Quiet Meg (17 page)

“I plan to return to Selbourne with Bertie, right after this
ball. Sutcliffe will have difficulty reaching me there. And
I … shall not see Cabot again.”

“Well,” Louisa said, “apart from the fact that I
shouldn’t think it likely Mr. Cabot will be satisfied with
such an arrangement, and apart from the fact that your
plan sounds too much like the plot of one of Aunt Pru’s
Minerva novels .. ” As Meg wheeled to her, Louisa held
up a hand. “Please, Meg, since you already know me for a
fool, permit me at least to play at wisdom!

“Unless you hurt him in some dreadful and dishonest
manner,” she went on, “which does not sound at all like you,
Cabot will not let you go quietly back to Selbourne. If he
believes you return his sentiments he will seek to make a
path clear for both of you. But if you choose to hurt him
instead .. “Again she silenced Meg.

“If you hurt him deeply, Meg, and you do return to Selbourne, he will not spend the rest of his days pining for you
as you will for him. Men want their homes, dearest, just as
women want theirs. They want to be comfortable. They
want, in varying degrees it is true, to have children. How
long do you think Cabot would wait for you to change your
mind? For five months? Five years? Until Sutcliffe dies?
Cabot is an active man. With time, even Meg Lawrence
will become only a memory. Whatever his heart’s desire,
he will wonder why he is not living his life. Some other
woman will make him comfortable, will give him a home
and children-and eventually he will love her for doing so.
And then how will you feel?”

Meg could not see clearly. The houses on the other side
of the street looked set to collapse into a watery canal. She
knew that every word Louisa said was true, but she could
not, she could not …

“I would still … have him alive,” she choked out.

Louisa rose quickly and moved to her.

“Little Meggie,” she said softly, hugging her. “I’m sorry
to have been so hard. I have not been the sister you needed.”
She kissed her on the cheek. “You are so lovely, Meg. The
men must fight over you. All you can do is choose. And not
be afraid”

“I am not afraid … for myself.”

“But Cabot is an excellent man. You must tell him of your
fears, Meg, and trust where you love. All will come right “

On Thursday morning, Meg received a note from Monsieur LeBecque:

Dear lady, I beg your forbearance. I have need of you
to sit for me for one period more. In all else the portrait is finished, as I promised. Will you not return this
morning, for no more than one hour? I await your
convenience. LeBecque.

Meg frowned. LeBecque had assured them yesterday
that he would need them no more. But there was no help for
it-he was a master, a meticulous man-he was doing precisely as they wished. If her nose were not just so
LeBecque would never release the painting from his studio.

With resignation Meg penned a response, saying yes,
she would come tout de suite. Only after she had sent the
messenger back did she have a moment’s qualm. She had
no company. Lucy and Aunt Pru had gone out to address
last minute errands before the night’s ball; Bertie had kept
a regular appointment at Jackson’s salon. But LeBecque
had said no more than an hour, and he had always been
most accurate.

Meg arranged for her father’s carriage, and left a note
for Bertie, letting him know where she had gone. She
looked in on her father in the library. But as it was necessary to preserve the secret of the portrait she could not reveal her destination.

“Father, I must pop over to the dressmakers for just a bit.
My chemisette is not quite right, and I must have it in
sarcenet rather than crape for tonight”

“Margaret, you have just used two words I have never
before heard in my life. But if you must do whatever it is
you must do ..”

“I must do it.” She kissed the top of his head. “I know
you are tired of this, father, but Lucy is in alt. You could not
have made her happier.”

“We shall see. We shall see. And you, my Meg, are you
going to explain to me the flowers in the front hall?”

“You have a daughter who has just been presented,” Meg
teased. “Her ball is tonight. She has received flowers every
day for weeks”

“Do not patronize me, miss! You know I am not referring to Lucy’s flowers.”

Meg checked. She had not thought her father had noticed.

“The bowl of violets was from Mr. Cabot, father.”

“For you?”

“Yes, for me-as an apology.”

“And for what would Mr. Cabot need to apologize?”

