PoetsandPromises

by Lucy Muir

  “My honor!” Elisabeth exclaimed, anger ousting her wretchedness. “You offend, Lord Sherbourne. I have not lost my honor by being seen discoursing in overly loud tones with Mrs. Shelley, only my credit.”

  “That would be true if one were referring only to the meeting in the park,” Sherbourne replied coolly. “But we both know that is not the situation.”

  “Mr. Shelley did not take my innocence, Lord Sherbourne, whatever you may think or however low the esteem in which you may hold me. Mr. Shelley did not ravish me, he only kissed me.”

  “For that fact I may thank fortune and not your discretion, I am certain,” Lord Sherbourne bit out.

  Furious and hurt beyond measure, Elisabeth made no answer.

  “Miss Ashwood,” the viscount said after a moment, his voice quiet. “I spoke harshly and unthinkingly. It will do us no good to hold grudges toward each other. We must marry, therefore let us at least have the grace to deal with each other civilly as we accept the inevitable.”

  Elisabeth sat in silence while Lord Sherbourne directed the tilbury around the park, her thoughts in turmoil. What could she do? Return home unwed? Even if Lord Sherbourne made certain her family did not suffer financially her mother and father would still be very distressed should their daughter’s character be tarnished by her association with the “godless Shelleys”. And Jane… What would she tell her upright friend and Jane’s vicar husband? It seemed mortifyingly impossible to tell them the truth. But to marry Lord Sherbourne under these circumstances—what cold and loveless future would that lead to? Still, she could not deny what she owed Lady Parker, who had generously taken her into her home and done her best by her brother’s choice. It would not be right for her to open Lady Parker to the disapprobation of Lord and Lady Ashwood or the rest of Society. In the end, Elisabeth thought bleakly, she must do what was right by others, whatever the cost to herself. It was the only honorable answer.

  “I have no choice but to agree, Lord Sherbourne,” Elisabeth said finally in an expressionless voice. Never would she have believed the restoration of her betrothal to Lord Sherbourne would bring so little joy.

  Chapter Twelve

  Twin announcements in the Times that May—one informing readers of the betrothal of John Stanhope Orcutt, Duke of Norland, to Charlotte Lavinia Parker, daughter of Lord Sherbourne, deceased, and another notifying the public that Richard Montfort Leslie Sherbourne, Viscount, was to wed Miss Elisabeth Anne Ashwood—caused almost as much whispering behind the doors of the ton as had Miss Ashwood’s and Lady Parker’s loss of vouchers to Almack’s. Hostesses who had struck the two women from their guest lists quietly added them back.

  But although Lady Parker was now radiantly happy in her betrothal to the duke, Elisabeth was as unhappy as she could ever remember being. She had come to desire the restoration of her betrothal above all things—but not in this manner. To be married not out of affection or even as a convenience but as a gesture of gallantry! It was not to be borne! Yet she had accepted his gesture when she need not have. She could have returned home. It was true her parents would have been distressed at the loss of the settlement but they would have forgiven her eventually. Lady Parker might have been censured for her error in allowing Elisabeth to associate with members of the literary set but only until her marriage to the duke. Why had she agreed to marry Lord Sherbourne? Was it right of her to bind Sherbourne and herself in a loveless union? Why had she done it? So pervasive was Elisabeth’s unhappiness that she found no pleasure even in her beloved books and she began to lose weight. Her new gowns hung loosely on her and her face had shadows that had not been there before.

  “Shall we accept this invitation to a musicale at Mrs. Fortescue’s?” Lady Parker asked Elisabeth one June morning as they sat together in the drawing room after they had breakfasted.

  “If you wish, Lady Parker,” Elisabeth answered tonelessly as she leafed unseeingly through the pages of one of her new books.

  Lady Parker gave her a sharp look, noting Elisabeth’s hollow cheeks and pale complexion. She set the invitation aside and joined Elisabeth on the sofa. “It cannot escape my attention that you are unhappy, Miss Ashwood. What is it? Is there anything I might do to lessen your melancholy?”

  “I do not like to think that Lord Sherbourne is marrying me only out of gallantry,” Elisabeth replied honestly.

  “How can you imagine that is Richard’s only reason?” Lady Parker inquired, puzzled. “The betrothal was planned before you arrived this February past.”

