Elizabeth Mansfield (4 page)

"I didn't think it would." Jeremy pulled up a chair beside Charles and braced himself. "Very well, Mama, go ahead and say what you must."

Charles tried again to rise and get away. "But of course, ma'am," he murmured, "you'll wish me to take myself off. You will surely desire a little privacy for what promises to be an intimate mother-son conversation."

"Sit down, Charlie Percy," Lady Inglesby ordered. "You heard me say I wanted you here. Don't make me say it again."

Charlie shrugged in surrender and sat.

Lady Sarah waited in dramatic silence for a moment and then turned her eyes to her son. "I never thought I'd live to see the day, Jemmy," she said at last in a voice lowered to a dramatic contralto, "when I'd be forced to admit that my son is a cad!"

"Cad?" Jeremy echoed, exchanging a glance with Charlie.

"Cad," said his mother.

"Come now, ma'am," Charlie ventured in brave defense of his friend, "you can't be serious. Not if you're referring to the Cicely Beringer matter."

"Of course I'm referring to it. I hope there is no
other
circumstance in which my son behaved like a cad."

"He wasn't caddish in the Beringer matter either," Charlie insisted loyally. "He never made the girl an offer. Thus he can't be accused of breaking troth."

Lady Sarah raised one icy eyebrow. "Are you, the rakish and disreputable Lord Lucas, of all people, advising
me
on questions of ethical behavior?"

Charlie reddened. "No, ma'am, of course not. I wouldn't
dream
of—"

"Then don't interrupt." She looked back at her son. "It is only weasely libertines like Charlie here who fall back on the letter of the law to defend their misbehavior. A true gentleman understands that the
spirit
of the law is what counts. Everyone in London was expecting you to offer for the girl. When you didn't, you broke your troth in spirit if not in word. And that, to me, is the act of a cad."

Jeremy stared at his mother for a moment, his emotions in turmoil. He'd always thought of himself as a decent sort of fellow, until his rejection of Cicely stirred up doubts in his mind about his own rectitude. During these past two days, however, readily accepting the lighthearted excuses of his conduct offered by his libertinish friend, he'd allowed himself the luxury of self-justification. His confidence in himself as a man of basic decency had been restored. Now his mother's accusation dealt that confidence a hard blow.

His first reaction was to defend himself. "See here, Mama," he said, getting to his feet and glaring down at her, "if Cicely were a chit of my own choosing, of whom you disapproved, you would have been
happy
to have me abide by the letter rather than the spirit of the law. If you didn't like her, you'd have
encouraged
me not to offer for her, wouldn't you?"

"Perhaps I would, but the question is not to the point, since there's nothing about Cicely Beringer that I don't li—" Suddenly her eyes darkened, and she looked up at her son with a troubled frown. "What did you mean 'of my own choosing'? Are you implying that I
chose
Cicely for you?"

"Didn't you?"

Her face tightened in offense. "I introduced you, just as I've introduced you to dozens of young women in the past. I never demanded that you court any of them. Much good it would have done me if I had! It was always understood between us that whatever happened after the introduction was to be entirely up to you. In Cicely's case, I had the distinct impression that you were quite attracted to her."

Jeremy dropped his eyes guiltily. "Yes, I was," he admitted.

"Then, my dear, I can't say I understand you." Her tone became somewhat gentler, and her eyes showed deep concern. "Is it that we misjudged the girl? That one's first impression of her is false? Did she become tempestuous, or spoilt, or smug, or missish, or in some other way disappointing?"

"No," Jeremy said.

Charlie snorted. "I should say not. He described her to me just two days ago as being good-hearted, generous, sweet and—to quote his exact words—'quite the prettiest little thing in all of society.' I was so impressed I was ready to wed the chit myself."

"Be still, you chinch," Jeremy muttered. "You aren't helping."

'Then what was it?" his mother asked in confusion. "If she still has all those lovely qualities, why did you turn tail? After turning the girl's head with your attention and courting her for weeks right before everyone's eyes, why on earth did you run off without offering for her?"

