Lady Roma's Romance

by Cynthia Bailey Pratt

  “Thank you,” she said, descending the steps and taking his proffered arm. “I’m calling upon a Mrs. Keane in Henrietta Street.”

  “Mrs. Keane?” he echoed. “Is my aunt acquainted with her? The name seems familiar somehow.”

  “I have no way of knowing all Lady Brownlow’s friends, yet they are of a similar age and may well be on such terms.”

  Mr. Donovan nodded at her, and they walked on in silence for a moment. Roma felt her worries ease. Whatever power he’d possessed to make her speak so freely had apparently been defeated by her resolution. Or perhaps it had not been he who had so enspelled her.

  Dearly as she loved the other woman, revisiting their mutual sorrow remained an ordeal. The relief at the end of another visit to Lady Brownlow might alone account for her giddiness. Roma’s step became lighter as she expanded on this explanation. The beauty of the day and the knowledge of a duty discharged had naturally lightened her heart. Mr. Donovan had simply been the first person she’d met with whom she could properly share her pleasure. Pigeon certainly wouldn’t have entered into her mood.

  The likelihood of all this justification led her into another false step. “I trust you are quite recovered from last night’s exertions, Mr. Donovan.”

  He stopped and she, perforce, stopped, too. “Lady Roma,” he said intently, the humor in his eyes and voice replaced with something more determined. “I want to tell you .. .”

  Roma faced him, her hand still on his arm. “What is it?”

  His quick, intent eyes searched her face, asking her a question she could not decipher. She felt a strange quickening in her heart, as though of sharp-edged anticipation. Her breath abated, her attention absorbed in the depths of his eyes.

  Pigeon cleared her throat, shatteringly. Returned to reality, this street corner so very public, Roma blinked and dropped her hand from his arm. “Shall we go on?” she asked, though her blood thrummed in her ears like the wind tearing past when she rode a fast horse. She could hardly hear his answer.

  Chapter Eight

  Bret’s curiosity was like an itch he could not reach to scratch. Though Lady Roma walked with her head high, he had not missed the glance of alarm thrown upon her maid or rather upon what the maid held in her hands. Though, thereafter, Lady Roma had pretended the large bag was invisible. Following her lead, Bret had also ignored it, but that didn’t mean he did not wonder. It seemed such a very odd thing to carry upon a visit.

  Courtesy had demanded that he pay a call upon Lady Roma, to repay her visit to his aunt. Since Lady Brownlow was not likely to perform the duty of morning calls, still clinging to her bed and making the most of her waning cold, he went by himself and all the more eagerly for being by himself.

  Lady Roma had given no evidence of being a stickler for the niceties of society. It had not been courtesy alone that had driven him up the hill. Nor, to tell the truth, had it been Lady Brownlow’s extremely clear proposition regarding his future. Rather it was the compelling notion that he’d met an utterly unique and exciting individual, someone who could add immeasurable wonder and pleasure to his life. If she’d been a man with the same spirit, he’d have climbed as eagerly to this meeting.

  Looking at Lady Roma’s pure profile as they spoke of inconsequential subjects, he thought how strange that he should find her so likable. He’d never thought of a woman as a friend, yet surely here was one who would prefer that title to any other. Even when she’d held him by the arm, there’d been no awareness in her eyes.

  And yet, he’d known one instant in which his entire body tightened, demanding that he kiss her soft red mouth. Old reflexes, he supposed, old responses to the thrilling beauty of a woman. He would have to be wary of them, for they would lead him to lose the easy camaraderie he’d already begun to treasure. One step over the line of romance and she’d retreat to such an icy distance that he’d have better luck finding the Northwest Passage than of ever reaching her again.

  “So who may Mrs. Keane be?” he asked.

  “The mother of an old school fellow. Yesterday, my father met my friend and her sister, or sisters ... I’m afraid he is not always clear on details.”

  “You didn’t know they were visiting Bath?”