“For trying to best me on Paloma. The other morning in
the park. With the Wemblys. Bertie told you about our race”

“Ah!” Her father’s gaze was still too sharp. “Perhaps he
will not be so bold as to challenge you in future.”

“I hope not, father. Now I really must be off.”

“You are taking the grooms?” He frowned as he asked.

“And Annie. With Joe Coachman that makes four. Do
not worry, father. I am smothered in protectors!” She
rushed away, sparing a glance at the bowl of violets on her
way through the hall. They had arrived yesterday-modest,
fragrant, charming, and so expensively past their season
she had wondered that they were even to be had. Cabot’s
card had accompanied them, with no message. She had
wanted them in her room, but had not dared to remove
them, lest Lucy note their absence. She must remember to
spirit them upstairs before the evening’s event.

“It don’t seem like Mr. LeBecque would have to call you
back this way,” Annie remarked as they settled into the
coach. “He’s been so particler ‘bout his time. I’ve watched
him paint all these weeks. Yesterday-he was finished, just
as he said.”

“Annie, he is an artist. He must have changed his mind.”

“That boy he has that helps him mix paints said Mr.
LeBecque was as pleased with this portrait as he’s ever
been. He would not want to change it. No-someit is
wrong”

“Yes, and that something is probably my nose. And I
shall be heartily glad of it, that someone should say to me:
`Your nose is not quite right, and so we shall let you be.’ “

Annie looked at her very hard.

“You won’t think that, Miss Meg, when you want to
please a man”

“Oh, Annie!” she said, but as she gazed out at the passing streets she did bother to wonder whether Cabot liked
her nose.

They reached LeBecque’s and left Joe Coachman with
the carriage. Meg walked on up to the spacious atelier with
Annie and the two grooms, all of whom had visited before.
The studio, redolent of turpentine and linseed oil and
awash in the open light available along the river, had come
to be almost a second home over the previous five weeks.

“Monsieur LeBecque!” Meg called gaily as she passed
through his outer door. LeBecque was inevitably elsewhere
when they arrived, tending his large canvasses or busily
mixing and testing paints in the back room. “I have
come …”

She halted abruptly as Lord Sutcliffe turned from studying the finished portrait of the three Lawrence sisters. LeBecque
hovered anxiously at the side of the canvas.

“I am sorry, dear lady,” he said quickly, wringing his
hands. “He says he must speak with you, that I must send
the note, or he will destroy this work. He promises that he
means you no harm-that you must meet-for the tryst,
yes? I cannot have my work destroyed! You understand,
Miss Margaret?”

Meg heard his explanation as a mere echo, she was so
alert to Sutcliffe’s presence. But she must have heard more
than she imagined-LeBecque had been threatened, as
anyone who ever dealt with the Earl of Sutcliffe was threatened. LeBecque had wished to save the portrait-the gift
for her father, the father this man had crippled.

A tryst? Her instant fury was something she knew she
had to control.

“All is well, monsieur,” she said, forcing her voice to
calmness. “You did exactly right. But you should know this
is not a rendezvous,” she said pointedly. “I would never so
abuse your hospitality. Pray do not surrender your studio.
Please continue with your work. There is nothing Lord Sutcliffe might say to me that cannot be said to an audience.”
As LeBecque sighed and ceased wringing his hands, Meg
turned to Annie and the grooms. “You will stay, please?”

“Aye,” Annie said, and shot a furious look at Sutcliffe,
before directing the grooms to two different spots in the
room.

Sutcliffe observed their maneuvers with an insolent lack
of concern.

“You see, Miss Meg, that I am alone here” He opened
his arms to the room, as though to prove himself defense less. “I do not need an army to plead my cause. Your party
is more than enough protection.”

“It is revealing-that you believe I should need any.”

“A man alone is no match for your defenders. What
harm can I do you?” He smiled one of his curiously humorless smiles.

“I am quite certain this building is watched, my lord,
that what I do not see here inside is quite vigilant outside.
That has been the case for several years. You wage a silent,
relentless war, Lord Sutcliffe”

“My heart has not been silent. My heart has waited to be
heard”

“You have no heart”

His eyes flashed before he turned away from her to review the portrait again.