  Unwilling to tell Lady Parker of Lord Sherbourne ending the betrothal before it was reinstated, Elisabeth found it simpler to agree with her hostess’s assumption. “I suppose you have the right of it, Lady Parker. Perhaps it is only I am feeling a bit melancholy of late.”

  “You will see, you are still low from the occurrences of this past week. Come, Miss Ashwood, you must put it all behind you and enjoy the musicale this coming Thursday. I shall send our acceptance.”

  But although Elisabeth resolved to make an effort to appear content for Lady Parker’s sake, she found it difficult to pretend, particularly in the face of the true happiness of Lady Parker and the Duke of Norland. Moreover, it seemed that everyone was happy with her own betrothal to Lord Sherbourne but she herself. Lady Parker was of course pleased, her parents were delighted that a date had at last been set for the wedding, her friend Jane Fairacre had written expressing her pleasure that the betrothal had been renewed, reiterating her opinion it had all just been a misunderstanding, and Miss Earlywine could not cease talking excitedly about the coming nuptials whenever they met.

  “Miss Thibeau,” Greaves announced, and Elisabeth looked up to see the artist entering the drawing room, a sketchbook under her arm.

  “Miss Thibeau, I am so glad you have come,” Lady Parker welcomed the Frenchwoman. “Miss Ashwood, Miss Thibeau has come to make sketches of Revati.” She turned back to the artist. “Please, Miss Thibeau, feel welcome to stay as long as is necessary for you to draw your initial sketches. I must leave shortly but Miss Ashwood will help you if you wish to sketch Revati in different positions. Revati is fond of Miss Ashwood and will allow herself to be handled by her.”

  Lady Parker departed soon afterward with the duke and Elisabeth was left alone in the drawing room with Miss Thibeau. The artist set her sketchbook on the low brass-inlaid mahogany table and began readying her supplies.

  “I see in the announcements you are to marry Lord Sherbourne, Mademoiselle Ashwood,” the Frenchwoman said as she unwrapped a packet of charcoals. “I am happy for you. I also am to wed—Monsieur Earlywine has asked me to be his wife.”

  “May I offer my felicitations, Miss Thibeau. I also am happy for you.” Elisabeth congratulated the Frenchwoman, surprised. She found it difficult to imagine the merry, easygoing Mr. Earlywine wed to the volatile artist and wondered that she had never noticed any particular attraction between the two.

  “Thank you. You are the first I tell, for Monsieur Earlywine he wish to wait until after the wedding of his friend to make the announcement.”

  Miss Thibeau settled herself on the floor before the sofa where Revati still lay asleep, her paws and mouth twitching as she dreamed of catching birds. “I must see the face directly or the likeness, it has no life,” she explained as she took up her sketchpad and began to draw. “Lady Parker, she has no desire for a sketch of the top of the chat’s head, no?

  “Please to pardon me, Mademoiselle Ashwood,” the artist added, glancing up at Elisabeth, “but I have the interest in the human nature and you do not look happy. Have you no wish to marry the Lord Sherbourne? He is the lord and the—what do you say? The nabob?”

  “Yes, I wish to marry Lord Sherbourne,” Elisabeth answered. “But it is what is called a marriage of convenience,” she finished, surprised to find herself confiding in the artist. She had never spoken to the Frenchwoman in privacy before and was surprised to find the artist had such a warmth of manner and sympathy in her voice that confiding in her wa
s irresistible.

  “Ah, and you wish it were not,” Miss Thibeau said with perspicacity. “But, Mademoiselle Ashwood, most marriages are what you call the marriage of convenience. Few of us have the choice to marry for love only, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Perhaps,” Elisabeth acknowledged.

  “The love, she will come, Mademoiselle Ashwood,” Miss Thibeau continued as she half rose, shifted her position and settled in a different place on the floor in order to draw the cat from another angle. “You must, how you say, entice the love, yes? The gentleman, he must be courted, you must not leave the gentlemen only to court you, you understand? The gentleman, he wants to be tempted, to be, how you say, tantalized.

  “You do as Mademoiselle Thibeau say and you will have the love match, Mademoiselle Ashwood, c’est vrai,” the artist finished with conviction.

