Simply Perfect (24 page)

“You girls will all be going to Alvesley Park tomorrow,” Claudia said as she came up to them. “You have been invited with all the children to a picnic.”

“To a
picnic,
” Molly said, her eyes as wide as saucers, the fountain and the water forgotten. “
All
of us, miss?”

“All of you,” Claudia said, smiling. “Will that not be a wonderful treat?”

“Do the others know?” Molly asked, her voice just a little lower than a shriek.

“You are the first to be told,” Claudia said.

“I am going to tell them,” Molly cried, and she went dashing off to find the other girls, leaving Lizzie behind.

Lizzie's face was turned up and seemed lit from within.

“I am to go too?” she asked. “To
Alvesley
? Where Papa is?”

“You are indeed,” Claudia told her.

“Oh,” Lizzie said softly. And she stooped down and felt for Horace, who was sitting quietly beside her, and took the leash in her hand. “Will he be glad to see me?”

“I expect he is counting the hours,” Claudia said.

“Take me to my room, Horace,” Lizzie said. “Oh, Miss Martin, how many hours
is
it?”

Horace, of course, was not
that
good a guide, though he might learn in time. He was always careful to see that Lizzie ran against no obstacle, but he had no particular sense of direction despite Lizzie's great faith in him. Claudia led the way indoors and upstairs, and Horace trotted after her, bringing Lizzie along behind. But it always pleased the girl to think she was becoming independent.

She could not get to sleep that night. Claudia had to sit beside her bed and read one of her stories aloud and pat her hand while Horace curled up against her.

Claudia doubted she would sleep either. She had decided reluctantly that she must go with the girls to Alvesley—it was too much to expect Eleanor to take the responsibility entirely on her own shoulders. But she really,
really
did not want to go. She had been concentrating very hard on making plans for the coming school year and upon renewing her acquaintance with Charlie, who still rode over to Lindsey Hall every day.

But now she was going to have to see the Marquess of Attingsborough once more. It was pointless to hope that he would stay away from the children's picnic. She knew he must be pining for Lizzie as much as she was for him.

Was it just her imagination that heartbreak was worse the second time around? Probably, she admitted. At the age of seventeen she had wanted to die. This time she wanted to
live
—she wanted her life back as it had been until the afternoon she had stepped all unwittingly into the visitors' parlor at school to discover the Marquess of Attingsborough standing there.

And she would get that life back. She would live and prosper and be happy again. She
would
. It would just take some time, that was all.

But having to see him again was not going to help.

         

Joseph's yearning to see Lizzie again was like a gnawing physical ache. Every day he had been on the verge of riding over to Lindsey Hall. He had restrained himself partly because he would have been unable to think of an excuse to see her even if he did go there, and partly because he owed it both to Claudia Martin and to Portia—not to mention himself—to stay away.

But it was only partly of Miss Martin he was thinking when the carriages from Lindsey Hall arrived all in a cavalcade together on the afternoon of the picnic, and half the guests at Alvesley and almost all the children stepped outside onto the terrace to greet the new arrivals as they began to spill out of the carriages. Soon there was a noisy, shrieking melee of adults and children, the latter darting about among adult legs in search of comrades and potential new friends and addressing one another with the sort of volume they might have used if they were five miles apart.

Joseph, who was out there too, spotted Claudia Martin as she climbed down from one of the conveyances. She was wearing a cotton dress he had seen before in London and her usual straw hat. She was also wearing a severe, almost grim expression, which suggested that she would rather be anywhere else on earth than where she was. She turned back to the carriage to help someone else down.

Lizzie! All decked out in her best white dress with her hair tied high behind with a white bow.

He hurried forward.

“Allow me,” he said, and he reached up into the carriage, took his daughter by her slender waist, and lifted her down.

She inhaled deeply.

“Papa,” she murmured.

“Sweetheart—”

The dog jumped out and ran around them, barking, and Molly came down the steps behind him.

“Thank you, sir,” Lizzie said more loudly, lifting a mischievously smiling face toward his. “Are you the gentleman who walked to the lake with us last week?”

“I am indeed,” he said, clasping his hands behind him. “And you are…Miss Pickford, I believe?”

“You remembered.” She giggled—a happy, girlish sound.

