by Mary Balogh
9
Claudia had scarcely a moment for reflection from the minute of her return from the visit to Lizzie Pickford until the time came to go on a picnic the following afternoon. She was busy for an hour or two bathing and grooming and feeding the collie, which was little more than a pup, reassuring him when he seemed frightened, and taking him out into the garden a few times to relieve himself. She left him with Edna and Flora while she and Susanna and Peter went to dine and spend the evening at Marshall House with Frances and Lucius, but he slept the night in her room—actually on her bed much of the time—and got her up early to go outside again. At least, she had discovered with some relief, he was house-trained. Susanna and Peter had been remarkably tolerant about the sudden invasion of their home by a scruffy dog, but they might have been less so of puddles on their carpets. And this was the very morning Edna and Flora were to leave the house on Grosvenor Square to take up their new appointments. Bidding them farewell and waving them on their way in Peter’s carriage, Edna tearful, Flora unusually quiet, was as emotionally wrenching as such occasions always were. This was Claudia’s least favorite part of her job. Then, just as she and Susanna were consoling themselves with a cup of tea, there was an unexpected visit from Frances, who came to tell them that she and Lucius had decided to leave for Barclay Court, their home in Somersetshire, the following morning so that she could get the rest she needed for the remainder of her confinement. “But you must come to visit us afterward,” she said. “Both of you must come for Easter—and Peter too, of course. We will entertain the three of you together.” “Why only three?” Susanna asked, her eyes dancing with mischief. “Why not four? Claudia is going out for a drive with Joseph, Marquess of Attingsborough, this afternoon, Frances, for the second day in a row. And they are both to be at Vauxhall Gardens this evening with Lauren and Kit’s party. And did you know that the reason we could not find her at the garden party the day before yesterday was that she was out on the river with him?” “Oh, famous!” Frances said, clapping her hands. “I have always thought the marquess a handsome and charming gentleman. I must confess I find it hard to understand his interest in Miss Hunt—a personal bias, I daresay. But Claudia, you simply must supplant her in his affections.” “But she cannot, Frances,” Susanna said, her eyes wide. “It is out of the question. He will be a duke one day, and you know how Claudia feels about dukes.” Both of them laughed merrily while Claudia raised her eyebrows and stroked her hand over the back of the dog, who was curled up beside her, his head in her lap. “I see you are having a great deal of enjoyment at my expense,” she said, desperately hoping she could keep herself from blushing. “I hate to ruin your pleasure, but there is absolutely no romantic motive whatsoever behind Lord Attingsborough’s taking me driving and boating. He is simply interested in the school and in education…for girls.” The explanation sounded ridiculously lame, but how could she tell the truth even to her closest friends? She would thereby divulge a secret that was not hers to tell. They looked at her with identical sober expressions before looking at each other. “In the school, Susanna,” Frances said. “In education, Frances,” Susanna said. “For girls.” “It makes all the sense in the world. Why did we not guess for ourselves?” They went off into peals of merry laughter. “But let us not forget about the Duke of McLeith,” Susanna said. “Another duke. He insists that he and Claudia were like brother and sister when they were growing up, but they are adults now. He is very personable, did you not think, Frances?” “And a widower,” Frances added. “And he was very eager to see Claudia again when Lucius and I were still at the garden party.” “If I were the two of you,” Claudia said, “I would not buy new gowns for my wedding just yet.” “Your cheeks are pink,” Frances said, getting to her feet. “We have embarrassed you, Claudia. But really, I do wish…Oh, well, never mind. I daresay you have no love to spare from that little dog at the moment. He is dreadfully thin, is he not?” She bent to tickle him beneath his chin. “You should have seen him yesterday,” Susanna said. “He was scruffy and dirty and looked rather like an abandoned sewer rat—or so Peter claimed. But we have all fallen in love with him.” The dog raised his eyes to Claudia without lifting his head and sighed deeply. “That is the trouble,” Claudia said. “Love is not always a comfortable or convenient thing. Whatever am I to do with him? Take him back to school with me? The girls would riot.” “Apparently Edna and Flora almost quarreled last evening while we were out,” Susanna said. “They both wanted to hold him at the same time and pet him and play with him.” Frances laughed. “I must be on my way,” she said. “I promised Lucius I would be home for luncheon.” And then there were all the hugs and good-byes to go through again, just as painful as the ones earlier. It might be a long time before either Claudia or Susanna saw Frances again. And she had all the dangers of a confinement to go through before then. Claudia felt quite in need of a rest by the time the morning came to an end. But she had to take the dog for a walk before leaving him in the care of the kitchen staff for the afternoon—a charge they undertook cheerfully. Indeed, the little collie would soon be fat if left for long to the tender ministrations of Susanna’s cook. But despite a certain weariness, most of it emotional, Claudia was looking forward to the picnic in Richmond Park or Kew Gardens with the Marquess of Attingsborough and his daughter. She knew she must keep reminding herself that in a sense it was just work—looking over a prospective pupil. And it was not an easy task she had been set. She liked Lizzie Pickford. She also felt desperately sorry for her. But that was an emotion to be quelled. Nothing could be gained from pity alone. The real question was, could she do anything for the child? Could her school offer anything of value to a blind girl? She was looking forward to the afternoon nevertheless, and not entirely because of Lizzie. Despite all the distractions of last evening and this morning, she had been unable to keep her mind entirely off that conversation she had had with the Marques of Attingsborough in Hyde Park. He had made some startling revelations. So had she. He had actually told her in so many words that he had been celibate for more than two years! And she had told him…Well, it was better not even to think about that. Maybe, if she was very fortunate indeed, he had forgotten.
