Two Corinthians (22 page)

Claire, her arm solicitously about Tillie's shoulders, holding a glass of brandy to her lips, glanced at him. “Yes, do, George,” she said. “You have frightened poor Mrs Tilliot into a spasm and I don't believe there is anything seriously wrong with you.”

He tried to grin at her, unaware of the frightful grimace that crossed his battered face. “You have more sense than all the rest put together,” he said approvingly. “It was just a boxing match at Gentleman Jackson's, a friendly meeting.”

“If that was a friendly meeting I should hate to see the results of an unfriendly meeting,” said Claire with asperity. “May I ask whom you met?”

“Lord Pomeroy.”

“Bertram did that to you?” blurted Lizzie, aghast.  “The horrid brute. I shall never speak to him again.”

“You can come down off your high ropes, Lizzie.  I tipped him a settler.”

She looked blank.

“I collect that means he rendered him unconscious, Lizzie. Gentlemen have incomprehensible notions of enjoyment.”  Claire paused as an abigail entered bearing a purple ostrich plume and a tinderbox. “Burnt feathers, the very thing!  I see we are no longer needed here. I hope you will be well enough to join us this evening, ma'am. Come, Lizzie.”

One-eyed, George watched her haughty departure.  At the last moment she turned to him and said, “As for you, my lord, unless you mean to sport that face about town, you had best rusticate for a while.”

He could only hope he was right in thinking he saw a glint of amusement in her eyes.

“Not my best hat!” wailed Tillie.  “Go and sew it back on again this minute, you silly girl.”

“Whatever possessed you to sham a swoon?” George asked her.

“I don't know,” she said airily.  “At the time it seemed the right thing to do.”

“I suppose as far as I am concerned the right thing—indeed the only thing—to do is take Claire's advice and rusticate.”

The next morning he left for Dorset.

The countryside was very different from Northumberland's grandeur, with gentle chalk hills and wooded valleys. The Winterbornes had originated here, before Edward I sent them north to guard the border.  Since 1300 the estate had been the residence of the eldest son, and George had lived there in his earliest youth, before his grandfather's death.  It had been his since he reached his majority. He had introduced modern farming methods and built a new wing on the fifteenth century manor, and now it was waiting to become a family home again.

He had not touched the old, formal gardens.  The old-fashioned, sweet scented roses grew well here. He must send to the Vineyard Nursery for some bushes of
Clair de Lune
. 
Claire would tell him where best to plant them, laying out new flowerbeds and arbours.

Except that Claire would never see his gardens.

Everywhere he turned that first day he saw her face, heard her soft voice, longed to consult her on this small matter and that.  He drank himself to sleep, and thereafter banished her from his mind with hard work on the estate all day and brandy in the evenings. He stayed two weeks, until every trace of the damage to his face had healed. Then he set out for Essex.

He passed through London, arriving late one evening, leaving early the next morning, seeing no one but Tillie.

His brother was glad to have his support for the ten days before his wedding. Their father came two days early. A long, wordless embrace ended the estrangement between the two, bringing unashamed tears to George's eyes. The next day their sister Mary and her husband arrived, and Tillie.

Amaryllis was stunningly beautiful as she walked down the aisle on Lord Bellingham's arm, in white satin with her copper hair gleaming through her veil. Standing with the bridegroom at the altar, George was not in the least surprised that Danny could not take his eyes off her. He doubted his brother heard a word of the Reverend Raeburn's short homily, devoted as it was to the joys of marriage (the vicar had recently married Amaryllis's ex-governess.)

Yes, his new sister-in-law was beautiful.  Perhaps it was understandable that Bertram Pomeroy, still dazzled by the memory of the woman he had been betrothed to for eight years, was slow to appreciate Claire's more subtle loveliness.

He would give him one more month, he decided.  It was mid-June; the Coronation was set for the 19th of July; if Claire was still free on the 20th he would offer her his hand and his heart, and be damned to altruism!

Chapter XVI—Bertram

“It's Miss Sutton's man, my lord. Says he was told to take the basket to you, and he won't give it over.”

Bertram groaned and opened his eyes. It was late morning on the day after the fight, but he still felt fragile. He moved his jaw with experimental caution and winced.

“Wha' say?” he asked Pinkerton through half-closed lips.