And then other girls came spilling out of the carriage, and one of the older ones took Lizzie by one hand while Molly took the other. They bore her off to another carriage, which held the remainder of their number with Miss Thompson.

Joseph looked at Miss Martin. It seemed somewhat incredible that he had kissed this stern woman on two separate occasions and that he loved her. Yet again she looked the forbidding, quintessential spinster schoolteacher.

And then her eyes met his, and it was incredible no longer. There were depths behind those eyes that drew him instantly beyond the surface armor she had put on to the warm, passionate woman within.

“Hello, Claudia,” he said softly before he could frame an altogether more appropriate greeting.

“Good afternoon, Lord Attingsborough,” she said briskly. And then she looked beyond his shoulder and smiled. “Good afternoon, Charlie.”

Someone was tugging at the tassel on Joseph's Hessian boot. He looked down to see Wilma and Sutton's youngest, who proceeded to lift both his arms in the air.

“Uncle Joe,” he commanded. “Up.”

Uncle Joe obligingly stooped down to pick him up and settle him astride his shoulders.

The empty carriages from Lindsey Hall were moving off to be replaced by other carriages bringing children and adults from neighboring homes. Ten minutes or so later a veritable army—to use Gwen's analogy—of children was making its disordered way toward the picnic site on a wide expanse of lawn beside the lake to the right of the house, the older ones rushing ahead, toddlers riding shoulders, babies bouncing or sleeping in arms.

They might all be deafened by the noise before the afternoon was over, Joseph thought cheerfully.

Lizzie and Molly and the older girl were
skipping,
he noticed.

17

It was very brave of the Earl and Countess of Redfield and of
Lord and Lady Ravensberg to have organized a picnic on such a grand scale just the day before the anniversary celebrations, Claudia thought as the afternoon progressed. For of course, parents had come as well as children. There were probably at least as many people milling about the lawn west of the house as there would be in the ballroom tomorrow evening.

It would have been very easy to avoid the Marquess of Attingsborough amid all the crowds if they had not both been keeping a careful eye upon Lizzie.

It was unnecessary to be overvigilant. Lizzie, shadowed by Horace but not needing him as a guide, was having the time of her life. Lady Redfield, the Duchess of Anburey, Mrs. Thompson, and a few of the other older ladies, who were sitting together on chairs that had been placed beneath the shade of a group of trees, would gladly have taken her under their wing and indeed did draw her down to sit with them for a few minutes. But she was not forgotten by everyone else. Soon Molly and a few other girls drew her away to introduce her to David Jewell, who had been openly delighted to meet some of his old school friends again and tell them all about his life in Wales. They took her with them to sit by the lake for a while.

A few of the gentlemen organized a cricket game after tea for any children who were interested, and a number of Claudia's girls joined in as well as David. Molly would not play and Lizzie could not, but they stood for a while, Molly watching and explaining to Lizzie what was happening. And then there was an extraordinary moment when Lady Hallmere—the sole lady involved in the game—went in to bat. She made a great show of settling herself in before the wickets and blocked two of the balls bowled at her by Lord Aidan Bedwyn while her team cheered and his jeered. But before he could bowl to her again, she straightened up and looked consideringly at the two girls.

“Wait,” she declared. “I need help. Lizzie, come and bat with me and bring me better fortune.”

And she strode over to Lizzie, took her by the hand, and led her back to stand before the wickets while Claudia caught Horace by the collar and held him back. Lady Hallmere leaned down to explain something to the girl.

“Yes!” Agnes Ryde cried as she awaited her turn. “Lizzie is going to bat.
Come on, Lizzie!
”

For the moment there was a suspiciously Cockney flavor to her accent.

Claudia watched with a frown as Lady Hallmere nestled in behind Lizzie, settled all four of their hands about the bat handle, and looked up at Lord Aidan.

“Right, Aidan,” she called, “bowl us your best. We are going to hit it for a six, are we not, Lizzie?”

Lizzie's face was bright with excitement.

Claudia turned her head briefly to see that the Marquess of Attingsborough, who had been tossing a never-ending line of very young children up in the air one at a time and catching them, was watching intently.

