Simply Unforgettable (31 page)

He was just going to have to kidnap her and elope with her if she said no again. It was as simple as that.

Or go down on his knees and plead.

Or sink into a romantic decline.

But he would not think of failing. His grandfather, who was ready to try the Bath waters again, and Amy, who was mortally tired of London, were going with him. So were Tait and Margaret, who would not miss the action for worlds, they said. At least
Tait
said that. Margaret was far more genteel and declared her eagerness to see Bath again, since she had not been there in five years.

And Mrs. Melford and Miss Driscoll were going, since Bath was not far off their route home and they were eager to see their dear Frances in the setting of her school. And they had always wanted to meet her friends there, including Miss Martin, and to hear her choirs.

Lucius strongly suspected that they had decided to go there after hearing that
he
was going. They wanted him to marry their great-niece.

And he, heaven help him, was more than willing to oblige.

 

The last month of the school year was always frantically busy. This year was no exception. There were examinations to set and mark, oral French examinations to administer, report cards to make out, prizewinners to select—and the final concert to prepare for.

That last was what consumed everyone's energies through every spare moment that was not taken up with academics and eating and sleeping—and even those last two activities had to be curtailed during the final week.

Frances was perhaps the busiest, since all the musical items with the exception of the country dancing were hers to prepare and perfect. But all the teachers had a part to play. Claudia was to be the mistress of ceremonies, and she had her own final speech to prepare. Susanna had written, cast, produced, and stage-managed a skit on school life and rehearsed with her girls for long hours and in great secrecy—and with much laughter, judging by the sounds that drifted down from her classroom. Mr. Upton had designed the stage sets for the whole concert, and Anne had a group of girls—plus David—producing them in the art room every afternoon and evening when they could escape from study and homework.

Frances had given Claudia notice effective the end of the year. She had
not
been running away when she came here more than three years ago. She had come to make her life better and to find herself, and she was proud of the success she had achieved at both. But if she stayed, she had decided after several sleepless nights and several frank talks with her friends, then she
would
be hiding from reality.

For reality and dreams had finally coincided, and if she turned away this time she would be denying fate and might never again have the chance to fulfill her destiny.

She was going to find Lord Heath. She was going to put herself in his hands and discover where her singing voice could take her.

She was going to follow her dream.

Anne and Susanna had both shed tears over her, though both vehemently declared that she was doing the right thing. But they would miss her dreadfully. Their life at the school would not be the same without her.

But they would never
speak
to her again, Susanna told her, if she did not go.

And they would hear of her progress and her fame, Anne told her, and burst with pride over her.

She was simply not going to accept the notice, Claudia declared. She would hire a replacement teacher until Christmas. If by then Frances wished to return, her position would be open for her. If not, then a permanent replacement would be made.

“You will not fail whatever happens, Frances,” she said. “If you go on to sing as a career, then it will be what you were born to do. If you find that after all the life does not suit you, then you will return to what you do superbly well, as numerous girls who have been at this school during the past three years will testify for the rest of their lives.”

And so the day of the concert dawned and progressed in the usual pattern, with every possible disaster threatening and being averted at the last possible moment—dancers could not find their dancing slippers and singers could not find their music and no one could find Martha Wright, the youngest pupil at the school, who was to be first on the stage to welcome the guests and who was finally found shut inside a broom closet, reciting her lines with tightly closed eyes and fingers pressed into her ears.

Susanna was peeping around the stage curtain shortly before the program was to begin to see if anyone had come—always the final anxiety of such evenings.

“Oh, my,” she said over her shoulder to Frances, who was arranging her music on a music stand, “the hall is full.”

It always was, of course.

“Oh, and look!” Susanna continued just when she had seemed about to drop the curtain back in place. “Come and
look,
Frances. Six rows back, left-hand side.”

Frances always resisted the temptation to peep. She was too afraid that someone in the audience would catch her at it. But she could hardly refuse when Susanna looked at her with such saucer eyes and flushed cheeks—and then impish grin.

Frances looked.

