by Leah Conolly
When he entered, he was surprised to find her at the front counter. She turned with a smile on her face, ready to greet him as any other customer.
But the words seemed to stick in her throat. Her smile dissolved, but not into anger. It was something more akin to sadness, and he recoiled from her look. He approached slowly, suddenly nervous.
“Good morning, Lady Lydia,” he began.
“Good morning, my lord. How may I help you?” she asked, putting on a mask of aloofness. That irked him, and he had to remind himself to remain calm.
“I came to see you,” he said matter-of-factly. She jumped slightly as if this revelation scared her.
“Me? Why ever would you do that?” she asked. Flustered, she tried to mask her confusion by taking a few books under her arm and going to put them away on their shelves. He followed her.
“I wanted to speak to you, to find out why you snubbed me last night,” he said, staying close at her heels.
“I did nothing of the sort,” she protested, but she would not meet his gaze.
“Why do you despise me so? What have I done to elicit this kind of treatment?” he asked softly. He stayed her hand, and she quickly pulled away. When she finally looked up at him, he could see tears pooling in her eyes.
“I don’t despise you,” she said. She shook her head, looking down at the floor. “We simply don’t see eye to eye. We are so different.”
“You don’t even know me,” he said, giving a little laugh. “But we could change that.”
She met his gaze again. “I apologize. I should return to work. Good day, Lord Beaumont,” she replied, dismissing him. She tried to walk past him, back to the front of the shop, but he stopped her with a hand on her forearm. She looked down at his hand and then back up to his eyes. He let go of her, letting his arm fall to his side. They were standing closer than was appropriate, but she did not move away.
“Join me for tea,” he said, thinking quickly. She met his gaze again, startled. He laughed inwardly at the way her eyes searched his, darting from left to right and back again. He saw the inner conflict in them. But what was the cause? He waited for what seemed to him like hours for her to respond.
“Why would you want me to do that?” she finally asked.
“Why not? Do you think it would be a waste of your time?” he said, giving his most charming smile.
She cracked, a smile tugging the corners of her mouth. This time, the smile reached her eyes, unlike the previous evening.
“Very well,” she said. “When?”
“Tomorrow afternoon, in the tearoom down the street,” he replied. He was overcome with joy and relief.
“Shall we say three o’clock?” she suggested.
“Yes, of course,” he said, backing towards the shop’s front door. She smiled and followed him to the front, taking her place behind the counter.
“Until tomorrow then,” she said.
He nodded and left the shop, feeling for the first time that all was well in the world. He returned home with a spring in his step.
When he entered the foyer, he heard voices coming from the parlor and was immediately filled with dread. He inched closer, trying to distinguish who was with his parents.
“Did you enjoy the ball last night, Lady Diana?” he could hear his mother saying. He sucked in a breath. Had his mother invited her here, or had she come of her own volition?
“I did. Your son is quite an accomplished dancer,” Lady Horn replied. “I must say he would make a splendid husband for any young woman.”
He did not like being discussed as if he were a champion stallion. Christopher straightened and took a deep breath before entering the room. The ladies looked up in surprise, and a deep blush spread over Lady Diana’s face as he entered.
“What is it you’ve been discussing?” he asked, relishing the way he was making Lady Diana squirm. He went over to the tea tray and popped a cake into his mouth, chewing with gusto. His mother glanced at Lady Diana and then turned to her son.
“Lady Diana came to visit, and we were discussing last night’s ball. I simply made the remark that you two looked as though you have been dancing together all your lives,” his mother replied. She pasted a smile on her face, lifting her eyebrows as a signal that he should play along and not embarrass Lady Diana.
“Is that so?” he asked. He turned to the window and looked out over the greening landscape. He regretted dancing with Lady Diana now, especially since he and Lady Lydia had made amends. He did not want Diana to get any misapprehensions about his intentions.
“Where did you go off to so early this morning?” his mother asked, trying to steer the conversation, as usual.
He returned to the sitting area and took a seat across from his mother, keeping as much distance between himself and Lady Diana as possible. She looked offended by it, scowling at him for a split second. But she quickly seemed to remember herself and pasted a sweet smile on her face.
“Have you heard there is to be a play tomorrow, my lord? The Comedy of Errors by William . . .,” Lady Diana began. But Christopher cut her off.
“Yes, yes, I know who it’s by,” Christopher said shortly.
“Then, I believe I am correct in assuming that it interests you?” Lady Diana asked, hope filling her voice.
“Just because I choose to write, doesn’t mean I appreciate all mediocre works of literature, too,” he said sharply. He stood and prepared to leave. Lady Diana looked as if she had been slapped in the face. He did not care. He would not be lured into her trap.