Lord Aidan came loping in halfway down the pitch before bowling the ball very gently at the bat. Lady Hallmere, her hands clasped over Lizzie's, drew back the bat, missing the wickets behind it by a hair, and swung at the ball, hitting it with a satisfyingly loud crack.

Lizzie shrieked and laughed.

The ball soared into the air and straight into the outstretched hands of the Earl of Kilbourne, who inexplicably failed to catch it but fumbled it awkwardly and eventually allowed it to fall to the ground.

But Lady Hallmere had not waited for what had seemed like an inevitable out. She had grabbed Lizzie about the waist and gone tearing down the pitch with her and back again to score two runs.

She was laughing. So was Lizzie, loudly and helplessly. Their team cheered wildly.

The marquess was laughing too and applauding and whistling.

“Oh, well done, Miss Pickford,” he called.

And then Lady Hallmere bent down to kiss Lizzie's cheek, and the Duchess of Bewcastle came to take her by the hand and lead her off to participate in another game.

Claudia, still standing there watching, caught Lady Hallmere's eye, and for an uncomfortable moment their glances held. And then Lady Hallmere raised her eyebrows, looking haughty in the process, and turned her attention back to the cricket game.

That had been a gesture of pure kindness, Claudia was forced to admit, however unwillingly. It was a somewhat disturbing realization. For most of her life, it seemed, she had hated and despised the former Lady Freyja Bedwyn. She did not even want to think now that perhaps the woman had changed, at least to a certain degree.
You bear a long grudge, Miss Martin.

The duchess was forming a number of the smallest children into a circle. She set Lizzie between two of them, joining their hands, and took her own place between two other children to play ring-around-the-rosy.

“Ho,” the Marquess of Attingsborough called just before they began, running up with a small girl riding on one of his shoulders—he was hatless, and she was clinging to his hair, “let us in too.”

And he swung the little girl to the ground and took a place between her and Lizzie, who set her hand in his and turned her face up to him, looking as if all the sunshine had poured into her being. He beamed back down at her with such tenderness that Claudia was amazed everyone did not instantly
know
.

The group circled about, chanting and then all falling down on cue in shrieking delight before scrambling back to their feet, joining hands, and beginning the game all over again. Except that Lizzie and her father never did release hands. Instead they fell and laughed together while Lizzie positively glowed with excitement and happiness.

Claudia, standing watching with Susanna while Anne, holding young Megan in her arms, stood with Sydnam, cheering for David, who was up to bat in cricket, felt very close to tears though she was not at all sure why. Or perhaps she was, but there was a confusing number of causes and she did not know which was uppermost.

“Lizzie is a delightful child,” Susanna said. “She has become everyone's pet, has she not? And is not Joseph a good sport? He has been playing with the younger children all afternoon so far. I am so sorry he is going to marry Miss Hunt. I thought perhaps you and he…But never mind. I still have high hopes of the Duke of McLeith even though you
have
refused him once.”

“You are a hopeless and impractical romantic, Susanna,” Claudia said.

But it was very hard to imagine the Marquess of Attingsborough and Miss Hunt being happy together. Although she had come to the picnic, Miss Hunt had kept herself aloof from all the children and their activities, sitting somewhat removed from everyone else with the Earl and Countess of Sutton and two guests from Alvesley whom Claudia did not know. And Claudia could not help remembering the marquess's telling her at Vauxhall that Miss Hunt thought kisses foolish and unnecessary.

He looked more handsome and charming than ever frolicking with the very young and beaming happily at his daughter.

He deserved better than Miss Hunt.

And then Charlie came strolling up to stand with her and Susanna.

“I doubt I have ever seen so many children so blissfully happy all at one time,” he said. “Everything has been very well organized, has it not?”

Indeed it had. In addition to the numerous games before tea and cricket and ring-around-the-rosy after, there was a game of statues in progress, organized by Eleanor and Lady Ravensberg. The Countess of Rosthorn was giving an archery lesson to a few of the nearly grown-up children. The Marquess of Hallmere and another gentleman were giving boat rides. A few children were playing their own private game on the bank of the lake, watched over by the older ladies. A few others were climbing trees. Some babies were being amused by parents or grandparents.

No guests showed any sign yet of wishing to take their leave.

“Claudia,” Charlie said, “shall we take a stroll along by the lake?”