  Remembering her jealousy of Miss Thibeau over the past months as the beautiful Frenchwoman charmed every man she met, Elisabeth had no doubt the artist was speaking the truth. But how to follow Miss Thibeau’s advice? Elisabeth could not imagine herself behaving in a flirtatious manner to someone who held her in low esteem and had made it clear he was only marrying her out of a sense of duty. She did not have the bold assurance of the artist, nor her beauty. How could a brown wren tempt and tantalize?

  Sherbourne, making an effort to salvage what he could out of the disaster his betrothal had become, ate dinner at his sister’s each night and made a point of speaking to Miss Ashwood in a courteous manner and she did the same. But he could not understand why Miss Ashwood seemed as unhappy with the betrothal restored as she had appeared when he had first suggested they end it. The happy and confiding young woman of her first months in London did not return and the new somber, silent Miss Ashwood remained. Worse, she was losing her looks, becoming pale and thin, which Sherbourne knew was the outer sign of deep inner unhappiness.

  Wishing that he had Earlywine’s ease with the female sex, Sherbourne set out once again to take dinner at his sister’s town house.

  “Richard,” his sister welcomed him, “I am pleased you have come—I have ordered a dinner of dishes from India in order to tempt Miss Ashwood’s appetite. She is looking far too peaked.”

  “Indeed, I must agree, Charlotte,” Sherbourne said, taking a chair next to that of his betrothed. “But no doubt the special meal you have ordered prepared will tempt her appetite,” he added, genuinely concerned at Elisabeth’s pale looks.

  “I am certain I shall enjoy a meal prepared in the style of India,” Sherbourne’s betrothed responded politely, though with little enthusiasm.

  But once at table Miss Ashwood did appear to be making an effort to eat more heartily than she had of late, and she asked Lady Parker about the ingredients of several of the dishes.

  “I very much like the taste of what you tell me is cumin,” Elisabeth said after asking the ingredients of a savory stew-like dish of lamb. “Does the duke like foods prepared in the Indian style?” she asked Lady Parker curiously.

  “In truth I do not know,” Lady Parker answered, appearing much struck. “It is something I shall have to find out. It is an adventure, learning the likes and dislikes of another person, but we have many interests in common so I am hopeful the dishes we prefer will be another.”

  “When Miss Thibeau came to sketch Revati today she told me she is betrothed to Mr. Earlywine. There are two who cannot have much in common—I would not think two people of such different temperament would be attracted to one another. Is it true about their betrothal, Lord Sherbourne?” Elisabeth asked, turning to the viscount.

  “Yes, Miss Ashwood, Earlywine had informed me of their betrothal but said he wished not to announce it until after our marriage takes place.”

  “So they are truly to wed? I also am surprised but I am not certain they would not have any interests in common,” Lady Parker said thoughtfully. “Miss Thibeau and Mr. Earlywine both appear to have most cheerful characters and to find great enjoyment in whatever happens to come their way.”

  “I suppose that is true,” Elisabeth agreed.

  Shortly after dinner Elisabeth begged to be excused because of a headache coming on, leaving Sherbourne and his sister at the table while the viscount drank a glass of Port.

  “Surely I have not changed into an ogre, Charlotte,” Sherbourne said in frustration as the door was closed behind her. “Miss Ashwood seems barely to tolerate my presence.”

  “I do not think it is you but I would not have thought the happenings of the last two months would affect her quite as much as they appear to have,” his sister commented. “For I did think, when I first met her, that Miss Ashwood had a very independent turn of mind.

  “I was in fact hoping that you might tell me what is amiss with her, Richard, for I am at a loss,” Lady Parker finished. “I do worry to see her looks to fall off as much as they have and to see her pick so at her food.”

  “I am afraid I have little more idea than you, Charlotte,” the viscount said rather mendaciously, staring moodily into the distance as he sipped his Port. Surely it could not be the argument they had had in the tilbury when he had thrown it up to her about Shelley’s kiss and she had retaliated with mention of Miss Thibeau? They had argued about the kiss and Miss Thibeau before without it causing lasting ill feelings between them. Then what could be the cause of her low spirits? It could not be longing for the poet, could it? It was true Miss Ashwood’s decline dated from the time she was not allowed to see the Shelleys anymore. If it were not for Shelley, Sherbourne thought glumly, he would maneuver to be alone with Miss Ashwood and simply ask her what was amiss, or even dare an embrace, gambling that it would evoke the return of the physical response to him he had noticed whenever they touched, whether in a dance or when simply taking her arm as they walked. But he would not offer his embraces to her when she might be longing for those of another. It was more than he could bring himself to do.

