Two Corinthians (23 page)

Unoffended, Caroline finished the last bite and departed.

On his knees, he wondered, or should he just sit beside her? Horace had looked so undignified kneeling on the floor by the empty chair. He would talk of his esteem for her, the honour she would do him by accepting his hand. He had no intention of misleading her by offering his heart; she must know this was to be a marriage of convenience. But, on his knees?

He knew he was procrastinating when he was unable to make up his mind on that simple point. At intervals throughout the day it nagged at him.

Whenever he thought about proposing to Claire, Lizzie's teasing face appeared before him. Except when he was actually furious with her, he had long since ceased to regard her as an obstacle to his marriage. Yet somehow she was involved with his unwillingness to declare himself.

That he was still unwilling he had to acknowledge to himself.

Among the next day's mail there was a letter from his mother. She had seen the notice in the Morning Post. Though she sympathised with him, she passed on an ultimatum. The Tatenhills would arrive in London on the 17th of July. After spending the next day recovering from the journey, his father would attend the Coronation. Another day of rest would ensue, then, on the 21st, Bertram was to present his betrothed to his parents.

There was nothing like a deadline to compose the mind, he discovered. He would propose on the 20th.

He made a determined effort to distinguish Claire by his attentions, rather than treating the two sisters equally. In this he was not entirely successful.  She was elusive, often spending the day at her house outside London, declining both his escort and George's.

George's behaviour puzzled him. A month's absence argued indifference, yet now he had returned he was as often as ever in the Suttons' company. Bertram knew he had introduced them to his father, the Marquis of Bellingham, come to Town for the Coronation. Possibly, as rumour had it, he meant to pay his addresses to Lizzie, yet with Claire so often gone the same was said of Bertram.

Since Nell Marchmont was usually with Lizzie, in her sister's absence, gossip touched her too.

“Rumour,” as Caroline assured her brother, “was ever a lying jade.”

That was little comfort when he caught Lady Marchmont eyeing him speculatively.

When asked to suggest an outing, Claire generally consulted Lizzie, who chose Astley's Amphitheatre and balloon ascensions, Barker's Panorama and a ride on a steam packet on the Thames. Though Claire enjoyed these, Bertram wanted to do something especially for her.

“No, don't look at Lizzie,” he said one day.  “What would you like to do?”

She looked at him doubtfully. “I should like to visit John Kennedy,” she said, “but it would be the greatest bore for anyone else.”

“John Kennedy?”

“The nurseryman who aided the Empress Josephine in her rose garden. I have been to the Vineyard Nursery, but he is retired to Eltham, in Kent, and I cannot like to call on him on my own.”

“Very proper. I shall take you. We might combine it with a visit to the remains of Edward II's palace at Eltham.”

“That sounds delightfully Gothick,” approved Lizzie.

Since he could hardly tell her that he had intended the invitation for Claire alone, Bertram resigned himself to another family outing.

John Kennedy proved to be a garrulous old man, delighted to receive visitors. Bertram was interested in his tales of crossing the British and French lines in the middle of war to advise Napoleon's wife at Malmaison. Then the talk turned to rose-growing, interspersed with stories about his twenty-one children. Lizzie grew restless, and Bertram found it difficult to maintain his expression of polite interest.

Mr Kennedy showed no signs of flagging, and Claire was eagerly absorbing his every word. At last Bertram ventured to interrupt.

“We must be going, Miss Sutton, if we are to explore the palace.”

“I'm sorry,” she said, instantly contrite.  “I forgot the time. Pray take Lizzie to see the palace and fetch me when you are done. Did you develop the Bullata, Mr Kennedy?”

Bertram and Lizzie slipped out unnoticed.

“Now where is her sense of priorities,” mocked Lizzie, “to set roses above a Gothick ruin and a gardener above a lord.”

Bertram laughed as they walked along the village street. He had been prepared to take offence at Claire's neglect, but Lizzie gave him back his perspective.

“I have a lowering feeling that she will not miss us in the slightest,” he said.

“You did ask her what she wanted to do, and the palace was your idea, not hers. I am looking forward to it excessively.”