Her presence at the picnic site was unnecessary, Claudia thought, looking about. There was plenty of supervision for all her girls. Susanna was smirking her encouragement.

And she needed to get away, if only for a few minutes. Indeed, she wished she had not come at all. It had been obvious to her for most of the afternoon that she might easily have stayed away altogether.

“Thank you,” she said, “that would be pleasant.”

And it was too. She enjoyed both the walk in sunshine and picturesque surroundings and the company. During the past few days she and Charlie had become friends again. As well as reminiscing about their childhood, he talked a great deal about his life as Duke of McLeith. She talked about her life at the school. They shared ideas and opinions. The old easy camaraderie had returned to their relationship. He had made no further reference to his marriage proposal at Lindsey Hall. He was, it seemed, content to settle for friendship.

Children did not tire easily. When Claudia and Charlie returned from their walk after half an hour, there was still a vast crowd of them milling about the large lawn area, involved in some game or another while adults participated or supervised or sat watching and conversing with one another.

It was a relief to Claudia to notice that the Marquess of Attingsborough was missing. And it was an annoyance to discover that he was the first person she looked for. The next person was Lizzie. Her eyes searched everywhere twice before she came to the conclusion that the child was simply not there.

Her stomach performed an uncomfortable flip-flop.

“Where is Lizzie?” she asked Anne, who was close by with Megan.

“She is holding Harry,” Anne said, pointing toward Susanna—who was holding Harry herself while Peter squatted beside her chair, his hand resting on the baby's head while he smiled up at his wife. “Oh, she
was
holding Harry.”

“Where is Lizzie?” Claudia asked more urgently of no one in particular.

“The blind girl?” Charlie asked, cupping her elbow with one hand. “Someone is always looking after her. Don't worry.”

“Where is Lizzie?”

“Morgan is letting her hold the bow and arrows, Miss Martin,” Lady Redfield called.

But Lady Rosthorn, Claudia could see, was shooting an arrow at a target while an admiring group of young people looked on—and Lizzie was not among them.

She must have gone somewhere with her father.

“Oh,” the Dowager Countess of Kilbourne said. “I believe she went for a walk with Miss Thompson and a group of other girls from your school, Miss Martin. May I commend you on the girls? They all have excellent manners.”

“Thank you,” Claudia said, sagging with relief while Charlie squeezed her elbow solicitously. And indeed she could see now that Eleanor was missing from the crowd too as were a few of her girls. Lizzie had gone walking with them. Horace must have gone too.

Charlie guided her to an empty chair, and even as she seated herself she could see the Marquess of Attingsborough making his way back to the picnic site with Miss Hunt on his arm. The Earl and Countess of Sutton and another couple were with them. Lizzie was not, of course.

But just as Claudia was beginning to relax, chiding herself for becoming so frightened when Lizzie had a dozen or more chaperones to watch her, she could see Eleanor and her group returning from their walk to the east of the house.

Eleanor, Molly, Doris, Miriam, Charlotte, Becky—Lord Aidan's daughter—an unknown girl, another, David Jewell, Davy—Becky's brother…

Claudia got to her feet, searching the group more intently as it came closer.

Lizzie was not among them.

“Where is Lizzie?”

No one answered.

“Where is Lizzie?”

         

Lizzie had been feeling blissfully happy. She had come to Alvesley with eager anticipation, knowing that her papa was staying here. But she had not expected too much. For one thing, she did not want her new friends to stop liking her, and they might if they knew that she had a rich father who loved her. And so she was going to have to be careful not to give the game away. But she knew too that her papa would not want openly to acknowledge her. She knew that she was the bastard child of a nobleman and an opera dancer—her mother had made that very clear to her. She knew that she could never belong in her papa's world, that she must never openly appear there. And she knew that he was about to marry a lady, someone from his own world—something her mother had always said would happen one day.

She had not expected too much of the picnic, then. She had been happy just to have him lift her down from the carriage and to hear him cheer for her when she hit the cricket ball with Lady Hallmere's help. Her cup had run over with joy when he had come to play ring-around-the-rosy with her, as he had done sometimes when she was a little girl at home. He had held her hand and laughed with her and fallen on the grass with her. And when the game was over, he had kept hold of her hand and told her that he would take her for a boat ride.