They went to Richmond Park. They drove there in a closed carriage, Lizzie sitting close to Joseph’s side while Miss Martin sat facing them. Lizzie said nothing, but she clung to his hand and sometimes patted it or his knee with her free hand. He knew she was both excited and nervous. “Lizzie has never ventured far from home,” he explained to Miss Martin. “Her mother thought it best that she remain in familiar surroundings, where she feels safe.” Miss Martin nodded, her eyes upon his daughter. “We all do that most of our lives,” she said, “though our familiar surroundings usually consist of a broader compass than just a house and garden. It is good to feel safe. It is also good to step out into the unknown on occasion. How else can we grow and acquire knowledge and experience and wisdom? And the unknown is not always or even often unsafe.” He squeezed Lizzie’s hand and she pressed the side of her head against his arm. When they arrived at the park he led her inside. The footman who had accompanied the carriage spread a large blanket on the grass in the shade of an ancient oak tree and then fetched the picnic basket before returning to the carriage. “Shall we sit?” Joseph suggested. “Is anyone ready for tea yet? Or shall we wait until later?” Lizzie let go of his hand in order to drop to her knees and feel the blanket around her. She was still very quiet. And yet he knew that she would talk about this afternoon for days to come. He had never taken her for a picnic before. He had allowed Sonia to set the rules and had unconsciously concurred with them—his beloved blind child was to be protected at all costs. But why had he never given her a treat like this before? “Oh, let us wait until later,” Miss Martin said. “Should we not go for a walk first and get some exercise? It is such a lovely day and such a lovely park.” Joseph frowned at her. Lizzie turned a panicked face up to him and clutched the blanket with both hands. “But I do not know where we are
,” she said. “I do not know where to go. Papa?” She lifted one hand and searched the air with it. “I am here,” he said, stooping down and taking her hand in his, while Miss Martin stood there, very straight and very still, her hands clasped at her waist. For an irrational moment he resented her. “A walk is probably a good idea. We might as well have had a picnic in the garden if we are not to make the most of all this space. We will go just a little way, sweetheart. I’ll draw your hand snugly through my arm like this, and you will be as safe as you can possibly be.” He raised her to her feet as he spoke. She was so small and thin, he thought. Surely she was small for her age. They moved slowly and haltingly forward, Lizzie’s arm tense within his. He could almost read Miss Martin’s thoughts as she moved beside them. How could this child possibly be ready for school? And indeed, how could she? He was wasting Miss Martin’s time. But then she spoke up, her voice firm but not ungentle. “Lizzie,” she said, “we are walking along a straight and lengthy avenue of smooth green grass with great old trees on either side. There are no obstacles to cause you harm. You can step forward with absolute confidence that you will not collide with anything or step into any holes, especially as your father has hold of your arm. If you were to take mine too, I daresay we could stride along at a spanking pace and maybe even break into a run. Shall we try it?” Joseph looked over his daughter’s head at her. He found himself smiling. She was very obviously a woman accustomed to managing girls. But Lizzie looked up, pale and frightened. “Mother said I was never to leave the house and garden and that I must never walk fast,” she said. “And Miss Edwards said…” But she paused in the middle of the sentence, and before Joseph could speak, she grinned—an expression he saw far too rarely on her face. It made her look downright mischievous. “But Miss Edwards is gone. Papa sent her away this morning and gave her money for six months.” “Your mother was a wise lady,” Miss Martin told her. “You should indeed remain at home unless you are accompanied by someone you trust. And you should always walk with caution when you are alone. But today you are with your papa, whom you trust more than anyone else you have known, I daresay, and you are certainly not alone. If you hold your papa’s arm and take mine too, we will be cautious for you and see that you come to no harm. I believe your papa trusts me.” “Certainly I do,” he said, still smiling at her over Lizzie’s head. “Shall we try it?” she asked. Lizzie reached out a hand, and Miss Martin drew it through her arm. And they walked sedately onward in a tight line until Joseph realized Miss Martin was increasing the pace. He grinned and increased it even more. Lizzie, clinging tight, chuckled suddenly and then shrieked with laughter. “We really are walking,” she cried. He felt the ache of unshed tears in his throat. “And so we are,” he said. “Perhaps we should run?” They did so for a very short distance before slowing to a walk again and then stopping altogether. They were all laughing by then, and Lizzie was panting too. He met Miss Martin’s eyes over the top of Lizzie’s head again. She was flushed and bright-eyed. Her slightly faded cotton dress was creased and the brim of her straw hat—the same one she had worn to the garden party—had blown out of shape. One errant lock of her hair hung loose about her