The valet repeated his announcement.

“Co' i'.”

Correctly interpreting this as permission to admit Alfie, Pinkerton disappeared. Though Bertram had not the least desire to see him, he knew all too well that the boy's primary virtues were obedience and persistence. If put out, he would doubtless haunt the doorstep until he delivered his burden into the correct hands, and meanwhile Claire and Lizzie would be without his services.

Alfie trotted in and deposited a rush basket on the bed beside him. “I brung this, Mr Lord,” he said unnecessarily, beaming. “For you.”

Bertram nodded thanks and dismissal, then wished he hadn't as hammers started pounding behind his eyes. As he closed them again he saw his efficient servant lead the visitor gently from his chamber, mission completed.

Pinkerton's soft footsteps returned and he felt the weight of the basket removed.

“Wai',” he said. “Wha' is i'?”

There was a rustle of paper. “A punnet of strawberries, my lord. Must be early ones from Cornwall, and they're beauties if I may say so. Then there are two bowls,” sniff, sniff, “one of gooseberry fool, if I am not mistaken, and one of restorative meat jelly. Most appropriate, my lord.”

Tenderly touching his jaw, Bertram had to agree, but he wondered how the Suttons knew of his débâcle. He could not believe George had boasted of it, for however irritating the fellow was a gentleman.

“Here's a note, my lord. I shall remove the victuals to the kitchen.”

Bertram stretched out his hand for the paper and ventured to open his eyes again. It was bearable as long as he kept his head still.

“Dear Bertram,” he read, “I was so sorry to hear of your indisposition.  I made the fool and the jelly with my own hands (and Mrs Rumbelow's help), and I went to the market at crack of dawn for the berries. Don't worry, I took Alfie with me. Lizzie.”

Lizzie, of course.

The thought of her at Covent Garden Market among the foul-mouthed vendors, with or without Alfie, made him shudder. He could see the imp in her eyes as she wrote that, aware that he would disapprove.  He did not know whether he was more impressed by her bountiful sympathy or her indiscretion.

She had surely not realised how her kindness might be viewed by the scandalmongers. Like the chairs he and Winterborne had given the Suttons, the gift would be perfectly unexceptionable from both of the ladies; from one, it was open to misinterpretation. At least she was not so lost to propriety as to deliver it herself!

What a confusing creature she was, dispensing her bounty in such a way that he must be as critical as he was grateful.

He heard the arrival of more visitors in the outer room: Fergie and Dartford come to commiserate, and to roast him on his defeat no doubt. They must not see Lizzie's letter. He thrust it under his pillow.

No sooner had his friends left than Lady Caroline appeared. He was not pleased to see his sister, since if she had heard of the fight the story must be the latest on-dit. He was still less pleased when he realised that Aunt Dorothy and Amelia were with her.

“What the devil?” he hissed as she bent over his bed of pain.

She shrugged helplessly. “You know what she is like, I could not stop her,” she whispered.

Lady Harrison advanced majestically. “I have brought Amelia to soothe you in your affliction, Bertram,” she announced. “She shall brew you a posset with her own hands.”

“But Mama, I do not know how to brew a posset!” blurted the unfortunate damsel.

“I daresay you have never been in a kitchen in your life,” said Caroline soothingly. “And it is really not the thing for a young girl to be in a gentleman's bedchamber, or in his lodgings, aunt, even if they are cousins.”

“There can be no harm in it, since they are to be wed,” said her ladyship.”

Amelia rushed from the room in tears.

Bertram sat bolt upright. His jaw dropped, causing him excruciating agony which he ignored. “What did you say, Aunt Dorothy?” he asked, his voice icy. “I assure you I have not requested your daughter's hand in marriage, nor have I any intention of doing so.”

“Amelia does not want to marry Bertram in the least,” Caroline pointed out.

“It is in every way an eligible match,” Lady Harrison said obstinately.

Forestalling Bertram's explosion, Pinkerton appeared in the doorway, wooden-faced.  “My lady, Miss Harrison asked me to inform your ladyship that she has gone down to the carriage.”

With a venomous glare at Bertram, Aunt Dorothy marched out.

“I shall take the poor child in hand next Season,” said Caroline. “No more of that pink muslin, which makes her look quite washed out. Now, what is all this about a fist-fight with Winterborne?”