  “Having only just arrived myself,” Lady Roma said, “I have not yet checked all the subscription books for the names of my acquaintanceship. They were not listed in the Lower Rooms, or at any rate, I did not notice them.”

  “Do you enjoy all the traveling you do?”

  “I haven’t ever thought about it in terms of enjoyment. It is interesting to see so much of England, though not always comfortable.” The maid gave a sniff by way of punctuation, and both Bret and Roma gave her a glance. When Bret looked again at Roma, he saw laughter in her eyes, like candlelight throwing welcoming beams through a window. “I sometimes do wonder what it must be like to live all the year around in one place, like Lady Brownlow. I doubt you could remove her from Bath for any consideration whatever.”

  “She likes her comforts. And she has not yet tried the services of every doctor.”

  “It’s better than quacking herself with every patent nostrum on the market.”

  “Oh, she does that as well,” Bret assured her with a laugh that brought the sparkles up in her eyes, though she tried to hide them with a frowning shake of her head.

  “She shouldn’t do that.”

  “It’s a harmless diversion. Many widowed ladies indulge themselves by fancying themselves ill. It makes them interesting to themselves again.”

  Lady Roma nodded and sighed. “I know it’s only boredom that makes her dwell on her ills. I just hope she doesn’t end by giving herself a genuine affliction,”

  “Don’t worry your heart about that. She never finishes a bottle before she’s found some fascinating new illness and a miracle cure all at once. When the cure tastes truly vile, she’ll never even try a second dose. For the rest, to be sure they’re no more than cheap wine and sugar, though you could buy the best in the world with what she spends on the worst.”

  “I only wish I had the right to care for her as I would have had all gone as I had hoped. But I feel better knowing that you are there, at least for a while.”

  “I do what I can. But I’m nobody’s keeper.” No, he could hardly keep himself. He saw the slight withdrawal of her body when he spoke so bitterly and tried to be glad of it. No matter how his aunt might hint or wish, a penniless former soldier had no business aspiring to the hand of any woman, let alone the daughter of an earl. They walked on in silence, seeking for words to begin a new thread.

  “We are having much improved weather,” Roma said.

  “Very much so. A few old friends are visiting at Ravensby House, about six miles from here. It’s where I’d be staying myself if not for my aunt’s pressing affairs. At any rate, I rode out there yesterday afternoon. It was good to see them all again.”

  “Yes, it’s very pleasant to see old friends,” she agreed, then added, so softly he couldn’t be sure he’d heard right, “some old friends.” More audibly, she asked him where they’d all known one another.

  “Here and there,” he said, not willing to discuss his career with her. It had been both his identity and his comfort, the uniform and the discipline. He still despised putting on this dull civilian dress, neat and correct though he strove to be. Even the best Hessian boots were flimsy as cardboard compared with a fine pair of cavalry boots. The dress code for a gentleman was no less rigid than for the military and worse because one was expected to indulge one’s own taste without exceeding that code. At least with a uniform one knew what one was about.

  “Are they Irish, too?” she asked, gently probing.

  “And from other corners of the world. Good men all.” All adrift in the world, like himself, except for Morningstreet. Jasper was rich enough to buy an Abbey, as the saying went. Ravensby House was his, and he held open house for all his old friends. He’d left the service upon acquiring riches and had hinted at making arrangements
for Bret to share in his good fortune. But pride forbore his acceptance, though he called himself ten times a fool for refusing.

  “Ravensby House? You know, Mr. Donovan, I seem to have heard that name before. Who’s is it?”

  “Jasper Morningstreet. Your cousin mentioned him.”

  “You never said you knew him.”

  “I wanted to be in Mrs. Derwent’s good graces so she’d not throw me out into that deluge. She didn’t seem to have much opinion of poor old Jasper.”

  “No, she doesn’t. He has some reputation for wit, and Dina has no sense of humor.”

  “But a charming lady withal.”