Strangely, though they were more to the middle than the left, it was her great-aunts she saw first. But before she could react to the joy that welled up in her, she realized that Susanna had never met them and would not therefore recognize them. Her eyes moved left.

The Earl of Edgecombe sat next to Great-Aunt Martha, and then Lady Tait and Lord Tait and then Amy and then . . .

Frances drew a slow, long breath and allowed the curtain to fall into place.

“Frances.” Susanna caught her up in a hug despite the curious glances of a few of the girls who were busy in the wings. There were tears in her eyes. “Oh, Frances, you are going to be
happy
. One of us is going to be happy. I am so . . .
happy
.”

Frances was too numb to feel anything except bewilderment.

But there was no time for feelings. It was seven o'clock, and Claudia always insisted that school functions begin promptly.

Anne appeared with Martha Wright, squeezed her thin shoulders and even kissed her cheek, and sent her out onto the stage.

The dress rehearsal during the afternoon had proceeded as badly as it possibly could. But Miss Martin had cheerfully assured girls and teachers alike that that was always a good sign and boded well for the real performance during the evening.

She was proved quite right.

The choirs sang in perfect pitch and harmony, the dancers were light on their feet and did not get tangled up in their ribbons even once, the choral speaking group recited with great verve and dramatic expression as if they were one voice, Elaine Rundel and young David Jewell sang their solos to perfection, Hannah Swan and Veronica Lane played their duet on the old pianoforte without hitting a wrong key, though it must have been clear even to the least musical ear in the audience that the instrument had had its day and was not likely to have many more, and the skit Susanna's group performed, depicting teachers and girls preparing for a concert, drew laughter from the audience and applause even before it was finished.

The evening ended with a speech by Miss Martin, outlining some of the more significant achievements of the year, and then the presentation of prizes.

Frances never afterward knew how she had got through it all. Every time she was on stage conducting a choir and turned to acknowledge the applause of the audience, she saw either her great-aunts beaming up at her or the earl and Amy. She never once glanced at Lucius. She dared not.

But she knew he was smiling at her with that gleam in his eyes and that tight-lipped, square-jawed expression that demonstrated pride and affection and desire.

And love.

She no longer doubted that he loved her.

Or that she loved him.

The only thing she had doubted was the possibility that there could ever be any future for them.

But the Earl of Edgecombe was with him. So were Amy and Lord and Lady Tait. So were her great-aunts.

What could it mean?

She did not dare answer her own question.

She tried not even to ask it. She tried to concentrate on the concert, to give the girls the attention they deserved. Unwittingly, she gave them even more than usual, and they performed for her even better than they usually did.

But finally the last prize had been presented and the last applause had died away, and there was nothing left to do but go out into the hall with the girls and the other teachers to mingle with the guests while trays of biscuits and lemonade were handed around.

Great-Aunt Martha and Great-Aunt Gertrude were there waiting to hug Frances and exclaim over the loveliness of all the music. Amy was right behind them. Lord Tait bowed to her and Lady Tait smiled with something more than just graciousness in her manner. The Earl of Edgecombe, looking a little more stooped than usual, took both her hands in his, squeezed them, and told her that she appeared to be just as good a teacher as she was a singer—and
that
was saying something.

Lucius remained in the background and was in no hurry to come forward, it seemed. But Frances, glancing at him, felt as if her knees might buckle under her. His eyes were positively devouring her.

“Frances,” he said at last, reaching for her hand and carrying it to his lips when she offered it, “I have said good-bye to you for the last time. I positively refuse to say it ever again. If you try to insist, I shall go off on my own without a word to sulk.”

She could feel the color rising in her cheeks. Her great-aunts were listening. So were his grandfather and sisters and brother-in-law. So were Anne and David, who had come up behind her.

“Lucius!” she said softly.

He would not let her hand go. His eyes were definitely smiling now.

“The final impediment has been removed,” he said as Susanna approached from behind him. “We have the blessing of every member of my family. I have not asked your great-aunts, but I would wager we have their blessing too.”

“Lucius!”

