A Woman of Influence (35 page)

A brief postscript mentioned that he had enclosed also a keepsake, which he had made especially for her, in fulfillment of a promise given when they were in London, and expressed the hope that she would like it.

Becky folded the letter and placed it in its envelope, before reaching for the package, which lay on the tea table before her. When she tried to open it, her hands were still shaking, for she was as yet unable to assimilate completely the feelings his letter had aroused in her; so unexpected had it been, so open and direct in its appeal.

The package contained an object wrapped in several sheets of soft paper, which she parted impatiently to reveal in a simple silver frame a portrait of herself.

It took her only a few seconds to realise that it was his own work, a fine charcoal drawing of the type she had seen him make on occasions, deftly sketching objects and scenes that caught his eye. She had admired some of them then but had never believed he had made one of her, even though he had once suggested that he would.

This one, clearly drawn from memory, showed Becky in a pensive mood, her fine features highlighted by the simplicity of her gown and hair, both suggesting that she had been "captured" by the artist at home.

She was still gazing at it with some amazement when Jonathan returned to the room and, seeing it in her hand, remarked casually, "It is an excellent likeness, is it not?"

Becky was taken aback.

She was disconcerted because she did not know what Jonathan knew. Mr Contini had admitted to having confided in his friend, but Becky wondered how much he had told him.

To begin with, she was surprised that Jonathan had obviously seen the portrait. She responded to his comment, a little belatedly. "Do you think so?"

"Certainly," he said, "Contini does very good portraits; he has made excellent sketches of my daughters. You shall see them when you visit Netherfield and tell me if they are not remarkably like the girls."

Becky nodded politely and turned to pour out his tea.

Jonathan took his cup and seated himself across from her. It was for Becky a most awkward moment; "Surely," she thought, "he cannot expect that I could give him an answer for his friend now?" Her mind kept returning to the question of what Mr Contini had told him. Was it possible he knew of their previous association?

In order to make some ordinary conversation, she asked if he would like a slice of cake. Jonathan chose the fruit cake and as she handed him the plate, said very gently, "Becky, I want to assure you that while Mr Contini has confided in me and asked me to help him, I do not intend to make any effort to influence your decision one way or the other. He is a friend, a loyal and dear friend of mine, and while it would give me great satisfaction to see him happily married, I would not presume to persuade you to accept him."

When she looked at him in some confusion, he continued, "I have made that clear to him, before I agreed to act as an intermediary on this occasion. I did so because he was so desperately unhappy that he had not taken the opportunity to speak with you whilst you were in London. He had not anticipated being recalled to Italy over an urgent family matter and had hoped to see you here at Edgewater in more propitious circumstances. Sadly, that did not eventuate, and when he did not hear from you, I believe he feared he had missed his chance with you. He spoke with me an hour before his departure, and I will say that I have rarely seen a man more deeply in love and more distraught."

Becky was too distressed to say more than, "It was my fault; I should have kept my word and written him as I said I would; but I became confused... when I was back here, I did not feel as certain of him or my own feelings as I had been in London."

Jonathan was puzzled. "Why?"

"I cannot explain it, Jonathan; I have been busy and there was a lot to do here with the business of Alice Grey, and yet I know I should have written and I do feel guilty at not having done so and probably distressed him unduly."

Her voice was low and she seemed so harrowed, Jonathan rose and went to sit beside her. "Come now, Becky, you must not blame yourself; there is no real harm done. Aldo Contini has loved you for a very long time--it is almost two years since he first confided in me. He knew then there was no future in it, and now he has renewed hope. When you did not write, he was disappointed of course, but he has not gone off in a huff; indeed, he was reluctant to write for fear of offending you--it was my idea that he should."

Becky was astonished. "Offending me? Why?" she asked.

Jonathan explained patiently, "Because, my dear Becky, he feared that you were unprepared for his declaration or that you may have felt he was presuming upon your friendship on too short an acquaintance. He is not an arrogant man; it is likely that he thought you did not know him well enough to make such a commitment."

"Too short an acquaintance? Why, Jonathan, he knows me better than I know myself... in those dismal days after Josie's death, when I was so much alone in London... were it not for him I might well have..." She stopped abruptly, a hand to her mouth as if to hold back the words that had already escaped.

Jonathan, looking at her directly, spoke quietly, "I know."

"You do?" she looked up at his face, disbelieving.

"Yes, I have known for some time," he said. "He confided in me at a time when he sincerely believed there was no hope at all. Mr Tate was still living, albeit in the United States, and you had returned to your place in Matlock.