  “Oh, certainly.” Her agreement lacked enthusiasm, and Bret wondered at it. Lady Roma and her cousin had seemed on good terms, though Mrs. Derwent was plainly brainless and Roma was not. Had Mrs. Derwent scolded her for unseemly behavior? It had looked very bad, he granted, that a lady should arrive, soaking wet, in the company of a strange man.

  Once again, the starchy maid called their attention to her presence. As before, they would have gone on walking aimlessly for an age, caught up in their conversation. The maid, however, had more mind to give to their destination.

  The house was a straight sliver of brick and stone with a curling iron railing coming down to the street. Lady Roma peered up at the number hung over the fanlight. “Quite right, Pigeon. This is the place. Thank you, Mr. Donovan, for accompanying me.” She held out her hand in a cheerful good-bye. Taking off his hat, Bret bowed shortly over her hand, but from his angle he saw the net curtain in the front window swing closed. Someone was watching them from within.

  “My aunt. ..,” Bret began and saw her eyes brighten. “She asks whether Thursday will suit you for the theater?”

  “Thursday?” Lady Roma seemed to calculate in her head. “Yes, I—I think so. I shall have to confirm it with my father, of course, but I can’t imagine that he’ll need me.”

  Though she spoke with no special emphasis, Bret was struck by her acceptance that her father would not need her. With such a blossom abloom in the house, any man should have been troubled by her absence, even a father.

  Bret wondered how she occupied herself, now that Lord Yarborough wasn’t grubbing in the earth after antiquities.

  “I shall write Lady Brownlow a note as soon as I’m certain.”

  “My lady,” the maid murmured. “The door.. .”

  Bret and Roma looked up. A youngish woman stood upon the step. As soon as she made eye contact, she came tripping down the stairs. “Roma! I knew you as soon as I saw you. Why, you’ve not changed at all since school! Still as pretty as a rosebud.”

  Lady Roma turned her cheek to press it against hers, in the sort of embrace common among women, while holding the other woman by the elbows. “Julia, how well you are looking. Marriage must be a most agreeable state.”

  “It has some merits attached to it,” she said wryly. “But the burdens are all very wearying. I always say there’s nothing like spinsterhood to keep a woman young.” She looked past Roma to cast a glance upon Bret. “Who .. . ?”

  He bowed. Lady Roma introduced him to Mrs. Martin. She floated one hand toward him, palm down as if expecting him to kiss it. But he felt not the remotest desire to do so. “Won’t you come in, Mr. Donovan?” Mrs. Martin asked flutingly. “Mother would adore meeting you, I know.”

  “Please do,” Lady Roma said, her eyes entreating him. He noticed that though Mrs. Martin took Roma’s arm, snugging up against her like the best of dearest friends, Roma stood stiffly, suffering the intimacy but not returning it. It was a very different greeting than the painful back pounding and vigorous handshaking of his former comrades upon seeing him. Yet if they were not close friends, why was she calling? Mere courtesy, or some other reason?

  He glanced behind him as he accepted Mrs. Martin’s pressing invitation. Lady Roma’s maid, still carrying that large satchel, was ascending the stairs to the Keane’s house. Another maid stood at the top of the steps, obviously perturbed that her duty of opening the door had been usurped by Mrs. Martin. Bret saw Pigeon being invited inside.

  Curiosity combined with the wish to do Lady Roma the good turn she evidently desired drew Bret over Mrs. Keane’s threshold in Pigeon’s wake. Instantly, a small white dog began to yap, backing away from the foyer and growling. Mrs. Martin began scolding in a fond tone. “No, Pansy. Bad dog, bad girl. You mustn’t mind her; she doesn’t like men.”

  If so, the dog was the only female in the house who didn’t. The place was suffocatingly feminine, from the colors of the paint to the noticeably competing fragrances of each of the women. Mrs. Keane, bony rather than slim in her fashionable dress, sat with her feet on a padded footstool, writing something on a sloping lap desk. A younger woman was tuning a small harp in the corner. They both stood up when Mrs. Martin came in all but singing, “Look what I found!”

