A Secret Passion (13 page)

At the entrance to Pembroke Manor, Clarissa greeted them, carrying a woven basket full of cut flowers. Jane caught her aunt’s attention discreetly and nodded toward the side of the house. Her aunt sighed in exasperation, but smiled her assent.

With fairly good acting, Clarissa insisted, “Oh, Jane, I almost forgot. You must take Harry around to the garden first. The butterfly bush has just come into bloom, and there is quite the buzz about it.” With only one cry of protest from Miss Dodderidge, and the insisting arm of Clarissa to persuade her otherwise, Jane was able to whisk Harry to the side garden.

Harry’s warm brown eyes gazed at Jane as they strolled to the far corner of the garden past the roses. He patted her hand, resting on his forearm. “It is wonderful to see you again, Jane— may I still call you that?” Harry asked with his usual grin. “It is impossible to think of you as Mrs. Lovering.”

“Of course. Unless you insist I call you Mr. Thompson, that is,” Jane answered, laughing.

“Ah, it has been so long. Too long—six years. I’m afraid we have grown up and must make an attempt at being proper after all.”

This was it. He was going to edge his way into a proposal of marriage. Jane was excited but relieved beyond measure. She had dreamt of this moment for so long but had not really believed it would happen.

“Look at this, will you,” exclaimed Harry with awe. They had arrived at the pale lavender spikes of the butterfly bush, which reached the height of a man. White moths covered almost every bloom on the plant, making it look surreal.

“Snow-white Linden moths, a member of the Geometridae family. They must have just emerged. They are a bit late, of course, but see how they are not flying—they are drying their wings. What a rare opportunity,” Harry said.

“They are lovely, Harry. Shall you take one for your collection?” asked Jane with just the smallest hint of sadness.

Harry seemed lost in another world as he admired the delicately winged moths. “No. I have specimens enough of these.”

“Well, then,” Jane said while clasping Harry’s hand in hers. There was an awkward pause. She noticed his hand was not as large as the earl’s and it was uncallused and just the slightest bit moist. She brushed these thoughts away and realized she was not the only one embarrassed and nervous. For some inexplicable reason, she suddenly felt old beyond her years. Harry looked so young, free of all the serious worries of life. She longed to feel the same way. “Did you consider my letters, Harry?” she asked, eyes downcast.

“Why, yes, I did,” Harry answered with a smile. “Quite thought-provoking, indeed,” he continued.

Jane reached to brush the wayward lock of hair from his eyes and noticed that they were exactly eye level to each other.

Harry blushed and took her hand in his. “Jane…”

With a pause, she responded, “Yes?”

“I am sorry I didn’t write to you straight away. I actually just received the letters. I arrived but five days ago from London, where I went to look into the possibility of joining an expedition to Mexico,” he said, rushing through his explanation.

“How exciting, Harry!” Her eyes willed him to continue.

“I want to help you, Jane. I won’t stand for what your father has done to you. It was very wrong of him. But before I can offer myself to you, you must understand the position I am in,” Harry said with an innocent glow on his face.

“It doesn’t matter, Harry. You know I will accept you.”

Harry looked very embarrassed. “Jane… Please just listen. I have very little to recommend my suit. As one of five offspring of a clergyman of a small parish, I must earn my keep now. I was fortunate enough to finish my studies by being adopted as the assistant to one of the professors when he invited me to live with his family. Do you understand, Jane?” he paused, then continued before she could speak. “If we are married, I will forgo the expedition and, I suppose, return to apply for a post at the university. Would this type of life appeal to you?”

Without stopping to think about what she was doing, Jane leaned forward and kissed him. For a moment, Harry’s lips remained passive before he tentatively moved his lips into hers and awkwardly embraced her. His moist hands cupped her neck.

“Are you sure, Jane? That this is what you want? You will not be unhappy living on sixpence a year when you are used to something altogether different? Will you not miss your horses?” demanded Harry, finally losing his ever present grin.

“Are you trying to persuade me to change my feelings for you? Will you be happy with me as your wife? Do you still feel for me the same way you did six years ago?” questioned Jane.

“Of course I do. A gentleman’s feelings never change,” Harry responded, looking at his feet on the pebbled pathway.

“Oh, Harry, you do feel differently now. I can see it in your face.”

“That’s not it, Jane. That’s not the point.”

“Then what is the point?”

“The point is that you are unaccustomed to the life my wife must accept. Your father is a viscount, your husband was a rich gentleman, your servants vast, your hardships few.”

Jane grew exasperated as she wondered how she could explain the inner hardships she had faced. “Harry, all your worries are groundless. I do not dread taking on the role of your wife, and that of the mother of our children one day. I don’t care if I have to ‘live on sixpence a year,’ as you said. In fact, I don’t want you to give up your dream of an expedition. I could go with you.”

Harry blanched and paused. His eyes lost all their expression as he brought Jane’s delicate hand to his mouth and kissed the back of it. “That would be quite impossible. But if life as the wife of an assistant professor is what you truly desire, then you shall have it,” he intoned as he closed his eyes. “How should we go about announcing our plan?” he queried.

She felt lightheaded and almost numb with a feeling akin to fear. “I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it. I was so anxious to see you before anything else.” She paused and bent down to breathe in the fragrance of the butterfly bush. “Will you let me think about this? The next step? Let us not divulge this happy news until we have formed a plan. Do you agree?”

