“Elvira! Whatever for?”
Elvira stopped her with a hand on her arm. “Lenora, you must speak honestly, and do not dissemble—did you indeed relay his exact message to me? Did you not, perhaps unwittingly, discourage him from coming to see me?”
Lenora, aghast at this suspicion, assured her friend that, quite the reverse, she had urged him to visit Elvira.
Elvira blinked, as if tears threatened, and lifted her chin in defiance. “Yet he left without saying goodbye to me, Lenora! As if—as if I were nothing to him at all! As if our relationship meant no more than—than the next person’s!”
“But Elvira, he told you through me!” cried Lenora. “Do you not recollect, he sent his regrets—”
“Through you! Why did he not call upon me, Lenora?” cried her anguished friend. “Why could he not stop for ten minutes to tell me himself? It is not to be borne! If he could seek you out at a ball where he did not even intend to dance, why could he not delay for ten minutes more to seek me out, to take his leave properly?”
Lenora’s conscientious defense of Mr. Barnabus died on her tongue, as she realized its probable repercussions against the only recently redeemed Mr. Ginsham. Perceiving that she must carefully choose her words, she said slowly, “Perhaps we have misread Barnabus, dearest. Perhaps his feelings are not so tender—”
“Lenora, you mistake me!” said Elvira, dashing the tears from her eyes. “Though I have fancied often that he has shown marked attentions to me, I do not believe him to be seriously attached, not yet, but such a man as he is ought not to leave such a civility undone, not for such a friend as I have been.”
Feeling it would serve neither her suffering friend nor Mr. Ginsham to give a comforting answer, she answered, “Perhaps he is not the man we believed him to be.”
Elvira turned to stare at her, astonishment written plainly on her face. “But we know him, Lenora! We know exactly the kind of man he is!”
“Are you quite certain of that?”
Elvira was quiet as they walked, taking the crossing and turning onto Berkeley Street. When they stopped at the corner where they were to part, she looked up with decision. “Though I respect your opinion, Lenora, I cannot abandon Barnabus to the ranks of the ordinary and heedless as easily as you have done. I do not fault you for your feelings—on the contrary, I honor you for them. But it is a strange business, fraught with complexity, and must be given due consideration before any judgement can be reached.” She curtseyed rather formally, keeping her eyes down. “Goodbye, my dearest friend. I am indeed grateful for our reconciliation, and I shall hope to call upon you tomorrow, or at least very soon.”
With that, she turned with her abigail toward her aunt’s house, leaving Lenora to the dubious comfort of having regained her friend, only to distress her.
If Genevieve had expected that Sir Joshua would shun her after their heated discussion at Vauxhall, she was mistaken, for he not only continued his frequent visits, but sought her private company as often as before. She was understandably taken aback by this behavior, especially considering the obvious disapproval of her he had shown, and wished more than once, in light of her continued attachment to him, that he felt less obligation. His constant attention gave her no opportunity to subdue her feelings, and her position was made worse by the fact that he never appeared the least cold, as he had at Vauxhall, but was so considerate and friendly that it was increasingly difficult for her to remember that he had no opinion of her. With every exposure to him, her heart was more susceptible to fluttering at his compliments, and she found it impossible to stop her tongue from responding to his wit—in short, she fell too easily, even naturally, into flirting with her own daughter’s suitor—and was appalled at her own shamelessness.
She knew, oh, too well did she know, that she must keep him at a distance, but she simply could not deny herself entirely of the enjoyment of his company. If she refused one invitation, she could not refuse the next, her misguided heart convincing her that she only accepted so as not to offend him. And so, all willingly, she perpetually placed herself in a position that she must try, and always fail, to act the mother-in-law to a man she could not but see as her ideal.
For Sir Joshua was everything, and more, that Bertram had failed to become. Even at his best, Bertram had rather been sharp than witty, and persuasive than courteous. Sir Joshua was serious where Bertram had been charming, but so was he thoughtful where Bertram had been careless. And while Bertram had been lively and adventurous, Sir Joshua’s gravity was the perfect foil to his clever humor, which had attracted Genevieve from the start, and caught her at last, because her own highly developed sense of the ridiculous had been nearly starved by a joyless marriage.
She sought in vain for a solution to her predicament. If she kept to her room, she only distressed Lady Cammerby and Lenora, who feared she was ill, and wearied her with their solicitude—and Sir Joshua invariably sent her flowers, which only heightened her awareness of his perfections. If she haunted the parks, alone or with Lenora, Sir Joshua was sure to find them somewhere or other. At last, encouraged by a rumor that Lord Montrose had quitted his lodgings, she approached Lady Cammerby with the suggestion that she return home and leave Lenora in her care.
Her friend looked appalled. “Are you unhappy here, Genevieve? Oh, I knew you were out of spirits, and yet I did nothing! I am ashamed! How can I make reparation? I’ve become remiss in your entertainment, I know. I ought to have held that card party last week, and invited Lady Wraglain and Emily Shepherd, which you would have enjoyed so much. But Cottam’s mother was ill and I thought he was not equal to such an exertion. Was it a mistake? No?”