Despite an argument over whether Edward II's murder was justified or not, Bertram thoroughly enjoyed the rest of the day. He had not realised that Lizzie's intelligence was as lively as her manner.  Unlike most of her contemporaries, she had not merely read novels in pursuit of the Gothick, but was well-read in medieval history.

When he expressed surprise at her knowledge, she challenged him at once.

“You believed me an ignoramus and now you suppose that I am a bluestocking. It will not do to expose one's erudition, however limited, to the Beau Monde, but I thought you too understanding to scorn me for using the brain God gave me.”

“I have always known Claire to be intelligent and well-informed. Why did I suppose that she had not brought you up the same?  She has been a mother, and more than a mother, to you, has she not?  What an extraordinary person she is.”

“Ah, you do understand.” Her blue eyes gazed up into his, losing their fire.  “It was not easy. We tried to keep it from Mama, for reading too much was one of the imagined faults she saw in Claire. I daresay I have simply grown used to concealing it. I knew I could trust you, Bertram.”

“Thank you for your trust in me,” he said quietly, pressing the little hand that rested on his arm. “I did not mean to sound scornful. On the contrary, I can only admire you for studying voluntarily what I had beaten into me at school.”

“No!” she said, her usual sparkle restored, “I cannot believe that you were ever anything but a pattern card of perfection.”

“Toad-eater,” he teased. “That's trying it on too thick and rare.”

“I am merely extrapolating from the present to the past.” She laughed, and he thought he had never heard so enchanting a sound in his life.

Chapter XVII—Lizzie

“I'm worried about Claire,” said Lizzie as George's curricle turned in at the park gates.

“Well, wipe away that frown or the world will think you at daggers drawn with me. Besides it does not suit your pretty face.”

The world, or that part of it known to itself as the Polite World, was indeed abroad that sultry June day, seeking a breath of fresh air among the lawns and trees of Hyde Park. It was not, Lizzie acknowledged to herself as she bowed and smiled at an acquaintance, the best place for a serious discussion.

“She is unhappy,” she persevered, waving to one of her youthful admirers with a shake of the head to hint that she did not want him to approach. She knew she was adding fuel to the rumours of an attachment between herself and George, but to seek a more private place would confirm them.

“What makes you think that?” His voice was abstracted as he negotiated a narrow gap beside the carriages of two dowagers who had settled for a comfortable cose in the middle of the way.

“Oh, a thousand things,” said Lizzie impatiently. “Do you think she has found out about Lady Caroline meaning Bertram to marry her?  Perhaps she is worried that he will not come up to scratch.”

“Is she so very fond of him?”

George was tight-lipped, his face grimmer than she had ever seen it. Remembering the curricle race and the fist-fight, she could not help wondering whether he might call Bertram out if he failed to propose. He was a very protective person, and having taken them under his wing he would not take kindly to anyone who hurt them.

“She likes him very well,” she said judiciously, “but I do not believe she has a tendre for him.”

“Then she is anxious to be married, no matter to whom?”

“Oh no!  She has refused Horace Harrison at least three times, to my knowledge, and I think Lord Peter Dartford proposed, though she will not tell me. For all I know, she would refuse Bertram, only knowing that he has considered her as a bride and rejected her can only humiliate her.”

“She would be mad to refuse him,” said George harshly. Lizzie looked at him in surprise, and he smiled with an obvious effort. “You are going to tell me to wipe the frown from my pretty face lest the world suppose us at daggers drawn. No, I doubt she knows of Lady Caroline's plot, unless you have told anyone?”

“Of course not!”  Lizzie was indignant.

“Of course not. I beg your pardon. You care for her too much to risk word spreading. Indeed, your concern for her is as admirable as hers for you.”  His smile this time was so warm that she blushed. “Then only you and I and Lady Caroline and Bertram know. It would not suit them any better than us to have Claire find out.”

“I daresay you are right.” She sighed. “All the same, she is unhappy, and I cannot discover why.”

The conversation was halted by a group of three youths on horseback whom nothing would deter from accosting the object of their admiration. Lizzie duly fluttered her eyelashes at them, teasing one for his red and white striped waistcoat, another for the huge nosegay in his buttonhole, which he promptly presented to her. When they drove on, George was laughing at her.

