the phaeton.

“Edward!” cried his sister. “Do
you want to kill us both?”

He clamped his mouth shut grimly,
and drove the rest of the way home without speaking.

The correct course of action
became clear to Edward that night. He had balanced the many factors: Miss
Angela’s merits against her demerits, his responsibility as her sponsor, and
his sister’s affection for her.

The logical solution was that he
should marry the girl. With a firm hand, she would shape up to be an excellent
wife. He would coach her on what subjects to avoid in conversation, and on how
to restrain her natural enthusiasms. She was young, and therefore biddable. It
was a wise and dispassionate decision, and Edward congratulated himself.

In view of the rival courtship of
Sir Manfred, it also struck Edward as perfectly natural that he should drive to
the Linleys’ house the following morning at ten o’clock, so early that Angela
was still at breakfast when he arrived.

He asked to speak to Lady Mary
alone. When she came, he told her briefly of his intentions. If she was
surprised, she gave no sign of it, saying simply, “You have my permission, if
my daughter wishes to marry you.”

Lady Mary returned to the
breakfast room and sent Angela to see him.

“Mr. Cockerell!” She had dashed
to the parlour, but now hesitated on the threshold. “Perhaps we could walk in
the garden?”

He agreed at once. This suited
his purpose, and, furthermore, he was pleased that she refrained from joining
him in a private room unchaperoned, which would have been improper under
ordinary circumstances. Of course she didn’t yet know his purpose.

As they strolled through the
garden, Angela kept her face averted, and pointed out various flowers.

Edward cleared his throat. “You
may wonder what brings me here at this hour of the morning, without my sister.”

“Oh, you are always welcome, Mr.
Cockerell,” she said politely.

“Thank you.” He gestured to a
stone bench, and she obediently sat upon it.

The next motion required of him
affronted Edward’s dignity, and he hesitated. To get down upon one’s knees on a
walkway composed of small sharp stones! It was enough to ruin one’s temper, not
to mention one’s trousers.

Nevertheless, it was customary,
and Edward had no intention of flouting tradition. He adjusted his dark blue
pantaloons and lowered himself onto the pathway. “Miss Angela, will you do me
the honour of becoming my wife?”

She stared at him in
astonishment. “Do you mean...? That was why my mother... But you never even
hinted... Can you really mean it, Edward?”

This curious speech might have
given him pause, but for the pleasure of hearing his given name upon her lips.
Considering his duty performed, Edward removed himself from his uncomfortable
position, dusted off his trousers, and sat on the bench. “You may indeed
consider my proposal surprising, in view of our different temperaments,” he said.

“Well, yes, I suppose so,” the
girl murmured. Her face showed a warm radiance and she leaned toward him ever
so slightly.

Edward’s arguments came back to
him now. “We must consider the purpose of matrimony,” he explained. “It is,
naturally, to produce heirs.”

“It is?” said Angela.

“Indeed, and of course to
maintain one’s position in society,” he continued. “We are well suited. Your
bloodlines are impeccable, you have been a success in society, you are young
and pure, our families have become close friends, and I am nearly thirty and
have an obligation to settle down.”

“I see.” Inexplicably, the girl
looked crestfallen. “What about the finer emotions, Mr. Cockerell?”

“Love?” he said. “An overrated
sensation, I should think. Oh, it’s well enough for poets to write about, but
it hasn’t much place in everyday life. Can you imagine what a state the world
would be in, if everyone married for love?”

“In this we disagree.” Angela
stared at her hands.

“You need not tender your answer
immediately,” Edward said, wishing he could read her mind. But what possible
objection could she make? “I do hope you won’t keep me waiting long.”

The girl took a deep breath. “I
shan’t keep you waiting at all. The answer is yes, Mr. Cockerell. I should be
pleased to marry you.”

The exultation which shot through
Edward was entirely inappropriate, and he subdued it ruthlessly. “I believe you
have made a wise decision,” he remarked, before rising and escorting Angela
back to her parent.

Well done, old chap, he told
himself on the drive home. That should pluck Sir Manfred’s goose!

“You needn’t marry him if you
will be unhappy,” Lady Mary was telling her daughter in the parlour at that
very moment. “Although it is an excellent match.”