Jeremy ran his hand through his dark, tousled hair. "I don't know, Mama. I can't explain it even to myself." He sat down again and faced her squarely. "It was the strangest feeling. I was on the point of asking. Word of honor. We were sitting in my carriage, and she was looking lovely and behaving with all her usual charm. And then, quite abruptly, I was struck with this... this
revulsion!
And I knew, with a horrifying certainty, that I didn't want to wed her after all."

"That
is
strange." Lady Inglesby studied her son intently for a moment before proceeding. "However, Jemmy, I think I can explain it. My dear, you are thirty-eight years old, and in all these years you've never come to the point with a single female. I think the revulsion you experienced is not toward Cicely but toward marriage itself."

"I don't think so," Jeremy said thoughtfully. "But even if you're right, I don't know what I'm expected to do about it."

"What you're expected to do is to force yourself to overcome the revulsion. Marry her! Once you take the plunge, it will be fine."

'Take the plunge?" Jeremy smiled ruefully. "Like diving into icy water?"

"Exactly like that. Once you've gotten over the initial shock, marriage will be quite invigorating."

"If you don't drown," Charlie muttered sotto voce.

"You're wasting your breath, Charlie Percy," her ladyship said dismissively as she rose from her chair. "Jeremy Tate is not the sort to heed the advice of a libertine. My son has always been, and will continue to be, a man of honor." That was what she'd come to say, and having said it, she glided serenely toward the door.

"And what should a man of honor do," her son asked glumly, "if he's already offended the girl in question?"

Lady Sarah paused in the doorway. "A man of honor should beg forgiveness of the scorned lady and pay his addresses again, however belatedly. Cicely's mother has taken her off to the country to recuperate from the blow. But Crestwoods, the Beringer estate, is not far from here, I understand. A note to the mother, requesting permission to renew the suit, would not be amiss. Good-bye, dear boy. I shall be awaiting further news."

She was gone. Jeremy sank down on his chair with a groan and dropped his head in his hands.

Charlie eyed him from under knit brows. "I say, old man, you're not really going to do it, are you?"

"Do it? Renew my suit?" Jeremy looked up at him, his expression gloomy with resignation. "I'm afraid I will. I don't think I'm suited to caddishness, do you?"

Charlie shrugged. "Very well, dive into the matrimonial waters. Be a man of honor if you must. But I sincerely hope you're a good swimmer."

Chapter 5

At Crestwoods, Cassie stood at the library window, staring out through rivulets of raindrops at the sodden garden path where Cicely was walking. The girl had insisted, for the third day in a row, on walking in the rain. Though Cassie had tried by every means she could think of—from cajolery to outright threats of confinement to her room—to keep her daughter safe and dry at home, Cicely had ignored her. Cassie had even offered to go walking with her, but Cicely wanted to be alone.

Cicely made a pathetic appearance out there in the garden, with her shoulders hunched against the rain, her head lowered, her galoe-shoes sloshing indifferently through the puddles on the paving stones and her devoted abigail, Dora, trotting closely behind her holding an umbrella over her head. But Cassie, watching her, felt a touch of irritation seeping into her feelings of motherly sympathy. She was beginning to suspect that Cicely's heart was not broken. Cicely's frequent sighs, her sad gazings into the fire, her melodramatic walks in the rain were closer to playacting than to sincere melancholy.

It was not that Cassie didn't believe her daughter was suffering some real pain. Cicely's pride had been hurt, there was no question of that. And it was indeed painful for the girl to know that she was probably the topic of disparaging gossip back in London. But Cassie had observed her beloved daughter closely these past few days, and it seemed to her that the girl was more humiliated than lovelorn. Cicely did not indicate that she felt any emptiness brought about by the absence of her "beloved"; she did not speak of missing the sight of his face or the sound of his voice; she did not dwell on the joy he'd given her that was now gone, or the tingle she would no longer feel at the touch of his hand. Instead she talked a great deal about how her friend Constance was probably taking pleasure in her defeat, how the ladies in her aunt's circle would all be asking Aunt Eva embarrassing questions, how she would never be able to enter Almack's again without dying of shame. Cicely was centered on herself rather than on her loved one, and that fact convinced Cassie that, despite Cicely's tendency to drench herself in melancholy, the girl's pride was more bruised than her heart.

