Lady Roma's Romance

by Cynthia Bailey Pratt

  Lord Yarborough had begun to lean forward to hear that voice, soft and low-pitched as it was. He tried to focus once more upon the bronze. Upon second glance, he decided that the animal mask was that of a deer, not a bull.

  “Ah, the little statue,” the curator said. “A very fine find. Not complete, of course.”

  “No. But I don’t mind that,” the young lady answered.

  His increasing curiosity drew him away from the glass-enclosed tables toward the next room just as the curator offered to bring the lady a stool.

  “Thank you. You are very kind.”

  He heard the floppy shuffle of the curator and realized for the first time in all his years of coming here that the man was wearing and had always worn loose house slippers. Something of the smile this thought created was still lingering in his expression when he came around the corner. He saw the back of an attractive young woman standing before a broken statuette, a sketching book held open in the crook of her right arm. With a stick of charcoal she drew in quick, light strokes the semblance of the broken statuette, head, arms, and legs miraculously regenerated by her imagination.

  “That’s incredibly good,” he exclaimed involuntarily.

  The young woman shivered all over in startlement, then as though a spell had been cast over her by his voice, froze where the shiver had passed, immobile as the statue itself.

  Lord Yarborough hardly noticed, except to murmur a conventional regret that he’d startled her. “You’ve caught the whole look of the thing,” he said. “The .. . the sweep, if I can put it so.”

  “The sweep?” she said, though her lips hardly moved.

  “I’m sure that’s not what you artists would call it, but I mean ...” He tried a gesture, a turning curve of his hand, then laughed a little at his own inability. “Well, I don’t know quite what I mean, but you’ve made it live again, haven’t you? That’s a great talent.”

  Then she moved again, laying down her drawing, and Lord Yarborough noticed her former immobility only by contrast with the soft grace of her movements. She turned to look at him, and her pale blue eyes widened. “Lord Yarborough, isn’t it?”

  To the best of his remembrance, he’d never seen her before. She had a small face with rather round, pink cheeks like a porcelain doll’s. Her lashes were quite long, almost in danger of entangling in the fringe of straight blond hair combed over her pale forehead.

  Fortunately, he’d been in this situation before. Though he could recall without effort the names of even obscure emperors whose reigns had been brief and bloody, he rarely caught and even more seldom remembered the names of living people. “Ah, yes, by Jove. Very pleasant to see you again. Your—er—family is keeping well, I trust”

  “Mother finds herself troubled with the gout,” she said. “Thus our visit to Bath. My sisters are visiting us. You and Lady Roma are well?”

  “Oh, Roma’s never ill. Remarkable constitution.” Was she a friend of Roma’s? There’d been quite a parade of girls visiting Yarborough Hall after Roma had left that school—Mrs. Who’sit’s Academy for Young Ladies—several of whom had frightened his lordship with their mother-inspired flirtations. He did not imagine that his rather hawkish features and too-thin frame had created storms of passion in adolescent souls. He’d been glad when a rash of marriages had thinned their ranks. He couldn’t be certain, but he’d felt dimly that Roma had been glad as well.

  Yet somehow this young woman seemed older than Roma, though by no means old. Just a vague impression of maturity lingered.

  “I hope the waters are doing you good, Lord Yarborough.”

  Really remarkably pretty eyes she had. Not a deep blue but well set and shaped. He found himself denying that he had any need at all for the healing waters of Bath. “No, indeed. It is the antiquities that draw me hither. You as well, I see,” he added, with a nod toward the statue.

  “Everyone must have a hobbyhorse to ride,” she said dismissively.

  Lord Yarborough felt moved to protest, but the slip-slap of house slippers on wooden floors forestalled him. The curator set down a three-legged stool and stood beaming at the girl as though he’d performed some heroic service and now expected her to exclaim over the dragon’s head he’d delivered. “And I was wondering if you’d care for a cup of tea, miss. I’ve just put the kettle on. And you, too, your lordship.”

  “Thank you. I should be most appreciative,” she said, impressing Lord Yarborough with her graciousness.