She was beginning to feel horribly embarrassed. People were beginning to
look
. A number of the girls were beginning to nudge one another and titter. There was their teacher, Miss Allard, in the middle of the hall, her hand held close to the heart of a handsome, fashionable gentleman who was laughing down into her face, the expression on his own suggesting that it was more than just amusement he was feeling.

Claudia had noticed and was coming their way.

Frances looked at him in mute appeal.

And then her daring, impulsive, annoying, wonderful Lucius did surely the most reckless thing he had ever done in his life. He risked everything.

“Frances,” he said without even trying to lower his voice or make the moment in any way private, “my dearest love, will you do me the great honor of marrying me?”

There were gasps and squeals and shushing noises and sighs. Someone sniveled—either Amy or one of the aunts.

It was the sort of marriage proposal, a distant part of Frances's brain thought, that no woman would ever even
dream
of receiving. It was the sort of marriage proposal every woman deserved.

She bit her lip.

And then smiled radiantly.

“Oh, yes, Lucius,” she said. “Yes, of course I will.”

She had been wrong. The last applause of the evening had not yet died away. Her cheeks flamed as everyone within hearing distance clapped again.

Viscount Sinclair, lowering his head as if to kiss the back of Miss Allard's hand, kissed her briefly and hard on the lips instead.

And then they were claimed by family and friends and squealing girls.

“And now,” Claudia said at last with a sigh that was belied by warmly smiling eyes, “I suppose I am going to
have
to accept your resignation after all, Frances. But I always did say I would be prepared to do so in a good cause, did I not?”

26

The wedding of Miss Frances Allard and Viscount Sinclair
was solemnized at Bath Abbey one month after the very public marriage proposal and acceptance.

The viscountess—soon to become the
dowager
viscountess—had wanted the nuptials to take place in London at St. George's on Hanover Square. Mrs. Melford had wanted them to be held in the village church at Mickledean in Somersetshire.

But much as her great-aunts were Frances's family, her friends at the school were at least as dear to her. And though Anne was planning to spend part of the summer in Cornwall, neither Susanna nor Claudia could leave Bath, as there were nine charity girls to care for at the school.

It was inconceivable to Frances that all three of her closest friends should not attend her wedding.

And Lucius put up no argument.

“Provided
you
are there, my love,” he said, “I would be quite happy to marry in a barn on the farthest Hebridean island.”

And so Frances was able to dress for her wedding in her own familiar room at the school—the very last day it would be hers—and say her own private farewells to her fellow teachers before they left for the church and she descended to the visitors' sitting room where Baron Clifton, her cousin of some remove, was waiting to escort her to the church and give her away.

“Frances,” Susanna said, looking at her smart new pale blue dress and flower-trimmed bonnet, “you look so very beautiful. And you are going to be a
viscountess
today. All I can say is that it is a good thing Lord Sinclair is not a duke. I would fight you for him.”

She laughed merrily at her own joke, but there were tears in her eyes too.

“I will leave your duke for you,” Frances said, hugging her. “He will come along one of these days, Susanna, and sweep you off your feet.”

“But how will he ever find me,” the girl asked, “when I live and teach within the walls of a school?”

The question was lightly asked, but Frances could guess that Susanna, young and lovely though she was, probably despaired of ever making a marriage of her own or even of having a beau.

“He will find you,” Frances assured her. “Lucius found me, did he not?”

“And kept finding you and finding you.” Susanna laughed again and made way for Anne.

“Ah, you do look lovely, Frances,” she said. “The dress and bonnet are handsome, but it is your glow of happiness that makes you beautiful.
Be
happy! But I know you will. It is a love match, and you are marrying an extraordinary man, who is going to allow you a career in singing—who is encouraging you to pursue it, in fact.”

“You will be happy too, Anne,” Frances said as they hugged. “I know you will.”

“Oh,” Anne said, “I
am
happy. I have David and I have this life. It is far preferable to what I had before, Frances. Here I belong.”

She was smiling and very obviously delighted for her friend. But Frances always sensed a touch of sadness behind Anne's warm smiles.