“My boy, please, mediocre work? It is Shakespeare, Christopher. Have some respect,” his mother said. “And your treatment of Lady Diana is uncalled for. I demand that you apologize to our guest at once.” His mother looked as if she were about to have a heart attack.
He turned and bowed slightly to Lady Diana, “I apologize. It is not your fault that you were brought up to appreciate inferior work.”
Her mouth dropped open, and she looked to his mother for protection. Christopher then turned to his mother. “Despite the popular opinion in this house, I believe I am at liberty to choose what kind of plays interest me. Good day,” he said. Christopher bowed again to Lady Diana, and left the room, leaving his mother's mouth agape in shock.
***
In the privacy of his room, Christopher found solace at his writing desk. He did not know why he felt the need to annoy his mother so, but every time he saw her with Lady Diana, he had a distinct feeling that he was somehow being manipulated.
Why must his mother push this particular connection? He had no interest in Lady Diana whatsoever. He could sense she was not all that she appeared to be. Something sinister lay below the surface of her finely-honed mask. He would not be taken in by her schemes.
He did not really have an aversion to Shakespeare. He simply had to disagree with anything and everything his mother said. A niggling sense of guilt played on his conscience. Lady Diana had looked extremely hurt by his comments. He did not know why he said the things he did. Sometimes words just flowed out of his mouth, and there was no way to put them back in.
He determined to lock himself in his room until he was sure Lady Diana had gone. Christopher did not expect her to stay for long, not after his treatment of her. In the short time he had known her, he could see that she was a proud woman. She would not have taken kindly to being spoken to so sharply.
He sat down at his writing desk and tried to put pen to paper. His new manuscript was almost complete, but for some reason he could not decide in which direction to take it next. He huffed. All he could think about was Lady Diana’s face, her bright red hair almost matching the shade of her complexion after his words.
Perhaps he should apologize. Sincerely apologize. He knew that he would not be able to work with this guilt pricking his conscience.
He stood and made his way back downstairs, half hoping she had already gone. Letters were a much more satisfactory way of apologizing than in person. As he neared the parlor,
unfortunately, he could hear Lady Diana’s voice mingled with his mother’s.
He listened in again, almost fearing what he would hear.
“I don’t understand, Lady Clarkson. I have tried to be kind to Lord Beaumont. I do not think he finds my feelings towards him genuine,” she said. She was crying softly by the sound of it.
“He is oblivious, my dear. You must give him a little more time. I’m sure he will come to see you as the treasure that you really are, eventually,” his mother replied. He rolled his eyes. Lady Diana might have his mother fooled, but he could see right through her ruse. He shook his head. He had come to apologize to her, not abuse her further.
He took a fortifying breath and stepped into the parlor. The ladies looked up, and Lady Diana quickly dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief.
“My lady,” he said, “May I have a word? In private?”
“Of course,” Lady Diana replied. She stood and joined him at the doorway. “I am on my way home. Perhaps you would be kind enough to see me to my carriage?”
“Yes, splendid,” Christopher said. He walked beside her through the front door, and they stood in front of her carriage.
“I am sorry for the way I treated you in the parlor. It was not my intention to be so sharp. My mother brings out the worst in me, I’m afraid,” he said.
She smiled. “I can see how much she frustrates you. I forgive you, of course.”
“Thank you for understanding. My mother and I do not get along very well, but that is no reason for me to take it out on you,” he replied. He helped her into the carriage. When she had settled into her seat, she nodded down at him.
“I know all too well what it is to be at odds with one’s mother. Perhaps we should discuss it sometime? In private, of course,” she said.
“Good day, Lady Diana,” he said.
“Good day, my lord,” Lady Diana called as the carriage pulled away from the house.
He went back inside, feeling better and worse at the same time, as he feared he had just committed to spending more time with the lady he was trying to avoid.
Chapter 12
“I’m not so sure about this, now that I am here,” Lydia said as they walked to the tearoom. She stopped outside the door and turned to her maid, who had come as chaperone.
“You don’t have to go in if you are uncomfortable, my lady. I can explain that you were called away unexpectedly if you wish,” she offered.
Lydia glanced through the window of the tearoom and saw Lord Beaumont sitting at a table. He was looking straight at her.
“No, he’s already seen me,” Lydia said, a lump rising in her throat. She gulped and nodded for her maid to open the door.
Lord Beaumont stood and smiled as they neared the table. He pulled out a chair for her and took her cloak, handing it to her maid.
She thanked him, marveling at how gentlemanly he could be when he tried. “I thought you had changed your mind,” he said as he sat down next to her.
She laughed nervously. “To be honest, I almost did,” she admitted. For some reason, she could not lie to him.