shoulders. Her face was glistening with moisture. Suddenly she looked very pretty indeed. “Oh, listen!” Lizzie said suddenly, her head bent forward, her body very still. “Listen to the birds.” They all listened intently, and indeed, there must have been a vast choir of them hidden among the leaves and branches of the trees, all singing their hearts out. It was a lovely summer sound, so easily missed when there was so much else to occupy the eyes or the mind. Miss Martin was the first to move. She released Lizzie’s arm and stepped in front of her. “Lizzie,” she said, “lift your face to the sun. Here, let me fold back this wide brim on your bonnet so that you can feel the lovely heat on your cheeks and eyelids. Breathe it in as you listen to the birds.” “But Mother said—” Lizzie began. “And she was very wise,” Miss Martin told her, folding back the soft brim to expose his daughter’s pale, thin face and her blind eyes. “No lady exposes her complexion to the sun long enough to bronze or burn her skin. But it is actually good to do so for a few minutes at a time. The warmth of the sun on the face is very good for the spirits.” Ah, why had he never thought of that for himself? Thus permitted, Lizzie tipped back her head so that the light and heat were full on her face. Her lips parted after a few moments and she slid her hand free of Joseph’s arm and held up her hands to the sun, palms out. “Oh,” she said on a long sigh while Joseph felt that ache in his throat again. She stood like that for some time until with sudden fright she pawed at the air with one hand. “Papa?” “I am right here, sweetheart,” he said, but he did not reach for her as he would normally have done. “I am not going to leave you. Neither is Miss Martin.” “The sun does feel good,” she said, and, still holding up her hands, she turned to her right and then kept turning very slowly until she was facing almost in the direction from which she had started. The sun’s warm rays must have been her guide. She laughed with the sheer carefree happiness of any child. “Perhaps now,” Miss Martin said, “we should return to the blanket and have some tea. It is never good to overdo any exercise—and I am hungry.” They turned and linked arms again and set off in the direction from which they had come. But Lizzie was not the only one bubbling with exuberance. “Walking and running,” Joseph said. “They are tame stuff. I propose that we skip the rest of the way to the blanket.” “Skip?” Lizzie asked as Miss Martin raised her eyebrows. “You hop first on one foot and then on the other, all the while moving forward,” he said. “Like this.” And he skipped along like an overgrown schoolboy, drawing the others with him until Miss Martin laughed aloud and skipped too. After a few awkward moments Lizzie joined them and they skipped along the avenue, the three of them, laughing and whooping and altogether making an undignified spectacle of themselves. It was a good thing any other people in the park were either out of sight altogether or else were so far away that they missed the show. Some of his friends might be interested to see him now, Joseph thought—skipping along a park avenue with his blind daughter and a school headmistress. Doubtless Miss Martin’s pupils and teachers would be interested too. But Lizzie’s carefree delight was worth any loss of dignity. Miss Martin helped Lizzie off with her spencer when they reached the blanket and the shade, and suggested too that she take off her bonnet. She removed her own hat, as he did his, and set it on the grass. She smoothed her hands over her disordered hair, but it was a hopeless task. It would take a brush and a mirror to repair the damage. She looked utterly charming to him nevertheless. They ate their tea with healthy appetites, devouring freshly baked buns with cheese and currant cakes and a rosy apple each. They washed it all down with lemonade that was sadly warm but was at least wet and thirst-quenching. All the while they chattered on about nothing in particular until Lizzie fell silent and remained silent. She was curled up against Joseph’s side, and, looking down, he could see that she was fast asleep. He lowered her head to his lap and smoothed a hand over her slightly damp hair. “I think,” he said softly, “you have just given her one of the happiest days of her life, Miss Martin. Probably the happiest.” “I?” She touched her bosom. “What have I done?” “You have given her permission to be a child,” he said, “to run and skip and lift her face to the sun and shout and laugh.” She stared back at him but said nothing. “I have loved her,” he said, “from the moment I first set eyes on her ten minutes after her birth. I believe I have loved her even more than I would otherwise have done just because she is blind. I have always wanted to breathe and eat and sleep for her and would gladly have died for her if it could have made a difference. I have tried to hold her safe in my arms and my love. I have never—” Foolishly, he could not finish. He drew a deep breath instead and looked down at his child—who was so very nearly not a child any longer. That was the whole trouble. “I believe that being a parent is not always a comfortable thing,” Miss Martin said. “Love can be so terribly painful. I have experienced a little of what
