Elizabeth Mansfield (14 page)

"But, Aunt Eva," Cicely murmured, sinking down upon the dressing-table bench, "I'm not at all sure I
want
Jeremy now."

"Don't be foolish," her aunt snapped dismissively. "Of course you want him. What makes you think you don't?"
 

"The way I feel about Charlie."

"You are speaking utter nonsense," Eva declared loudly, though inside she was shaken. "What is there about that fellow—?"

"He is charming, and he makes everyone laugh, and he... he..."

Eva glowered at her. "Well, go on. He—?"

The girl put up her chin. "He kissed me."

"Kissed
you?" Poor Eva, pushed beyond endurance, clasped her hands to her heaving bosom in agitation. "Cicely! How
could
you permit—? Have you no
morals?
"

"Perhaps I haven't," the girl said defensively. "I quite liked it."

"Did you indeed? And I suppose you permitted Jeremy to kiss you, too."

"Yes, I did, once or twice." "Well? Didn't you like
that?
"

Cicely glanced up at her aunt worriedly. "The truth is, Aunt Eva," she admitted, "that Jeremy never kissed me... not
once...
the way Charlie did."

"That is because Jeremy is a gentleman, not a rake," her aunt declared firmly.
The best thing to do about this,
she told herself,
is to ignore it.
"Now come along. It's time for dinner."

Although thoroughly upset by this conversation, Eva did not permit her agitation to show. Decisiveness and firmness, that was all that would be needed. Therefore, before her niece crossed the threshold, she fixed an eye on the girl and spoke her final words on the subject. "If you ask me, Cicely, kissing is highly overrated. And has very little to do with marriage anyway."

Cicely mulled over those words all through dinner, though she didn't quite believe them. And she thought about the matter again when they'd all adjourned to the drawing room after dinner. She wished she could talk to someone other than her aunt about the matter... but whom?

Tonight the assemblage elected not to play cards. It was for Cassie's sake. Since she'd begun coming down to dinner, the playing of cards was often postponed in order to have an hour or two for reading aloud. They all knew that Cassie had no recollection of the books she'd read in her past and that she perceived that loss as a huge gap in her mind—a gap she was eager to fill. So reading had become her favorite pastime. In addition to spending several hours a day going through the books in the Inglesby library, she loved to spend her evenings listening to the others read aloud. No one seemed to mind this change of routine. It was a way to pass the time pleasantly. Eva had started by reading choice selections from Samuel Pepys's
Diary.
Then Charles, declaiming with histrionic enthusiasm, read some of the ribald adventures of Tom Jones. Next, Jeremy recited his favorite poems of Dryden. And Cicely, choking back tears, read aloud bits of the heartrending struggles of Richardson's
Pamela.
They all agreed that the readings were almost as entertaining as attending a play.

Tonight, however, Eva insisted on reading from a book of sermons. "A little moral uplift will not go amiss," she declared, tossing her niece a pointed look.

As her voice droned on, Charles became bored and quietly rose from his chair.
I
need a bit of air,
he mouthed to Jeremy, who'd looked up at him questioningly. With as little noise as possible, he slipped out through the drawing room doors to the terrace.

In a little while, Cicely got up and followed him. Though Eva noticed, she made no sign. It would not do, she told herself, to draw attention to Cicely's indiscretion.

Cicely found Charles leaning on the balustrade, looking up at a bright half-moon. "Are you dreaming of some lady back in London?" she asked, coming up beside him.

"Ah, another of your impertinent questions," he said in disgust, not giving her the satisfaction of looking at her. "Why do you concern yourself with my dreaming, anyway?"

"You interest me, that's all."

"Do I?" He turned from his contemplation of the heavens and gazed at her. In the eerie light, her hair was silvered over, and her silken gown seemed drenched in liquid moonlight. She looked lovely, dangerously lovely. She gave off a glow, like a creature from some mythical kingdom of his imagination—the part of his imagination he hadn't used since childhood. But he was no child now. He was a man much too old for her. And because of that she was dangerous. He warned himself to proceed with extreme care. Nevertheless, he could not resist asking, "Why? Why do I interest you?"

