Simply Perfect (21 page)

“And you have always wanted to do something courageous, Lizzie?” Miss Martin asked. “Like Amanda in your story, when she might have escaped from the forest earlier if she had not stopped to rescue the dog from the rabbit snare?”

“But it is not just for fighting witches and evil, is it?” Lizzie said.

“It is also for stepping into the unknown,” Claudia said, “when it would be easier to cling to what is familiar and safe.”

“I think, then,” Lizzie said after another short silence, “I will be courageous. Will you be proud of me if I am, Papa?”

“I am
always
proud of you, sweetheart,” he said. “But yes, I would be especially proud if you were to be brave enough to go. And I would be very happy if it turned out that you enjoyed yourself as I daresay you would.”

“Then I will go,” she said decisively, and abruptly stopped rocking. “I will go, Miss Martin.”

Then she turned sharply to paw at Joseph's arm and scrambled onto his lap to hug him tightly and hide against him.

His arms closed about her and he tipped back his head and closed his eyes. He swallowed, feeling absurdly close to tears. When he opened his eyes, he could see that Miss Martin was watching them steadily, looking like a disciplined teacher again—or like his very dear friend.

Without thinking he stretched one arm across the table between them and, after looking at his hand for a moment, she set her own in it.

Ah, sometimes life was bitterly ironic. He felt again as if he had found a family where there could be none—just when he was honor-bound to offer for a woman who wanted never to be kissed.

His hand closed about Miss Martin's and squeezed tightly.

14

Late one afternoon two weeks later Claudia was dressed in her
old faithful blue evening gown and was styling her hair herself, having declined the Duchess of Bewcastle's kind offer of the services of a maid. She was feeling unaccountably depressed when she had every reason to feel just the opposite.

She was being treated as a favored guest at Lindsey Hall rather than as a teacher in charge of a largish group of charity schoolgirls. And within half an hour she would be on her way with the Bedwyn family to a celebratory dinner and social evening at Alvesley Park. She would see Susanna there. She would also see Anne, who had arrived from Wales with Sydnam and their children just yesterday.

The journey from London a few days ago had proceeded un-eventfully, though Lizzie had been tearful for a while after leaving the house and her father and had clung to Claudia the whole way. But Susanna and Peter, with whom they had traveled, had been kind to her, the dog had snuggled up beside her, and she had been more than thrilled when the carriages had stopped and Harry's nurse had brought him forward to his mother and Lizzie had been allowed to touch his little hand and smooth her hand over his downy head.

It had been good to see Eleanor Thompson again and the girls she had brought to Lindsey Hall, and they had all seemed genuinely glad to see her. They had greeted Lizzie with caution and curiosity, but on the very first evening Agnes Ryde, the most dominant of the girls and sixteen years old, had decided to take the new girl under her wing, and Molly Wiggins, the youngest and most timid, had chosen Lizzie as her particular friend and taken her firmly by the hand. She had promptly offered to brush Lizzie's hair and had borne her off to the room they were to share, while Agnes took her other arm.

It had been good to see Flora and Edna again, and to discover that both seemed quite blissfully happy with their new lot in life and eager to show off a little for their former schoolmates.

The duchess had been amiable. So had Lord and Lady Aidan Bedwyn, the Earl and Countess of Rosthorn—the countess was the younger of two Bedwyn sisters—and the Marquess of Hallmere. The Duke of Bewcastle had been polite. He had even engaged Claudia in conversation for all of ten minutes at dinner one evening, and she had not been able to fault his manners. And Lady Hallmere had actually come striding across the lawn from the stables one morning dressed in her riding habit and had bidden Claudia a good morning before talking briefly with Molly and Lizzie, who were laboriously making daisy chains. The dog meanwhile had been chasing his tail and any flying creature that was in-cautious enough to venture into his space.

Lady Hallmere acted like a queen condescending to the lowliest of her subjects, Claudia had thought unkindly until she had chastised herself for unfairness. The woman could easily have ignored them altogether. And her words in London had chastened Claudia somewhat—
you bear a long grudge, Miss Martin.