  A sennight passed without Elisabeth discovering any opportunities to act as Miss Thibeau had suggested, even had she dared follow the artist’s advice to tempt the desires of the viscount. Each day that passed Elisabeth felt that she and Lord Sherbourne were becoming more entrenched in a pattern of careful courtesy that deepened the gulf between them. She glanced over to the viscount, who sat next to his sister, deep in a discussion regarding what Lady Parker would do with her town house upon her marriage. The serious topic of conversation accentuated the harsh aspects of Lord Sherbourne’s profile and he appeared almost forbidding, the lines in his tanned face etched deeply, his fair, sun-bleached hair adding a hint of ice. His dress, without the modish touches of Mr. Earlywine’s, added to the stark correctness—plain trousers tucked into black boots, dark morning coat and simply tied cravat.

  Lord Sherbourne finished his discussion with his sister and approached Elisabeth, who hastily pretended to be absorbed in her embroidery.

  “I have received an invitation from Hunt. He invites us to a dinner to celebrate our betrothal that is being given at Marlow on the night of…” Lord Sherbourne glanced down at the invitation, “the night of ‘the feast of the eve of midsummer’.

  “At first I was of a mind to send a refusal, for I know you and my sister have had an unspoken agreement that you will not see Mr. and Mrs. Shelley again and they are likely to be there. But I think an exception might be made this once if you would care to attend, Miss Ashwood. Or would you wish to refuse, given that it is through your acquaintance with the literary set that your trials have come to you?”

  Elisabeth had indeed not seen the Shelleys or any other persons of the literary set since the day she and Lady Parker had lost their vouchers to Almack’s and had assumed she might never see them again. She was therefore surprised to hear Lord Sherbourne offering her the choice of attending, but then she supposed that a private gathering in the country at Marlow would be unlikely to be glimpsed by any of the ton. Elisabeth felt pleasurable anticipation at the thought of seeing Mary once again, along with a less admirable des
ire to flaunt those who had condemned her for her friendship with the poet’s wife.

  “One may as lief be hung for a sheep as a lamb,” Elisabeth commented. “And the invitation is no doubt meant kindly. It would seem churlish to refuse.”

  “Very well,” Lord Sherbourne said, “I concur. I shall send an acceptance directly.”

  Midsummer’s day dawned balmy and sweet with no threat of rain or wind and Elisabeth found herself looking forward to the dinner at Marlow with great anticipation. At least there she would be free from the disapproving looks she still encountered even when riding in the park with Lady Parker and the Duke of Norland. Since she and Lord Sherbourne were to be the guests of honor, Elisabeth chose her dress with care, selecting a gown of pale-blue silk trimmed in embroidery of a darker blue. Molly arranged her hair in a new style, drawing curls up in bunches at the back of Elisabeth’s head and then adorning them with dark-blue silk ribbons and feathers. Viewing herself in the cheval glass, Elisabeth felt she looked well enough for a guest of honor. However, remembering the gardens and woods of Marlow, Elisabeth forewent her silk slippers and instead chose a sturdy pair of kid shoes.

  When she descended the stairs early that evening after Lord Sherbourne’s arrival, Elisabeth knew by the brief yet thorough glance the viscount bestowed on her that for once she did not look like the brown wren Mr. Hunt had termed her. She was equally impressed with the appearance of the viscount, for the stark severity of his conventional black coat, white linen shirt, black breeches and buff waistcoat suited his rugged, tanned visage. Lady Parker added her approval of Elisabeth’s appearance and Molly draped a light shawl about her mistress’ shoulders before the three left.

  As Lord Sherbourne’s town carriage approached the Shelleys’ house at Marlow, Mary, energetic as ever despite her now large figure, ran forward to embrace Elisabeth as soon as Lord Sherbourne handed her down from the carriage.