"Well, for one reason, Aunt Eva says you're a rake. I don't believe I've ever met a rake."

"She says that, does she? I wonder what London gossip made her believe that."

"No London gossip. It was I."

"You?" He cocked his head and peered at her moonlit face. "What on
earth
could you have told her—?"
 

"I told her that you kissed me."

He winced in irritation. "Good heavens, girl, what made you do something so foolish? And did you tell her that you, brazen wench that you are, also kissed
me?
"

"No. I failed to mention that."

He snorted. "I would have wagered a monkey on that."

"It was unfair of me, I suppose. Are you angry at me?"

"I'm always angry at you," he snapped, forcing his eyes away from her. "You're a deuced annoying female."

"I suppose I am. But it's only because I know so little about life. I want to learn. There are things I ought to know."

"What things?"

"Well, for example, Aunt Eva says that kissing has nothing to do with marriage. That can't be true, can it?"

A wave of anger washed over him.
That's all she wants from me,
he told himself,
an old rake's advice!
"See here, Cicely Beringer," he growled furiously, "don't look to
me
to be your teacher. Your damnable questions make me
wild.
Most of the time I have no idea how to answer them; and when I do know, it isn't the sort of thing you should be hearing from a rake." He grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her roughly. "Why don't you do what I've told you more than once to do? Go and find yourself a nice young man and discuss these matters with him!"

Cicely thrust his hands from her shoulders in disgust. "Such a to-do about a simple question," she muttered, turning on her heel and stalking back to the doors. "I was only trying to talk about kissing. It's not as if I were asking questions about something
really
shocking, like seduction. Do you know what
I
think, my lord? I don't believe you're a rake at all. I think you're a
prude!"
And with that she flung open the drawing room doors and disappeared inside.

Charles, sighing in helpless frustration, turned back to his contemplation of the sky. "Clive, my boy," he muttered under his breath, "where are you? I need you! What the devil's keeping you?"

Chapter 18

For the two days following the encounter in the turret room, Cassie couldn't help but notice that her Lord Lucas was avoiding her. The memory of some of what he'd said that day continued to delight her, but there were other remarks she found troubling. These memories caused her to swing from hope to hopelessness and back again. It was a lonely two days. She often felt like weeping, though she didn't quite understand why. Was he right not to speak to her of love? she wondered. Did she really have to remember what it was? Hadn't her instincts, if not her memory, already taught her what its nature was?

She did not have a private word with him again until they had another accidental encounter, two days later. It was in the upstairs sitting room, where she'd come to read. She'd chosen a book of poetry from the library—Wordsworth's
Lyrical Ballads
—which she'd begun reading the day before and was very much enjoying. But on this day, before settling herself on the sofa with her book, her eye fell on a painting hanging just above the sofa. She was studying it with concentration when Jeremy passed by the open door and spied her. "You're looking at a portrait of one of my... of Inglesby's ancestors," he said, entering the room. "A great, great aunt, I believe. Do you like it?"

"Oh, yes, in some ways," she said, throwing him a quick glance before turning her eyes back to the painting. If she concentrated on the portrait, she thought, he might not notice the palpitations that his presence had, as usual, inspired.

"In what ways, may I ask? That is no ordinary portrait, you know. It was done by Sir Peter Lely, who, I'm told, emerged after the Restoration as one of England's finest artists."

"Indeed? Yes, I can see why. Though it seems to me that the facial expression lacks depth, the composition is very fine, the colors are rich, and the brush technique beautifully rendered."

"The brush technique, eh?" He peered down at her closely. "How can you tell?"

"You can tell from the texture of the silk of her gown. See, here, how sumptuous the—" She paused, her hand freezing in its raised position. Then, lowering it slowly, she turned to him with a surprised, questioning look. "How
did
I know all that?"