Genevieve denied any feeling of neglect in the area of her entertainment, but her hostess was not to be comforted. “What has happened to cast you down? You were so happy at first, but now you are forever in the dismals! I cannot imagine—leastways, I can, but I will not speak of it, for if I do, I vow I shall be cast down, and then what will become of the pair of us?” She looked up at Genevieve with tears sparkling in her eyes. “Oh, dearest, when I think of my hopes, dashed!” She pressed her lips tightly together and hastily wiped at her eyes with her handkerchief. “No! I shall not succumb to despondency! My nonsensical fantasies are my own folly, and will not add to your troubles. It is better for me to put my cares behind me and look to your comfort.”
This speech, though enlightening, had rather the reverse of its intended effect on the hearer, but Genevieve could not fail to be moved by Lady Cammerby’s concern, and with valiant effort, comprised of mendacious statements regarding her perfect contentment and solemn promises never again to suggest her early removal, she coaxed and cajoled her friend back into complacency. When they had both drunk their tea and talked of happy things, and Genevieve was convinced of her friend’s complete revival, she retired from the apartment with the resolution to conquer her demons or die.
The weather becoming warmer by the day, Lenora’s engagements seemed chiefly to consist of picnics and outdoor entertainments, and she was obliged to put away her pelisse and half-boots in favor of light shawls and slippers. So, it was with some disappointment that she awoke on the morning of a particularly exciting expedition to find it dismally raining, and a note at the breakfast table announcing the outing cancelled due to weather. After much bustling about, Lady Cammerby triumphantly announced that she had successfully obtained permissions for Lenora and a party to view the marbles newly on display at Montagu House, and that she would act as chaperone. Lenora, whose temperament was extremely elastic, hastened to compose the invitations, and not long after, found herself part of a lively group who were very happily squinting alike at guides and various bits of sculpture for the afternoon.
A good crowd had gathered in the museum that day, on account of the rain, and due to the nature of the activity, Lenora became separated a little from her group as they all wandered about the galleries in profound contemplation
. She was reflecting on the rather gruesome sight of a carved horse’s head, severed from its body and sitting on a pedestal, when a stranger’s voice startled her.
“I see, ma’am, that your interests continue to run with mine.”
She turned to behold the same mysterious gentleman who had twice before met her. “Good day, sir,” she said, startled but not displeased. “I don’t know what you mean by interest, however, for I cannot pretend to be attracted by this sight.”
“Hmm, no,” he said, tilting his head to regard the poor disembodied animal. “It is disturbing, indeed. But I find the friezes impressive.”
“Yes, most impressive, I agree, sir. But the number of missing limbs displayed puts one in mind of a disaster, rather than of art, and quite harasses the contemplative mood. I cannot help but wonder in what state the rest was left behind.”
He chuckled. “Indeed! Your honesty is refreshing! Most persons come here in the expectation of beholding wonders, and if they are disappointed, as you are, they are too mortified to make it known, lest they appear vulgar. I applaud your bravery, ma’am!”
She colored. “I do not pretend to any high understanding, sir, but I hope I am able to appreciate great works. I only question the wisdom in stripping them from their native setting.”
“And you are not alone,” he said warmly. “It is quite a controversy, and you are brave to state your feelings.” She looked even more conscious, and he smiled, shaking his head. “Your position in no way detracts from your understanding, for appreciation must not always equal enjoyment or agreement. Indeed, I am of the opinion that your evincing a distaste for these particular great works, rather than betraying a lack of intellect, proves your discernment.” He lowered his voice, glancing around the room. “Whereas the majority of these persons are so startled they have no thought whatever, and shall leave this place with only the vague notion that what they saw must have been magnificent, for so says the guidebook.”
This surprised a giggle out of her, which echoed indelicately through the room, and though she moved quickly to stifle it, she was too late. Several sober onlookers cast glares her way, and the gentleman, smiling conspiratorially, bowed and walked away. Lenora watched him go, realizing too late that she still did not know who he was, and pleasantly intrigued that he should single her out thrice now, without offering an introduction. His manner, after their first meeting, had been almost fatherly, or more closely that of an uncle, so she did not suspect him of romantic motives, but he seemed very personable. Try as she might, she could not recall seeing him at any of the many functions she had attended during the season, which gave her to wonder if he was a Cit, or some other kind of social outcast—which merely intrigued her the more.
But here she was obliged to leave off her musings, for Elvira came round the corner on Mr. Ginsham’s arm to exclaim in an excited whisper, “Lenora, they have no heads!” which brought on another fit of giggles, and more disapproving looks.
While the young people navigated the wonders of the Past, Sir Joshua arrived in Hill Street, and was ushered into the drawing room where he found Genevieve mending a tear in one of Lenora’s gowns, which this time was a ball dress of watered silk that had been trod upon by an energetic partner.
“I bid you good day on this dreary afternoon,” he said, smiling.
She returned his greeting politely enough, while stridently stifling the fluttering of her heart at the sight of him, and determinedly continued her work.
“You must be an accomplished needlewoman, ma’am,” he observed, “for I never see you at rest but you are sewing something or other.”