"He knew how deeply you had been hurt, both by Josie's death and your husband's abrupt departure for America; indeed, he was most unhappy that he could do so very little to comfort you."

"Did he tell you then, that he loved me?" she asked, incredulous.

Jonathan nodded, "Indeed he did, and he appealed to me for help, but what could I do? I had no way to influence your circumstances; I could only advise him to return to Italy for a while."

Becky met his eyes as she spoke.

"But, Jonathan, he did comfort me, at a time when I had no one but my maid Nelly to turn to. I was very grateful for his presence... I had felt so alone and friendless. He was kind and understanding; I have thought of it often... a lesser man may well have taken advantage of my vulnerable state of mind, but he was both compassionate and honorable in every way."

Jonathan was silent, letting her speak, guessing she had not confided in anyone else and had long concealed the intensity of her feelings, "At the time, it seemed to me that he was the only person who understood how I felt; everyone else, especially members of Julian's family, appeared to blame me. I was grateful for his generosity, but I had no idea how much his kindness had meant to me until we met again in London last month. Then, I discovered how easy it was to be happy in his company, how much I could learn from him about coping with life's misfortunes."

Jonathan nodded, "He has admitted to very similar feelings; he is not a stranger to the sorrow of bereavement, his family lost a beloved daughter, too-- Aldo's youngest sister, Rosetta, died of tuberculosis at the age of fourteen. I am not at all surprised that he could offer you the understanding and sympathy you needed at the time. It must have been a grievous time for both of you. And yet, he recalls only the pleasure of being with you and none of the pain, and hopes that the affinity you have shared will sustain you both. He loves you, Becky; he swears he has never cared as well for any other woman, and I know him to be a man of his word."

"And you do not condemn me?" she asked.

Her question surprised him. "Condemn you? For what offence? For reaching out for comfort when you were left to grieve alone after the death of a beloved child? For accepting some affection when your husband had virtually deserted you? Would that not make me a hard man and a hypocrite to boot?"

Becky was confused.

She would never have called him a hard man; Jonathan was renowned for his gentleness and consideration of others.

"Why a hypocrite?"

"Why indeed? When Amelia-Jane died in that dreadful accident, I too felt alone and distraught, I sought comfort, and when Anna reached out to me, I took her hand with gratitude. It was simple kindness on her part. I enjoyed her company, her delightful nature, and sweet disposition, believing it to be part of an innocent friendship. But later, I realised that I had fallen in love with Anna, even before the death of my wife," he said.

Becky could see clearly the strain upon his face as he spoke.

"As you would know, Becky, your sister and I had some unresolved problems at that time. We had lost two little boys in infancy, I was bored with working for Lady Catherine, Amelia-Jane was impatient with my political interests and had no desire to move to Netherfield; it had not been the happiest period of our marriage.

"I had met Anna at Pemberley after many years, and she, quite unwittingly, had let me see how easy it was to love someone with her warmth and generosity of spirit. We are all only human and respond to acts of kindness when we are hurt. Of course, I did not seek it--perhaps I was not even aware it was happening--but I was very shocked when I discovered the truth about my feelings for her, although I did not admit them even to myself until well after my wife's death. So, tell me, how then should I condemn you, Becky?"

She had listened, stunned by his admission, amazed that he had chosen to reveal it to her. He continued gravely, "I have disclosed this to no one but yourself, and I have done it only to reassure you that I am no hypocrite. When I learned from Aldo Contini that some intimacy of feeling had developed between you, I made no judgment. I knew that as an honourable man he would wish to take it to its proper conclusion. Indeed, he asked me if Mr Tate could be persuaded to divorce you, so he could ask you to marry him. He loved you very much, Becky, I have no doubt of that."

Seeing the effect of this on Becky's countenance, he said very quickly, "At the time, it did not seem likely, and I told him so. I knew also that your situation in the family was such; you would suffer intolerable damage if such a proposition were even contemplated. He understood and, though he was deeply dejected, accepted that nothing would come of it in the circumstances that existed at the time. You may ask why I acted as I did. It was chiefly to protect you from criticism by my family and others. Reluctantly, Contini returned to Italy, where he appeared to recover some of his spirits, becoming involved in work over there, and when we met again last year, he enquired after you but seemed resigned to his fate. However, as you can see, that is all in the past--the circumstances of your life have changed; he still loves you and the future is now yours to grasp."