He grinned at her. "You're a painter yourself, I think. The first time I saw you, you had a smear of yellow paint right there, on your cheek. I found it charming. When I asked you about it, you said you'd been painting lemons."

"Really? How odd."

"Not so very odd. You were probably working on a still life. Do you think you'd like to try to paint now?"

"Now?" She threw him an arch glance. "In my state of
limbo?
"

"Yes. Why not?"

She could see that he was quite serious. "But, my lord, I don't think I..."

"I doubt that the doctor would object, if that's what worries you. We can ask him, of course. And we can ask Lady Schofield if I'm right in my surmise about your being a painter." He gazed down at her, enthusiasm glowing in his eyes. "If so, we could send Hickham for your easel and paints and brushes and whatever else you might need, and we could set it all up in the turret room."

"The
turret
room?" She sank down on the sofa, for she suddenly found herself quite breathless at the prospect. "But would Lord Inglesby allow it?"

"Yes, of course he would. I... I'm sure of it."

"Oh, my!" She twisted her fingers together to keep them from trembling. "The light there would be perfect."

He grinned down at her. "So you realized that, did you?"

Wide-eyed in astonishment, she stared up at him. "Yes, so I did. How amazing! Perhaps I really
was
a painter."

* * *

She started painting the very next day, after Hickham brought back the supplies he found at Crestwoods, a large number of items that included a paint-stained smock. She put it on with mounting excitement; the mere act of donning it made her feel like an artist.

As she made her way up the stairs to the turret room (with Hickham following behind with the easel, paint box and various other strange supplies), she felt something in the pocket of her smock. She pulled it out and glanced at it. It was a note, dated a little more than a month earlier, addressed to her and signed by Lord Inglesby. She glanced over it hurriedly. It seemed to be an apology of some sort, but she had no understanding of it and no interest in studying it now. She stuffed it back in the pocket and turned her attention to the matter at hand—the challenge of painting.

After Hickham had set up her easel and a small table to hold the supplies, he left her to her fate. She stared at the blank canvas bewilderedly. How did one begin? What was she to paint?

With a great deal of hesitation, she filled a vase with a few spring flowers and tried to sketch their outlines on the canvas. She didn't like the result of her first efforts, but she started to paint anyway. It was amazing how comfortable the brushes felt in her hand. She dabbled away for hours. It seemed a natural, felicitous way to spend her time.

She continued to paint for several hours the next day, too, and for several days after that. In all that time, no one came up to disturb her. She couldn't help wondering why Lord Lucas didn't come; he'd seemed so eager when he'd suggested this. When he finally did come, he explained his absence. "I wanted to let you work without the burden of being watched. I thought visitors might make you self-conscious."

She was quick to accept his explanation. "But you needn't have worried," she added shyly. "You have no idea how much your presence pleases me."

When he turned to go, she begged him to come again. "I do so enjoy the company," she said, blushing. "If you wouldn't mind, you could read to me as I work. Now that I'm spending so many hours here, I don't have as much time to read as I'd like."

He came up often after that. When he came, it was for her the best time of the day. She loved to hear him read. He would settle on a window seat and prop up his legs or perch on the desk with his legs stretched out in front of him, and they would spend an hour or two in the company of the great poets, Shakespeare or Milton or Pope. If this was limbo, she often thought, it was the waiting room of Heaven, not Hell.

But it was not to last. Oddly, it was Shakespeare who triggered the beginning of the end of her state of limbo. Her dear Lord Lucas was reading one of the sonnets, a particularly lovely one. He was leaning on the desk, halfway across the room from her. Cassie had paused in her painting to watch him. She liked to look at his face when he was not aware of her scrutiny. She liked to study the planes of his cheek, the way his dark hair fell over his forehead and how his mouth shaped the words he was reading.

Often, she didn't listen to the words but only heard the music of his voice. Today, however, the words had captured her full attention. Completely enraptured, she was unaware that she'd put down her palette and brush. Absently she wiped her hands on a cloth that hung from the pocket of her smock and moved slowly across the room toward him.