Charlie had ridden over from Alvesley each day, and once they had gone for a long walk about the lake and talked without stopping. It had felt quite like old times—well, perhaps not quite. He had been a hero in those long-ago days, an idol, someone incapable of doing anything wrong or remotely ignoble. Now she had no illusions about him. He was a man, like all others, with human weaknesses. But it felt undeniably good to be with him again, to talk with him. She was not sure she could ever really trust him again, but then she was not being called to trust. Just to enjoy a resumption of their friendship.

And then had come the invitation to go to Alvesley with everyone else except Eleanor, who had volunteered to remain behind with the girls, something that was hardly a sacrifice, she had insisted to both Claudia and her sister, since she found most social entertainments a colossal bore.

And of course, Claudia thought as she set down her brush and got to her feet and picked up her paisley shawl, it was that invitation and the reason behind it that was responsible for the dip in her mood. It was indeed to be a celebratory dinner even though it was a whole week before the planned anniversary party for the Earl and Countess of Redfield.

This celebration was for a new betrothal.

Miss Hunt's to the Marquess of Attingsborough.

And it was a massive case of self-deception to tell herself that it was an
unaccountable
depression that she felt.

She was going to Alvesley, then, to celebrate his betrothal. She might easily have avoided going, she supposed, but she had decided that it would be cowardly to stay away. And it had never been her nature to avoid reality. Besides, she was genuinely looking forward to seeing Anne and Susanna.

An hour or so later, when she arrived at Alvesley with the Lindsey Hall party, she was immediately engulfed in a great bustle of greetings. But within moments she found herself caught up in the arms of a laughing Anne. And suddenly she was very glad indeed that she had come.

“Claudia!” Anne cried. “Oh, how good it is to see you. You are looking very well indeed and have been taking London by storm, if Susanna is to be believed.”

Claudia laughed. “Somewhat of an exaggeration,” she said. “Anne, you look wonderful. You look as if you are bursting with good health. But your face is not
sun
-bronzed, is it?”

“It is the sea air,” Anne explained. “Sydnam would have it that it is also the
Welsh
air.”

He was standing beside her, and Claudia offered him her hand, remembering to give her left as he had no right arm. He smiled as he shook it—his rather charming, lopsided smile, as burns to the right side of his face had damaged the nerves there.

“Claudia,” he said, “it is good to see you again.”

Anne linked an arm through his and looked at Claudia with shining eyes.

“We have wonderful news,” she said, “and have been telling everyone who is willing to listen.” She looked up at her husband and laughed. “Or rather
I
have been telling everyone. Sydnam is far too modest. He is to have three of his paintings hung at the Royal Academy in the autumn. Have you ever heard anything more exciting?”

There was a shriek from nearby and the Countess of Rosthorn dashed up to Sydnam Butler and hugged him tightly.

“Syd!” she cried. “Is it
true
? Oh, I am so happy I could weep. And look, that is just what I am doing. Silly me. I knew you could do it. I just
knew
. Gervase, do come and hear this, and please bring a handkerchief with you.”

Mr. Butler had been a talented artist before losing his right arm and eye during the Peninsular Wars. After that he had devoted himself to becoming a good steward, having persuaded the Duke of Bewcastle into giving him a post at his estate in Wales. But soon after his marriage to Anne two years ago, Sydnam had started to paint again, under her encouragement, using his left hand and his mouth.

Claudia took Anne's arm and squeezed it.

“I am so happy for both of you, Anne,” she said. “How is my boy David? And Megan?”

David Jewell was Anne's son, born nine years before she met Mr. Butler. When Anne had taught at the school in Bath, David had lived there too. After they left, Claudia had missed him almost as much as she had missed Anne.

But she scarcely heard Anne's reply. She had spotted the Marquess of Attingsborough, who was speaking with the Duchess of Bewcastle and Lady Hallmere. He looked tall and imposing and handsome. He was also smiling and looking very happy.

He looked like a stranger, Claudia thought. And yet, even as she thought it, his eyes met hers across the crowded hallway and he looked again like the man who had become strangely dear to her during the course of a couple of weeks in London.

He was making his way toward her, she could see a moment later. She turned away from Anne to meet him.

“Miss Martin,” he said, offering his hand.

“Lord Attingsborough.” She set her hand in his.

“How is Lizzie?” He had lowered his voice.