Genevieve, having resolved that it was less painful to treat him as a brother, said in a very sisterly way, “It would be improper in me to own accomplishment, sir, but I will readily assent to being a needful needlewoman. I have discovered, or rather have recollected, since I had forgotten it from my own season so many years ago, that if Lenora attends one ball, I may depend upon finding as many rents in her gown next morning as there were hours in the evening.”
He sat opposite her, saying, “But surely my sister employs a servant who could mend for you.”
“Oh, she does, but it seems the older I am, the more I fidget if I am unemployed.” She smiled pleasantly, adjusting the dress on her lap. “I find I am grateful to Bertram for giving me reason to exert myself in the needle arts, for, with all these servants to wait on me, I have not the least conjecture what I could otherwise find to do.”
He seemed to hesitate for a moment before asking, “I collect that you employ only a few servants at this present.”
“Yes, at present.” She kept her eyes downcast, sewing nimbly as she spoke. “My maid and dear Matthew, the head groom, quite refuse to leave us, as does Sally, our cook. And our good butler outstayed himself, dear old fellow. But not every servant, loyal or otherwise, can afford to live on a pittance.” She glanced up brightly. “But Tom assures me we shall have a new butler and another maid by the winter.”
“Tom has borne his responsibilities admirably. He is a most impressive young man.”
“He gets none of it from his parents, sir,” she remarked candidly. “You know my flightiness, and you may count yourself fortunate not to have known his father’s temperament.”
“If it was such as would attract Lord Montrose, I do not need to imagine it.” She darted a look at him, but his gaze was on her quick fingers as he continued. “I am happy to bear good tidings on that head, ma’am. His lordship does not appear to have plans to return to town for some time, at least. His house is shut up, the servants gone and the knocker down.” He paused. “He seems to have fled, and I feel it safe to say we need not fear interference from that quarter again.”
Genevieve raised her eyes to his face, waiting for the rush of relief his news would surely bring, but it did not come. Something teased her, and she recalled Caroline Wraglain’s words: “He is more likely to move heaven and earth to break you, than to accept defeat.” Her gaze dropped to the work in her lap and she said, “It may be premature to assume so, Sir Joshua. Somehow, I cannot think him—”
She broke off, and he leaned a little forward. “You cannot think him so poor-spirited?”
“In essence, yes,” she answered, very seriously. “I would never think Lord Montrose poor-spirited. It would be thoroughly unwise of one who knew him well.”
“Yes, but though I do not wish to give you pain, I must remind you that even you did not know him as well as you had before thought.” She did not vouchsafe an answer, but began plying her needle with some energy, and he regarded her quietly before continuing, “If he returns to town, I shall know it. You may rest assured of that, ma’am.” She merely nodded and was silent. He settled back in his chair and calmly changed the subject. “And where is Lenora this afternoon?”
Genevieve started as her needle pricked her thumb. She glanced at him in annoyance, sucking on the injured digit as she searched in her reticule for her handkerchief. “Dear Amelia has been so kind as to take Lenora with a group of young people to Montagu House. They had planned an expedition to Wimbledon, but it was not to be. I expect we shall see them back presently.”
“Then you have snatched a few hours’ peace.”
She looked quickly up at him again, mollified a bit by his thoughtfulness. “I cannot imagine they would be so carried away by the marbles as to keep you waiting much longer, sir.”
He shrugged. “I am not impatient for their return. It would do neither Lenora nor her friend Miss Chuddsley, whom I may assume has been included in the group, harm to be exposed to more culture.”
“I must agree with you there, sir,” she said, disarmed.
“Tom agrees with me, too, it seems.”
She nearly dropped her needle. “Tom?”
“Yes. In his last letter to me, he expressed his conviction that his sister would be much improved by more serious study wh
ile in London, rather than the frippery amusements she has hitherto enjoyed. Of course, this came after he expounded his satisfaction in the very same entertainments, of which he seems to have freely partaken while in town, so I am not entirely certain how to take such sagacity.”
She chuckled, but was moved to ask, “How comes Tom to correspond with you? I collect he has done so more than once.”
“I have been honored with three letters from Master Tom. I flatter myself that he counts me quite one of the family.”
“I am sure we all do, sir,” she said, flushing slightly, “for you have shown such kindness to us all. Be that as it may, however, I cannot conceive of how he came to be such a faithful correspondent.” She continued in a resolutely light tone, “I vow I’ve never received more than three letters from him in all my life.”
“He consulted me on matters of business,” he said in a conciliatory tone.
“Regarding his stay in London? You terrify me, sir!” she said tranquilly enough to hide a tiny prickle of worry. “Am I to understand that my Tom has proved to be as susceptible to the lures of town life as any other young man in his salad days, and has found himself in need of manly advice on the subject?”
“You know it is nothing of the sort, Mrs. Breckinridge, and mean only to wrest from me congratulations for his level-headedness. Unfortunately, I am unable to fully satisfy you on that head.”
“Oh?” she said, her needle pausing.
“I infinitely regret to tell you that word has reached my ears of a most ill-advised prank he perpetrated against poor Mr. Ginsham.”
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