“Do you enjoy having half the Town at your feet?” he enquired.

“Oh yes, it is famous fun, though it is not half the Town, only a few gentlemen, most of them only a year or two older than me.  And most of them admire Nell as much as they admire me. I daresay they think it safer. You must not think, though, that Claire is the only one to receive offers. I have had two or three.”

“And refused them all.”

“They were mere boys, and sad rattles besides.”

“Then you have reconsidered the advantages of maturity?” George grinned. “I remember a time when you saw me in the light of a substitute father.”

“You would make an excellent father,” she retorted. “I wonder that you do not have a quiver full of children.”

Bertram would have called her to account for the impropriety of that remark. George merely raised his eyebrows with an amused look.

“I am an excellent uncle,” he assured her, “and I expect to have increased opportunity to practise the art now that my brother is married again. He and his bride are passing through London in a day or two, on their wedding journey, and I should like you and Claire to meet them. Can you come to dinner the day after tomorrow?”

“If they are half as nice as Mrs Tilliot and your papa, we shall be delighted.”

Claire had told Lizzie that, according to George, Lord Daniel Winterborne had had an unhappy first marriage and adored his new wife. Lizzie thought it a prodigious romantic story and was eager to meet the happy couple. She was not disappointed. Lord Daniel was very like his brother in appearance, but his face in repose was sad, even melancholy. When he smiled, which he did every time he looked at Lady Daniel, his expression lit with pure joy, while she had eyes only for him. They sat next to each other at dinner, and no one was surprised when the gentlemen rejoined the ladies within ten minutes of their withdrawing from the table.

Lizzie wondered wistfully whether she would ever find a love like that.

Except for the Suttons it was a family party, the marquis's brother and his family making up the numbers to a round dozen. Lizzie was afraid that she and Claire might be regarded as intruders, but everyone was preoccupied with the bridal couple.

All the same, the invitation had most definitely been a mark of distinguishing attention. Was it possible that rumour had it right for once, and George wanted to marry her?

She lay long awake that night. Marrying George suddenly seemed like the answer to a lot of problems. For one thing, she knew there would be no second Season for her. Claire had saved her income for years to give her this opportunity, and though she had said Lizzie must not marry where she did not feel a decided partiality, she longed to see her sister settled. And Lizzie could not deny that she did feel a decided partiality for George: she liked him better than any gentleman she knew except for Bertram.

Bertram? she thought, startled. Why had Bertram sprung to mind?  Of course he and George were both very good friends. Bertram was younger and livelier, at least with her, but George was reliable, trustworthy, never miffed at her. Besides, Bertram was to marry Claire.

She could be comfortable as George's wife. She liked his family and, though he had been roasting her when he suggested it, she had indeed come to realise the advantages of a mature husband. To be sure, she was not wildly in love with him, as Lord and Lady Daniel were, but perhaps she would never fall in love. The prolonged Season was slipping away, only ten days to go till the Coronation, and she could not wait forever in the hope that she might meet someone to sweep her off her feet.

The Season was almost over and neither George nor Bertram had proposed. Something must be done to force their hands.

That decision made, Lizzie fell asleep at last.

“Claire,” she said thoughtfully the next morning at breakfast, “you do like Bertram, do you not?”

“Certainly. Now which are you going to have?”

“Which?”  Lizzie's mind flew to George. Given an honest choice between him and Bertram, which would she have?

“Cherries, raspberries or strawberries?” said Claire patiently. “You have been gazing at them these five minutes and more. It is not like you to be woolgathering when there is food in front of you.”

“I cannot make up my mind so I shall have some of each.” She helped herself. “Really like him, I mean.”

“Bertram?  Very much more than I did at first. It takes some time to see past his reserve, but once one comes to know him it is clear that he is a kind, intelligent and sensible gentleman.”

“Good.” Lizzie was much relieved. It would be a sorry thing to force her sister into a match with a man she held in dislike. “These cherries are heavenly. Pass the bowl, please.”