“I am sure you know all the details,” said her brother acidly, sinking back on his pillows. “Do go away, Caroline. I am feeling perfectly devilish.”

“They are saying you quarreled over Lizzie Sutton.  I am trying to quash the rumours, of course, as is Mrs Tilliot, and Lizzie carried it off with the greatest composure at the Eversley's rout last night. George has gone out of town.”

“She's a brave little soul, isn't she?  I can just imagine the old tabbies with their snide remarks.”

“I know you were not fighting over Lizzie, but were you fighting over Claire?”

Bertram frowned. “I cannot believe he has serious intentions towards a plain female like Claire. His high-flyers have always been the most stunning creatures, his flirts too, and he does not need her money any more than I do, unlike our obnoxious cousin Horace.  It's more likely he is interested in Lizzie, as the gossips have it, for she is a pretty chit. Yet there is a sense of rivalry.”

“I do not like to hear you call Claire plain, Bertram.” It was Caroline's turn to frown. “If your intentions towards her are not serious, it grows late for finding an alternative.”

“Oh, I daresay I shall marry her in the end, but you told me yourself that there is no hurry. I am enjoying the Season with no need to hunt for a bride, thanks to your brilliant notion, and as soon as we are betrothed there will be a thousand plans to make.”

“All the same, you would do well to make more effort to fix your interest,” said his sister, but his flattery achieved its aim and she ceased to press him.

He was able to continue evading the issue of his rivalry with George, since that gentleman remained absent. His lagging pursuit of Claire was not so easy to dismiss.

The best he could say was that he was resigned to marrying her. By now he was certain that she would make him a conformable wife. Her behaviour in Society was irreproachable, and when alone with him she was never less than pleasant. He was even growing almost fond of her. There was none of the rapture of his relationship with Amaryllis, but nor was there any of the hurt he had known when his lost love had disagreed with him, or the anguish of her final rejection.

Yes, he would marry Claire—sooner or later.  In the meantime, he was comfortable in his bachelor quarters at the Albany. There were balls and routs and the theatre to attend, with her and her sister more often than not. There were evenings with his friends, sometimes quiet sometimes boisterous, and days out of town attending horse races or prize fights. He even enjoyed an expedition to Waltham Abbey and Bumble's Green with Claire and Lizzie and George Winterborne.

Time passed unnoticed.

This year the Season was prolonged beyond the beginning of June by the approaching Coronation. Prinny, assured that Queen Caroline would not take part, at last set the date. Instead of the usual exodus of the Ton to their country estates, those who had not spent the spring in London were gathering daily in anticipation of the celebrations. Not a peer in the realm but meant to take his seat in Westminster Abbey on that day, for few indeed had been present at George III's coronation, three score years ago.

Daily Bertram scanned the Morning Post for the names of the latest arrivals. June was nearly over when the half-expected announcement caught his eye:  the Honorable Amaryllis Hartwell, only daughter of Viscount Hartwell, was wed to Lord Daniel Winterborne, second son of the Marquis of Bellingham.

Expected as it was, the shock took his breath away.  He stared unseeing at his plate of muffins and ham until Pinkerton asked anxiously, “Is there something wrong with your breakfast, my lord?”

“No. No, nothing. I am not hungry.” He pushed his plate away. At that moment the doorbell rang. “I am not at home this morning, to anyone.”

He heard his manservant expostulating, then Caroline bustled into the room. After one look at his face she sat down beside him and patted his hand.

“You have seen it then, Bertram. You never did stop hoping, did you?”

“I don't know. I don't know what I think, I don't know what I feel. No, I don't believe I still had any hopes, or even that I still love her. I feel—blank.”

She patted his hand again and reached for a muffin. “Of course you still hoped,” she said, buttering it. “That is why you have been postponing offering for Claire. But it's over now. You cannot put it off forever, you know.”

He stood up and wandered restlessly about the room, picking things up and putting them down again, while she munched on her muffin and sipped the cup of tea unobtrusively provided by Pinkerton.

“You're right,” he said with sudden decision.  “If you will just go away and leave me in peace, I shall plan my proposal. Thank heaven she is of age and I shall not have to approach her father.”