  “Yes, yes, indeed,” he said hurriedly, wanting the curator to depart so they could continue their converse. He dimly realized he was passing up a chance to discuss Rome in favor of a chat about art, yet somehow it didn’t seem like so great a sacrifice.

  He noticed that even after the curator had departed once more—frustratingly still calling her “miss”—that she made no motion toward her uncompleted work. “Won’t you go on?” he said with an encouraging gesture.

  “Oh, no,” she said, a becoming pink increasing in her cheeks. “I couldn’t, not with anyone watching me.”

  “Ah, yes. I quite understand. Still, ah, it’s only me, you know.”

  “But you are a great authority on Roman works,” she said. “Though I should not mind the criticism of one so knowledgeable, I confess that the slightest breath of disapproval ...” She seemed to run out of breath before she ran out of sentence.

  “But, my dear young lady, what an impertinence on my part to presume to criticize the work of an artist! You are the only judge of what is pleasing to your eyes.”

  He saw tears come into those soft eyes and was horrified. Without thinking of what he did, he immediately reached out to cover her hands with his own. “My dear, what have I said to distress you so? It was never my intention ...”

  Despite the moisture clinging to her lashes, she gave an enchanting gurgle of laughter. “Oh, no, no,” she said, her hands turning under his. “It’s only ... I come from a large family, my lord, and no one takes my painting seriously. My sisters all say, ‘oh, Sabina is only messing about with her paints; she won’t mind if we interrupt.’ My brothers think it great fun to steal away my paints or draw mustaches and beards . . ,” Perhaps she noticed Lord Yarborough’s frown, for she gave a little gasp and drew her hands away.

  “Pray don’t mistake me. I love my family dearly. They are all very high spirited and adore each other. They are never so happy as when all together, whether singing around the pianoforte or engaged in some quarrel.” She laughed again, less wholeheartedly, more forced. “They call me the changeling, for I like nothing better than to sit alone, memorializing some view or copying some work of a Great Master.”

  “Did you say your name is ‘Sabina’?”

  “Yes. Sabina Keane.” She smiled at him. “I did not think you remembered me.”

  “Of course I do,” he said, surprised to find that he did. “We met at Lady Lingamore’s rout last spring. I was escorting my daughter, and your mother introduced us. Roma had been at school with one of your sisters.”

  “Yes. Julia. She is but a little more than a year younger than I.”

  The widowed Mrs. Keane had been flirting with him, he had belatedly realized when she’d mentioned how Roma should have been one of her children, since they all had classical names. He had not told her that she’d somehow managed to choose the names of highly immoral women, some of the worst females in history. The fact that none of her girls were named Messalina must have been an oversight.

  Even the Sabine women, for whom this young lady was named, had something of a shadow over their names, though it was hardly their fault that the earliest Romans had needed wives. Also the Emperor Hadrian’s wife, Sabina, had been known for her waspish temperament, though, in fairness, her husband’s famous fondness for young men might have had something to do with her cantankerousness.

  “You didn’t attend that school?” Lord Yarborough asked.

  “Oh, no. Nor any. I am the eldest, and Mother wishes to keep me by her. I am very useful to her.”


  Though he was far from conversant with the details of ladies’ dresses, he recalled that at the party where they’d met, there’d been a certain indefinable something about her attire that had said, “don’t ask me to dance.” Now he noticed that she wore a snuff-colored pelisse, tight to the throat: and loosely fitted elsewhere. Though her bonnet was wedged between the feet of a broken Apollo, a small lace cap still nestled amid the crinkled blond waves. Everything about her seemed to proclaim “old maid,” except the color in her cheeks and the beauty of her eyes.

  From what he recalled of Mrs. Keane, Lord Yarborough doubted it was for love that she wished to retain Miss Sabina in her household. An old maid daughter would be a useful accouterment to a tyrannical widow’s establishment. He felt a quite unaccustomed surge of anger. Though he and Roma lived together and he found her most helpful, he had not raised her to believe there was no other life possible for her. If some worthy man wished to claim her hand, she would find him placing no obstacles in their path.