“Oh, Mother, I love him!” Angela
cried. “If only he felt the same for me!”

“Why are you so certain he does
not?” the elder woman asked as she mended a torn blouse.

“He prattled on and on about duty
and heirs and breeding.” Angela jumped up and paced. “As if I were some sort of
cattle!”

“Perhaps that is merely his way,”
suggested Lady Mary. “Gentlemen aren’t as expressive as we ladies, you know.”

“Expressive?” Angela shook her head. “Stiff as a
log! I must be out of my head to love him, but I do, and I plan to marry him
even if he does not care a fig for me.”

“Well spoken,” said her mother.

Angela picked up her embroidery,
and sat pondering the matter a while longer before asking, “Mother, did he
discuss my dowry?”

“Why, no,” said Lady Mary. “Of
course that is untouched. I would have sold my jewels before I used that
money.”

“I know that.” Her daughter
jabbed a needle into her embroidery. “But it’s so unlike Edward Cockerell not
to discuss something of that nature.”

“Never mind,” said her mother.
“Meg will be coming home on Tuesday.”

Angela uttered a silent prayer.
Please
don’t let Edward find out that my sister has been masquerading as a governess.
If he does, he’ll surely throw me over, or require that I renounce her.

She would stick by Meg no matter
what. Angela fervently hoped the problem would not arise.

Before the awkward moment could
lengthen unbearably, Lord Bryn dismounted. Leaving one of the grooms to aid
Meg, he strode toward his visitors.

“Mr. and Mrs. Geraint, Miss
Geraint,” he acknowledged. “Forgive this strange appearance, but my niece and
nephew disappeared for a time. Their governess was out seeking them, and after
they were found safe, I rode out to fetch her.”

Mrs. Geraint, a wispy, pale sort
of woman, sniffed. “A carriage would have been more proper.”

“Oh, piffle, Mother!” declared
her daughter, who looked entirely too large to have emerged from such a small
parent. Tall and rawboned, Miss Geraint closely resembled her father in
appearance but not in speech, for he remained silent while she discoursed
freely. “One can hardly be expected to drive a carriage where there is no
road!”

“Well, she might have stayed upon
the road, then,” Mrs. Geraint said stubbornly.

“Stuff and nonsense!” bellowed
Germaine. “The object was to find the children, not to take a carriage ride
with Lord Bryn.”

She strode over to where Meg
stood brushing off her skirts. “Hope he didn’t give you too bruising a ride,
miss. Or perhaps you’re a horsewoman?”

“I’m afraid not.” Meg smiled
apologetically, unable to resist liking this forthright person. She tapped her
spectacles. “My vision is too poor.”

“Ah. Quite right.” The tall woman
nodded and then, in a manner that would have astounded the assembly at
Almack’s, seized Meg’s hand and pumped it as if they were men. “Glad to meet
you. My name’s Germaine Geraint. Funny sort of name, ain’t it? Sounds like a
Frenchie.”

Meg laughed. “I’m Meg Linley, and
I’m delighted to meet you. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’d best change my
clothes.”

“Indeed you shall.” To everyone’s
amazement, Germaine linked her arm through Meg’s and strolled inside with her,
as if it were the most usual thing in the world for the future lady of the
manor to befriend the governess.

What did one say to such an
Original? Meg couldn’t think of anything clever, so she inquired politely, “Did
you have a nice journey?”

“Well enough, well enough,”
boomed Germaine as they ascended the stairs. Rustling noises informed Meg that
the servants were peering out from every crack and cranny. “As nice as one can
have when Mother’s in one of her moods.”

“I beg your pardon?” Meg wasn’t
certain a lowly governess should encourage such talk.

“As you heard,” the woman
replied, “she wants everything in its place, and if no place can be found, she
would shove it into one that doesn’t suit. Why, only this morning she took
umbrage at seeing a bird flying north. ‘Tis the wrong season,’ she told me.
That bird has no propriety.’ “

Meg could well imagine those
words issuing from Mrs. Geraint’s dry lips, and chuckled as they reached the
bedrooms.

Meg’s chamber was in the guest
wing, a singular honour since most of the servants slept in the attic. “Surely
you would like to supervise your unpacking and freshen up,” Meg said as they
paused on the threshold of her room.