“She is doing remarkably well,” Claudia told him. “She has made friends and daisy chains. And Horace has shown no loyalty whatsoever—he has abandoned me to become her shadow. The duke's head groom is making a collar and leash for him so that Lizzie can hold it and be led about. I believe the dog knows that she needs protection and will learn to be invaluable to her after some training.”

“Daisy chains?” He raised his eyebrows.

“They are well within her capabilities,” she said. “She can find and identify daisies in the grass, and making the chains is really quite easy. She has been going about bedecked with garlands and coronets.”

He smiled. “And friends?”

“Agnes Ryde, the most fierce of my pupils, has become her self-appointed guardian,” Claudia told him, “and Molly Wiggins and Doris Chalmers are vying for the position of best friend. I believe the contest was won early, though, since Molly had the idea first and shares a room with Lizzie. They have become virtually inseparable.”

He beamed at her. But before either of them could say more Miss Hunt, looking lovely in pink, appeared at his side and took his arm. She smiled at him after favoring Claudia with a distant nod.

“You must come and speak with the Duke and Duchess of Bewcastle,” she said. “They are over there, talking with Mama and Papa.”

He bowed to Claudia and turned away with his betrothed.

Claudia firmly shook off the depression that had been hovering over her all day. It was really quite demeaning—not to mention silly—to be coveting someone else's man. Susanna, smiling brightly in welcome, was coming toward her from one side and Charlie, smiling just as warmly, was approaching from the other. She had every reason in the world to be cheerful.

And truly she
was
.

         

Joseph really was feeling reasonably happy. His marriage offer had, of course, been favorably received by both Balderston and Portia herself. Lady Balderston had been ecstatic.

The wedding was to be celebrated in the autumn in London. That had been decided by Lady Balderston and Portia between them. It was a pity, they had both agreed, that it could not take place at a more fashionable time of the year when all the
ton
would be in town, but it was far too long to wait until next spring, especially given the indifferent health of the Duke of Anburey.

The talk ever since—whenever Joseph was within hearing distance, anyway—had been all of guest lists and bride clothes and wedding trips. It all gave him renewed hope that his marriage would be a good one after all. Of course, all the bustle of wedding plans and then the removal to Alvesley had made it impossible for him to spend any private time with his betrothed, but that situation would surely be rectified after this evening's celebrations were over. And it was undeniably good to see almost all his family gathered for the occasion, including his mother and father, who had come from Bath. Lord and Lady Balderston were there too, though they were to leave tomorrow, before the anniversary celebrations began in earnest.

As good manners dictated, Portia did not remain at his side after dinner, when everyone gathered in the drawing room. She sat sipping her tea with Neville and Lily and McLeith. Nev had beckoned her over, somewhat to Joseph's surprise. He knew that neither he nor Lily really liked her yet. Perhaps they were making an effort to get to know her better.

Only one thing threatened to lower his spirits—well, perhaps two if he included the presence of Miss Martin, of whom he had grown far too fond while they were both in London. He was missing Lizzie dreadfully. She was tantalizingly close there at Lindsey Hall, making friends and daisy chains and shadowed by a border collie. He wanted to be there, tucking her into bed, reading her a story. Yet society decreed that a man's illegitimate offspring be kept not only away from his family but also a secret from them.

“You are wool-gathering, Joseph,” his cousin Gwen, the widowed Lady Muir, said as she came to sit beside him.

“What gives society its power, Gwen?” he asked.

“An interesting question,” she said, smiling at him. “Society is made up of individuals—and yet it does have a collective entity all its own, does it not? What gives it its power? I don't know. History, perhaps? Habit? A combination of the two? Or the collective fear that if we relax any of its stringent rules we will be overrun by the dreaded lower classes? The specter of what happened in France still looms large, I suppose. It is all absurd, though. That is why I stay away from society as much as I can. Do you have a particular problem with it?”

He almost confided in her. What would she say if he told her about Lizzie, as he had told her brother long ago? He was almost convinced that she would be neither shocked nor unsympathetic. But he could not do it. She was his cousin and his friend—but she was also a lady. He countered her question with one of his own.

“Do you ever wish,” he asked, “that you could move away to the farthest corner of the world and start a new life, where no one knows you and there are no expectations of you?”