  He had been resigned to losing her to Elliot Brownlow because it had been her wish to marry. Such was the nature of mankind; children married and left their homes. That was how it had been decreed by God, and that was how it should be. When Elliot had died, that also seemed the working of some eternal plan, though he’d never expressed that thought to Roma. Yet he couldn’t help feeling that Brownlow would not have been a restful addition to his small family.

  The curator brought the tea and the plainly unwelcome news that it was now nearly four o’clock. “And you did say your sisters would be coming back for you then, Miss Keane.”

  Now he used her name! Lord Yarborough had never found himself so out of charity with a fellow enthusiast before, not even when engaged in acrimonious debate over the Glastonbury question.

  “I am sorry I kept you from continuing your work,” he said. “I should be most interested in seeing this sketch when completed.”

  “You would?” she said wonderingly.

  “I would indeed,” he answered firmly.

  Visibly flustered, Miss Keane began gathering her belongings. She closed her sketchbook and, together with a broken-tipped pencil, a penknife, and a rubber, slightly blackened on one side, slipped it into a leather satchel and tightly buckled the worn straps. She stood with it in her hand as if unsure how she’d come by it.

  “Don’t forget your bonnet, miss.”

  “Oh! Oh, no.” She put down her satchel and took up the bonnet. It came as close to a nun’s headdress as a secular garment could, being apparently designed to negate any charm the wearer might possess. However, Miss Keane’s charms were of such a high order that even such a travesty of the milliner’s art could not entirely wipe away her appeal.

  Lord Yarborough wanted very much to say something along those lines, but he discovered that such compliments did not come easily to an untutored tongue. There was also the difference in their ages to consider. She was alone and unchaperoned. It behooved him to behave as if she were the daughter of his oldest friend. Even more distantly, for a child one has known since her infancy might be complimented, but not a chance-met young woman. Yet he was left with the wish to say something kindly.

  Then her sisters arrived, and his kindly impulse was transformed into a resurgence of worry. They were bright, fashionable, chattering women, pleased with themselves and their existence. The older of the two was chattering like a magpie, hardly seeming to notice that her sister was not alone.

  “Sabina, you’ll never guess who we met in the confectionery. The Manderly girls, Lena and Harriet. You remember them? I don’t think I’ve met them since my wedding. Harriet has gone off amazingly. Such spots! If they hadn’t spoken first, I should have sailed right by her. They asked after you specially.”

  “They did?” She didn’t appear to be pleased; rather she seemed frightened. ‘“What did you say, Livia?”

  “Oh, we told them a tarradiddle about your wishing to spend a little time alone in the Abbey, so don’t forget to tell Mama that’s where you were.”

  “No, no, I shan’t.” She glanced at him shyly and seemed to be greatly relieved that he showed no disgust at these renewed falsehoods.

  “May I present my sisters, sir? Mrs. William Martin and Miss Livia Keane. My dears, this is Lord Yarborough.”

  Mrs. Martin gave a squeal. “Never say you are my dearest Roma’s papa?”

  He bowed and found himself besieged with questions. Was she here? Where were they living? Would she be at home to callers?

  He could say nothing but “yes,” “the Crescent,” “only too happy.” Yet all the while he noticed the disdainful glances they gave to the objects about them, Mrs. Martin even drawing her skirts more closely about her sooner than let them touch anything dusty.

  “Let us be away, Sabina,” she said plaintively as soon as she learned all she could about Roma. “If you must draw these sorts of objects, why not work from copies? I saw some lovely complete statues at Mr. Parrott’s, under the sign of the Green Dragon, in town. Surely it would be easier and more within your gifts to draw such things.”

  “Yes, let’s be off,” said the younger sister. “Mama will be wondering what’s become of us. We did promise to be home in time to rest before we go out tonight.”

  The eldest Miss Keane shyly put out her hand. “It was a great pleasure meeting you, my lord. I only wish we’d had the chance to talk.”

  “As do I,” he said from the heart, taking her slim, talented fingers into his. He patted her hand, trying to force himself to feel like an elderly relation. But the emotion aroused in his bosom by the misery in her eyes was not that of a grandfather but of a young and vigorous knight ready to ride to the rescue.