“What was it that made you come in after all? I saw you standing at the door talking with your maid,” he said.
“I don't know. I find it difficult to go back on my word, I suppose,” Lydia replied. “And I was curious. You said I didn’t know you. And you’re right. It's unfair to judge someone before you really get to know them.”
Lord Beaumont nodded. “I agree.” He was looking at her with a mix of admiration and curiosity. She had the sense that he was testing her. For reasons that were still unbeknownst to her, she desperately wanted to prove herself to him, prove that she was trustworthy. Even though she was still unsure if she could trust him.
Lord Beaumont ordered tea, and her maid returned, sitting off to Lydia’s right.
“How is your new book coming along?” Lydia asked. She sipped her tea and replaced the cup in its saucer gracefully.
“Unfortunately, I have been distracted as of late. I have not made the kind of progress I usually do at this stage of the process,” he replied.
“Oh? What kind of distractions?” she asked.
He cleared his throat and paused, looking embarrassed to tell her. “My mother makes it hard to focus on my work. She is constantly interrupting me.”
“That would be difficult,” Lydia replied.
Lord Beaumont nodded. “Do you have the same problem with your mother?”
“No, she passed away eleven years ago,” Lydia replied.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I lost my father nearly fifteen years ago.”
“That must have been hard. How old were you?”
“I was eight. Mother changed after his death. Thankfully, she remarried to a man who was kind to me. I feel he is my only ally at times,” he said, smiling.
“I don’t know what I would have done if I had been an only child. Eleanor and I helped each other through our grief. Unfortunately, my father withdrew into himself and still has not fully recovered from losing my mother,” she replied.
Lydia looked up and realized she had been rambling, which startled her. She rarely spoke of her feelings to anyone, but he was not laughing at her. He looked genuinely concerned, as if he understood her pain.
“It is hard to lose someone you love, no matter your age or how much time you have had together. In my studies, I have found that no matter the time someone spends on this earth, or how long they have had with the ones they love, they always crave more time,” he replied.
Lydia nodded. “That was very philosophical of you,” she teased.
“Well, it is my main interest in life,” he answered playfully.
“Pray tell, which of the great philosophers did you glean this wisdom from?” Lydia asked, taking another sip of her tea. She chose a cake and took a small bite.
“Life has been my teacher on the subject of grief, I’m afraid,” he said. “As it has been for you. We have that in common.”
“Indeed. It also seems that we have both taken refuge in literature after the death of our parents—you in philosophy and me in romance,” she said.
“What real value can novels give us?” he asked.
“How can you say that? Even fiction gives us lessons for real life,” she argued.
“What lessons can we learn from the dramatics of senseless women and blackguards who know nothing about what it is to be a man of honor? You long for a man who spouts poetry, I presume?” he took her hand, looked deeply into her eyes, and recited,
“Doubt thou the stars are fire,
Doubt that the sun doth move,
Doubt truth to be a liar,
But never doubt I love.”
Lydia was silent for several seconds as he quoted the famous lines from Hamlet. Her breath caught in her throat, and, for a moment, she believed he really meant the words. He broke eye contact with her and let go of her hand.
“Senseless drivel. Women are drawn in by a man who speaks a pretty verse, but do they take the time to get to know what is in his heart?”
“I agree that if a man spouts poetry but has no real feelings of love towards the woman, that is senseless drivel. But if the man is genuine, I think it an appropriate way to express one’s emotions,” she said.
“I am of the same mind as Plato when he says that ‘Love is a serious mental disease,’’’ he replied. “Is it any wonder he says ‘At the touch of love everyone becomes a poet’?”
“Ah, Plato? I should have known you would gain your perspective on love from a man who did not seem to have a romantic bone in his body,” Lydia laughed. But she had to admit; she was hurt. Why had he asked her to come here if he held this view of love?
He frowned at her attack on Plato, but she continued, nonetheless. “What value does this life have if we cannot share it with people whom we love, and who love us in return? I think that to live a life devoid of love would be the greatest torture of all. It is the only thing that makes us human, that gives mean
ing to what would otherwise be a meaningless existence,” Lydia said.
“To be in love is to make a fool of oneself,” Lord Beaumont argued.
“Yes, but to be human is to be foolish from time to time. And what does it matter? If one is afraid of what others think, one will always be trying to please the crowd rather than oneself. Does not Plato also say that ‘Courage is knowing what not to fear’? I fear a life without love more than I fear being made a fool of.”
“Well said,” Lord Beaumont replied after a long pause.
Lydia’s maid coughed, and it was only then that Lydia remembered she was sitting there. Lydia tore her eyes away from Lord Beaumont’s and glanced over at her maid. The woman wore a stunned expression.