“LeBecque is indeed a master,” he said easily. “I have already complimented him. The painting is remarkable. Destined for the Royal Academy. But no match,” he spun again
to look at her, “for the original. You are beyond beautiful,
Margaret. You grow more so hourly.”

“I have learned to trust that you review me hourly. You
have clearly followed my movements here these past weeks,
”
else you could not have planned this so well.”

“I have been made desperate. You have made me so. You
make me survive a year at a time without sight of you”

I have never given you reason to hope for anything
from me, my lord.”

“Ah-but you promise! Everything about you is promise. It is inconceivable that you should be unaware. You
must know what you do. I love you, Meg. I must have you”

She drew a sharp breath and looked at the painting.

“I am not something to be collected.” She turned away
from him and started to walk toward the door.

“If you leave now, I swear I shall destroy this portrait,”
he said coldly.

“I see” She turned back to him in contempt. “You speak
of love and destruction in the same breath. I begin to understand you”

“That at least is something, Meg. We are matched in
passion, you and I”

“What passion would that be? You kill a pure-hearted
boy, cripple my father, invade my sister’s house! You spy
upon me at my home-at Selbourne! What I feel for you is
the opposite of love. Is hatred what you wish from me?”

“I tell you again, Meg-I will have your love.”

Meg shook her head. His suit was in the nature of a
threat.

“You have rank and an ancient name, my lord. Power
and wealth beyond most men’s comprehension! And I hear
you have a son, a boy to carry all forward. I must wonder, if
you were to have me as well, just how long your interest
might last. The evidence would indicate-not long.”

“The rest is not enough. Only you are enough. I shall
have no peace without you”

Meg thought she must have made an error in suggesting,
even conditionally, the possibility that he might ever have
her. Something had lit in his gaze when she had mentioned
the smallest chance, even as example. He was a hunter, for
whom the pursuit was all; the mere thought of attainment
set him on his course.

“Meg . . “He broke abruptly, and started to move toward
her. “I tell you I love you”

“You cannot love,” she said simply. “It is not in you” She
again turned away from him, but this time he crossed to her
quickly and gripped her arm. She still remembered that
hard grip from years before, when she had been seized and
tossed into his carriage.

Annie and the grooms started toward her, but Meg shook
her head. She forced herself to stay still.

“Do you not know, that men love-what they most desire?” he asked low, as though he would coax her. When
she did not respond his voice hardened. “I shall prove it is
in me. I shall prove I love you. There is nothing I would not
do for you”

“The only way you could prove anything, Lord Sutcliffe,
would be to release me this instant, and release me forever.
Leave me and my family alone.”

“No!” Sutcliffe’s grip tightened. “Why must I do so,
when he is permitted to hold you? To dance with you? Why
should you grant him such favors?”

“You are mad,” Meg said. Her arm was beginning to
throb. “There is no one.”

“Oh, I agree-he is no one! A mongrel out of Braughton,
descended from half the bawdy houses on the Continent.
Yet you care for this no one-Cabot!”

“Mr. Cabot is employed by my father. He is nothing
to me.”

“You may dissemble all you wish, my dear. For your
sake I hope that is true. But it does not matter. I have seen
that you mean much to him! That is all I need know-to remove him forever from your company.”

“Murder is your solution to all problems, my lord, is it
not? It is all you hold in your heart”

“I tell you, Meg, that you could keep me from it. You
need only come to me”

“Are you such a stranger to decency then, that you bargain with lives?”

“You have made me so.” His hold on her arm eased. Instead his hand moved as though to caress her, but she quickly
drew away from him.

“You have already bargained one life away-to the devil. You have bargained your own”

“I am not yet so entirely forsaken, Meg. You might save
me, if you choose”

“And why should I choose-to do you such a favor? You
killed Douglas Kenney. You have killed other men who had
nothing whatever to do with me”

“It could not be helped ..

“Could not be helped! It is murder!”