Harry covered Jane’s hand again, and she noticed the color had returned to his face. His grin reappeared. “Your wish is my command, Mrs. Lovering.”

Jane sighed in exasperation and shook her head, smiling.

With displeasure, Rolfe sat in the leather-bound chair in his library. He was bone-tired, exhausted from the long journey, lack of sleep the night before, and no substantial nourishment for an entire day. He smiled when he realized he had just spent a day similar to strings of days spent on the front. He closed his eyes as he fingered the curved glass containing the heavy amber liquid. His head was splitting, and yet he could not keep himself from thinking about her. He really would just like to get his fingers around her beautiful, long neck. He laughed harshly and threw the glass into the fire. The flames hissed and smoke flew forward as he lurched to his feet and strode toward his upstairs apartments.

The evening had started off as planned. His butler, Jenkins, had greeted him at the door to his townhouse upon his lordship’s arrival with nary a whisker of surprise. After a warm bath and a new outlay of clothes, he felt a renewed sense of purpose.

His ornate carriage had taken him the short distance to White’s, where he had hoped to dine in comfort and possibly learn with the utmost discretion any gossip concerning the Fairchild family. His evening had met with some success, although “success” was not exactly the term he would have used. While dining alone, he had chanced to hear a group of young bucks arguing about the choice of a gaming establishment.

“Querkson’s it is, I say,” interjected a carroty-haired youngster of no more than eighteen years of age.

“But it’s so dry, deary,” jeered another. “No ladies, don’t you know. Not at all like the Fox’s Den.” A round of laughter crashed around the group as another of their party spilled a drink and fell to the floor.

Rolfe shook his head while watching them. He thought that a day—nay, a month—spent on the battlefield would cure their idleness. He wondered if it was not groups of exasperated fathers who invented wars every few decades or so to test and strengthen the integrity of the next generation. Now, he thought cynically, he was thinking like a graybeard. He was awakened from his reverie by the intonation of the very name he sought.

“Fairchild said he would meet us at the Fox’s Den,” quipped a young man with a bit more polish than the rest. “Come on, you dolts, let’s go.”

That had been enough to get Rolfe to his feet after signaling a member of the serving class. His driver had shaken his head when instructed to drive to the latest gaming hell.

The son of Lord Fairchild was deep in his cups when Rolfe arrived. The randy group of young gentlemen had managed to precede the earl’s arrival and had surrounded young Fairchild, regaling him with the latest
on-dits
.

Fairchild’s face was flushed, due no doubt to alcohol, although his speech had not yet reached a slurred quality. His gaze darted around the room with agitation. His teeth were stained from tobacco, and he had a sad look of innocence lost about his person. But clearly, noticed Rolfe, he was a popular member of his circle.

As the evening wore on, Fairchild won, lost, and regained a small fortune. His friends slapped his back through the losing and the winning. Rolfe had joined Fairchild’s game after watching from afar for a half hour’s time. All of Fairchild’s friends had departed the game at certain times in the company of willing females, who led them to private salons upstairs. Fairchild was not one of them. He remained glued to the game.

Rolfe noticed with a sick sense of disgust the basic ebb and flow of the game and the resulting excited and nervous twitches of the players. He had tried to lose himself in gambling when he had first appeared in London soon after Constance had died. He had been lucky that his commission had forced him away from the gaming hells.

But it wasn’t until Rolfe donned his hat to leave that he heard a friend of Fairchild’s utter a most interesting piece of information. “I say, old friend, are you going to repay the old man with your winnings, or pay off your lender?”

Fairchild replied with as much loftiness as he could muster, “Oh, nothing as boring as all that. What’s say we go to next afternoon’s race?”

“But you can’t, old boy. Much too populated. One of your father’s acquaintances is sure to see you and turn you in.”

Fairchild’s green eyes were filled with red veins. He appeared acutely awake, as if he hadn’t slept for weeks. “Freddie, you are altogether too much the coward. Come on—stop your fretting.”

It was not much, but it was a clue. But then, all young gentlemen were known to overextend themselves upon sampling the intoxicating delights of London the first season or two. Rolfe had, his father had, and many generations before and after had and would.

The following late afternoon, it was with a sickening sense of dread that the Earl of Graystock watched his calling card, with one edge crisply folded, borne away on a silver tray held by Lord Fairchild’s butler. With flattering speed, the man returned and ushered Rolfe into Lord Fairchild’s study.

The older lord extended his hand for a firm shake and motioned to an ancient-looking brown leather chair. Rolfe noticed just the slightest bit of decay around the room, a frayed bit of trim on the draperies and faded fabric on two cushions. But the overall taste and design of the room were of the first quality.

“Delighted to see you, Graystock. Last saw your father several years ago in town,” Fairchild said with a crooked smile.

Rolfe noticed that Lord Fairchild clipped the pronouns off his sentences, just as Rolfe’s grandfather had used to do. “I’m sorry to inform you that my excellent father died two years ago, sir,” replied the earl.

“So, it is so, I understood. So sorry,” continued Lord Fairchild. There was an discomforting pause as Fairchild waited to hear why he had the honor of the earl’s call and Rolfe struggled to express the reason for his visit.