But Claudia had appeared in the doorway of her room.

“Oh, Frances,” she said, “
how
we are going to miss you, my dear. But it is not a day for self-pity. I am truly, truly happy for you.”

Claudia Martin was not the type to do a great deal of hugging. Neither was she the type to weep for any reason. She did both now—or if she did not actually weep, two tears definitely trickled down her cheeks.

“Thank you,” Frances said while Claudia's arms were still about her. “Thank you for taking a chance on me when I was desperate. Thank you for making me feel like a professional teacher and a friend—and even a sister. Claudia, I want you to be this happy one day too. I
do
want it.”

But then it was time for them to leave.

And soon after that it was time for Frances to go to her own wedding at the Abbey.

 

The congregation was not very large. Even so, a surprising number of people had come down from London for the occasion, including Baron Heath and his wife and stepchildren.

Most important, Lucius saw as he waited at the front of the Abbey for his bride to appear, all her family and friends, including the charity girls from the school, wearing their Sunday best, and all his family were in attendance.

Just a year ago he would have cringed at the thought of wanting all his family about him.

Just a year ago he would have cringed at the thought of marrying.

He certainly would not have believed that today—or any day—he would be marrying for love.

Ah, but
love
was not nearly a powerful enough word.

He
adored
Frances. He liked her and admired her in addition to all the romantic and lustful feelings he had for her.

And then there she was, stepping into the nave and approaching on Clifton's arm, slender and elegant and darkly beautiful.

He remembered his first sight of her—a fleeting glimpse as his carriage passed hers in the middle of a snowstorm. And he remembered his second sight of her as he hauled her out of her submerged carriage—a bedraggled virago, breathing fire and brimstone.

He remembered her making beef pie and bread.

He remembered her carving a smiling mouth on her snowman and stepping back to regard it with pleased satisfaction, her head tipped slightly to one side.

He remembered her waltzing with him and humming the tune.

He remembered stepping into the doorway of the Reynolds drawing room and discovering that the singer who had so captivated his soul was Frances Allard.

He remembered . . .

But today he did not have to rely upon memory from which to draw pleasure. Today they were here before their family and friends to pledge themselves to a lifetime together.

She was here at his side, her very dark eyes luminous with the wonder of the moment.

It was a moment he would live to the full now while it was happening—and a moment he would hold in memory for the rest of his life.

He smiled at her, and she smiled back.

“Dearly beloved . . .” the clergyman began.

 

The morning had been cloudy with the threat of possible rain. But when Viscount Sinclair stepped out into the Abbey Yard with his new viscountess on his arm, the sun was shining down from a sky of pure blue.

“We have gone through some extremes of weather together, my love,” he said, looking down on her. “But now we have sunshine. Do you suppose it is a good omen?”

“It is nothing,” she said, “but a lovely day. We do not need omens, Lucius, only our own will to grasp our destiny and live it.”

He took her hand and they dashed across the yard, past the small crowd of interested spectators who had stepped out of the Pump Room, and beneath the arches to the carriage that awaited them with Peters up on the box. It would take them back to the school, where a wedding breakfast awaited them and their guests.

“The hall has been forbidden to me for the past two days,” Frances explained. “But Claudia and Anne and Susanna have been in there for long hours at a time with the girls. I think they have been decorating the room.”

Lucius laced his fingers with hers.

“It will doubtless be a work of art,” he said. “We will admire it, Frances, and greet our guests and be happy with them. Today I have kept a promise, and my grandfather has lived to see it. And today we have made two elderly sisters, your great-aunts, very happy. But now, this moment, is ours alone. I do not intend to waste it. Ah,
this
is convenient.”

The carriage was making a sharp turn onto the Pulteney Bridge and had thrown them together.

“Very.” Frances looked across at him with bright, laughing eyes.

He wrapped one arm about her shoulders, lowered his head, and kissed her long and thoroughly.

Neither of them seemed the slightest bit concerned that there were no curtains to cover the windows.

The world was welcome to share their happiness if it so chose.