As she stood at the window watching the girl, she realized there was little that she, as a mother, could do for Cicely in this matter. Her daughter had to learn for herself to overcome the effects of the blow that her first encounter with a suitor had dealt her. A mother could only stand by and offer comfort.

With a helpless sigh, she turned from the window to her easel. She would try to occupy her mind with her painting. She flipped back the long heavy braid that had fallen over her shoulder, buttoned up her smock and picked up her palette and a brush. But she discovered, to her dismay, that she was unable to concentrate. She found her mind distracted with thoughts of Lord Inglesby. What sort of fellow was he? she wondered. How could a man of his maturity desire an eighteen-year-old innocent as a lifetime companion? Of course, she realized, any man, of whatever age, might easily find Cicely irresistible. Cassie could forgive a man for that. After all, Cicely was very lovely, and brimming with a youthful zest that was utterly charming. But then, if he saw all that in her, why did he renege at the last moment? Had he decided, after all, that the age difference was too great?

But it was not a question to dwell on, she told herself, for she would never learn the answer. She might better spend her time working on the lemons on the canvas in front of her. The still life was beginning to take shape, but the lemons did not please her. Perhaps they should be a little plumper, she thought, beginning to dab away at them. She wanted to be able to
taste
their sour juiciness with her eyes.

She didn't realize how hard she was concentrating until she was startled by the sound of footsteps in the doorway. She looked up to find Eva pushing a bedraggled Cicely before her. "Really, Cassie," the older sister declared, "how
can
you have permitted this poor child to wander about outside in this weather?"

"Ah, Eva! So you've come," Cassie said in greeting, dropping her brush and holding out her arms. "I knew you wouldn't stay away for long."

"Never mind that," her sister snapped. "I asked a question. What sort of mother are you?"

"The sort of mother whose daughter never listens to a word she says," Cassie replied, taking no offense. "How did you persuade her to come inside?"

"I simply ordered her to," Eva said disdainfully.

"Well, you must give me lessons on how to give orders. Meanwhile, can you convince this obstinate girl to go upstairs and get into bed?"

"Oh, Mama, please," Cicely objected wanly. "I'm really quite all right."

"Please, miss," begged her rain-drenched abigail, who'd followed them in. " 'Tis dreadful wet y'are!"

"Listen to Dora if not to me, my love," Cassie said patiently. "We cannot permit you to stand about in those damp clothes."

The two sisters took Cicely's arms and dragged her with gentle firmness up the stairs. With Dora's assistance they undressed her, rubbed her hair almost dry with a heavy towel, put her in a newly pressed nightdress and tucked her into bed. "And you're to nap until dinnertime," Eva ordered as she ushered everyone out of the room.

Out in the corridor, Dora carefully piled Cicely's wet clothes over her arm. "I'll 'ave these dried an' pressed by dinnertime, ma'am," she told her mistress.

"Thank you, Dora," Cassie said, "but be sure to change out of your own wet things before you do anything else. And take time for a good hot cup of tea. You deserve it."

"Yes, m'lady." The abigail bobbed and started toward the back stairs, but stopped and turned. "Oh, Lady Schofield, I was forgettin'. Clemson said to tell ye your portmanteau's been brought up to your room."

Eva nodded and waved her off. As soon as the girl was gone, she wheeled on her sister. "It seems to me, Cassandra Beringer, that you are not sufficiently concerned with your daughter's state of mind," she scolded. "You don't seem to recognize the fact that she's had her heart broken."

"I think her heart is sufficiently resilient to mend," Cassie said dryly. "But, Eva, my love, I don't think we should encourage her to brood. You shouldn't fuss over her."

"But of
course
I should fuss over her. She's had a dreadful blow."

"Yes, I know. But perhaps it isn't as great as you think." Eva glowered at her. "Are you suggesting that she is not suffering?"

"If her pain were really great," Cassie said thoughtfully, "she'd struggle to rid herself of it, wouldn't she? Instead, she seems to be wallowing in it. I don't think we should encourage wallowing."

Eva rolled her eyes heavenward in utter disgust. "Sometimes, Cassie, I think you haven't a heart in your breast." And she strode off down the hall to her room.