it must be like through a few of my charity girls. They have been so very disadvantaged and I desperately want the rest of their lives to be perfect for them. But there is only so much I can do. Lizzie will always be blind, Lord Attingsborough. But she can find joy in life if she wishes and if those who love her will allow it.” “Will you take her?” he asked, swallowing against what felt like a lump in his throat. “I do not know what else to do. Is school the right thing for her, though?” She did not reply immediately. She was obviously thinking carefully. “I do not know,” she said. “Give me a little more time.” “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you for not saying no out of hand. And thank you for not saying yes before you have considered the matter with care. I would rather her not go at all than for it to be the wrong thing. I will care for her somehow no matter what.” He looked back down at his daughter and continued to smooth his hand over her hair. It was ridiculously sentimental to think again that he would willingly die for her. The thing was, he could not. Neither could he live for her. It was a terrifying realization. And yet somehow he was comforted by Miss Martin’s presence—even though she was not sure she could offer Lizzie a place at her school. She had shown his daughter—and him!—that she could have fun and even twirl about in the heat of the sun without holding on to anyone. “I have often wondered,” he said without looking up, “what would have happened if Lizzie had not been blind. Sonia would have moved on to other admirers and it is altogether possible that I would have carried on with my own life much as before, while supporting the child I had sired but rarely saw—yet I would have believed I was doing my duty by her. I would perhaps have married Barbara and deprived myself of the pull of love to my first-born. But how impoverished my life would have been! Lizzie’s blindness is perhaps a curse to her, but it has been an abundant blessing to me. How strange! I had never realized that until today.” “Blindness need not be a curse to Lizzie either,” she said. “We all have our crosses to bear, Lord Attingsborough. It is how we bear those crosses that proves our mettle—or lack of it. You have borne yours and become a better person, and it has enriched your life. Lizzie must be allowed to carry her own burden and triumph over it—or not.” “Ah.” He sighed. “But it is that possibility of or not that breaks my heart.” She smiled at him as he looked up at her, and it struck him that in fact she was more than just pretty. In fact, she was probably not pretty at all—that was far too girlish and frivolous a term. “I do believe, Miss Martin,” he said without stopping to consider his words, “you must be the loveliest woman it has ever been my privilege to meet.” Foolish and quite untrue words—and yet the truest he had ever spoken. She stared back at him, her smile suddenly gone, until he lowered his gaze to Lizzie again. He hoped he had not hurt her, made her believe that he had merely been playing the gallant. But he could not think of a way of retrieving his words without hurting her more. The point was, he did not even know quite what he had meant by them himself. She was not lovely in any obvious sense. Not at all. And yet… Good Lord, he was not becoming infatuated with Miss Claudia Martin, was he? There could be nothing more disastrous. But of course he was not. She had been kind to Lizzie, that was all—and it was impossible not to love her a little as a result. He loved the Smarts for the same reason. “What happened to the dog?” he asked. “A home happened—temporarily, at least,” she said, “and loving care from all quarters. And your mention of him has given me an idea. May I bring him to visit Lizzie?” But Lizzie was stirring even as he raised his eyebrows, and he leaned over her and kissed her forehead. She smiled and reached up one hand to touch and pat his face. “Papa,” she said, sounding sleepy and contented. “It is time to go home, sweetheart,” he said. “Oh, so soon?” she asked, but she did not look unhappy. “Miss Martin will come and visit you again if you wish,” he said. “She will bring her little dog with her.” “A dog?” she said, instantly more alert. “There was one on the street one day a few years ago. Do you remember, Papa? He barked and I was frightened, but then his owner brought him close and I patted him and he panted all over me. But Mother said I might not have one of my own. My stories always have a dog in them.” “Do they? Then we must certainly have this one visit you,” he said. “Shall we invite Miss Martin to come too?” She laughed, and it seemed to him that there was some unaccustomed color in her cheeks. “Will you come, Miss Martin?” she asked. “And will you bring your dog? Please? I would like it of all things.” “Very well, then,” Miss Martin said. “He is a very affectionate little thing. He will probably lick your face all over.” Lizzie laughed with delight. But this afternoon was rapidly coming to an end, Joseph thought. They must not be late back. Both he and Miss Martin had the evening visit to Vauxhall to prepare for—and he had a dinner to attend first. He was sorry the outing was over. He was always sorry when his times with Lizzie were at an end. But today had been particularly pleasurable. They felt almost like a family. But the strange, unbidden thought brought a frown to his face. Lizzie would always be his beloved child, but she would never be part of his family. And as for Miss Martin, well… “Time to go,” he said, getting to his feet. 10