  After she’d gone, he puttered about the museum, but nothing attracted him. Even when the curator came in for a cozy half hour of character assassination as practiced by all collectors, Lord Yarborough couldn’t bring his full attention to bear. He even let pass the blatantly obvious mislabeling of the “Samian” pottery. It was only as he was saying his farewells that his interest sharpened.

  “Oh, dear. Miss Keane has left her satchel behind. I shall have to send the boy around to her house.”

  “No,” Lord Yarborough said, thinking of Mrs. Keane. “No, don’t trouble yourself. I shall take it to her. What is the address?”

  As he walked through the streets, the satchel tucked under his arm, he didn’t pay heed to the figure he cut. His clothes were usually laid out by his valet, long in his service, who knew to a thread what sort of attire he’d wear most comfortably. Though when in town, he dressed Lord Yarborough neatly, he’d long since become resigned to his being so far behind the fashion that it disappeared completely over the horizon. He was well used to pockets bulging with dirty bits of stone and shoulders dusty with grime and festooned with cobwebs. A worn leather-clad bag didn’t even cause his lips to twitch when his master carried it into his bedchamber.

  “Is Lady Roma in?” Lord Yarborough asked.

  “Yes, my lord. She returned half an hour ago. She is changing for dinner.”

  “Ah.” A gentleman, Lord Yarborough knew, would have already sent Miss Keane’s belongings back to her by messenger. Heaven knew there were footmen and errand boys enough in the house. Morally, he was in the wrong for keeping the bag so much as half an hour. “Girton, this book...”

  “Yes, my lord?” Girton said impassively.

  “Never mind. Would you be good enough to ask Lady Roma to keep dinner back for me half an hour. I shall be with her then.”

  “Very good, my lord.”

  Lord Yarborough waited until the valet’s soft footfalls had whispered away down the hall. He heard the discreet knock and the murmur of voices as Girton spoke to Roma’s maid. Then his lordship slipped over to his bedroom door and turned the big iron key in the lock. The snap sounded very loud, indeed.

  He opened the sketchbook with great delicacy, as if it would awaken if roughly handled. He recalled that Roma had brought a similar
sketchbook back from school. Wishing to be a creditable parent, he’d looked through it. There had been muddy watercolors, running as if they’d been left out in the rain, a few distorted pencil sketches, and smeary pastels. Roma had laughed at his clumsy praise, declaring herself as useless at art as she was at singing. “Tone deaf in both matters, I’m afraid. I shall have to wear out my long days in sewing, gardening, and good works.”

  He had no fear that Miss Keane’s book would show any lack of skill. He was not disappointed. On every page, some image delighted his eye—a deer stepping out of the clearly delineated woods, ears atwitch, a completed sketch of the Portland Vase, perfect and exquisite, a rather exaggerated portrait, recognizable as her married sister in her wedding finery, while fat and foolish cupids turned somersaults all around her. He especially liked the one putting out his tongue at the viewer.

  When his valet rattled the doorknob, surprised to find it locked against him, Lord Yarborough jumped, aghast at the passage of time. As he’d been engaged in turning the last page, his hand jerked, ripping the page where she’d drawn the statue in the museum.

  “My lord?”

  “A moment, a moment.” He stared at the jagged tear. It came nowhere near the central figure yet was plain evidence that he’d been peeking into what did not concern him. What to do?

  “Are you well, my lord?”

  “Yes, yes,” he answered, more impatiently than was his usual manner. “Do go away, there’s a good fellow.”

  Almost before he’d thought, Lord Yarborough separated the page from its parent block. Now what to do with it? He really shouldn’t have torn it out, but there was no putting it back. In the end, he slipped it among the books piled by his bedside. Girton knew not to touch those. It would be safe there.

  Hurriedly, he put the sketchbook on his bedside table. He’d find a way to return the bag to her before she became anxious about it. Perhaps Roma could take it back when she called upon Mrs. Martin. Yes, he’d explain that Mrs. Keane shouldn’t be troubled in the matter. Roma would do that and not bother him with too many questions. She was a daughter a man could rely upon even when he’d been a fool.