  Mrs. Keane came forward at once. Though she greeted Roma first, as was her right, the older woman eyed him with the greatest inquisitiveness. He felt sorted, catalogued, shaken out, and tacked down by the time she’d inspected every inch from hairline to soles.

  “How are you?” Lady Roma said, shaking hands with her. “It’s a great pleasure to meet you again.”

  “Thank you, Lady Roma. May I present my youngest daughter, Livia?” Mrs. Keane drew the harpist forward.

  The younger girl curtsied to Lady Roma’s title, her gray eyes big. Then they slid to Bret. A smile not unlike her older sister’s, alluring and sideways, though less knowing, appeared on her gently rounded face. The rose scent she wore triumphed for the moment over her mother’s jasmine. “My sister has spoken of you so often, Lady Roma, I feel like I know you.”

  “How kind,” Roma said, offering only a smile. Invited to sit down, she added warmly, “Such a charming room.”

  “Oh, it’s impossible to find suitable lodgings in Bath, even now that they’ve built so many new places.”

  “Never tell me this is a rented house? Furnished?”

  “Why, yes,” Mrs. Keane said, surprised perhaps by this domestic turn.

  “But surely you have added your own touches? It’s all so ... so artistic. The drapery, that arrangement of the vases on the mantelpiece ... Surely your landlord never put this room in such a splendid condition?”

  Mrs. Keane turned her head from side to side as if she were also a new come guest. “Oh, I suppose the girls have garnished the place a trifle.”

  “It’s quite delightful. I, alas, have no knack for making a place truly cozy,” Roma said.

  Bret did not believe her. No woman who dressed with such propriety of taste could create any residence that would be other than a pleasure to dwell in. Her care for her father, too, would encourage her to make a pleasant resting place for him out of even the meanest hovel.

  Mrs. Martin laughed. “I do enjoy decorating and redecorating our house. So different from the old dormitory. Do you remember how we weren’t even permitted to hang our own work over the bed?”

  “My work was never worth hanging. Even the art instructress recommended I give it up.” She touched her lips with one gloved finger, as if to assist thought. “You had a sister who was rather the artist, didn’t you, Julia?”

  “Oh, you mean Sabina,” Mrs. Martin said with a dismissive hunch of her shoulder.

  “Yes, Sabina. Is she not with you on this visit to Bath?”

  “She’s about somewhere. Running an errand, I think,” Mrs. Keane said.

  Bret straightened, finding an answer to his wondering about this visit. Who was Sabina and was the sketchbook hers? If the sketchbook belonged to the “artistic” Sabina, why not return it openly, instead of having her maid smuggle the thing into the house?

  He never could resist a mystery, and Lady Roma was growing more mysterious every time he met her. Beautiful yet completely unaware of that power, gifted with womanly talents yet content to be a spinster, he was drawn by the thrill of discovery, even of her apparent cunning.

  Above
all, he was happy she didn’t wear scent.

  How it happened he was never quite sure, but his quiet theater party suddenly expanded. Now it was to be supper first at Lord Yarborough’s house in the Crescent and from there to the theater. The Keanes were invited, and he found himself pledged to bring all those of his friends that he could persuade.

  “That is,” Roma said, turning to him, “if you don’t think Lady Brownlow will object?”

  “I think it is just what she needs,” he said, truthfully enough.

  “Oh, is that the same Lady Brownlow whose ...” Mrs. Martin’s words trailed off just as her mother exclaimed, “Where can that foolish girl be?”

  It slowly dawned upon Bret that this was no ordinary social meeting. In a way, Roma was on a reconnaissance mission. But why was she hunting for the owner of the sketchbook and in such a roundabout fashion?

  He wanted to help her, but he hardly knew how. It was obvious that she didn’t wish to ask any direct questions, so he couldn’t either. Turning to the youngest girl, he smiled upon her. “Do you enjoy the harp?”

  “Oh, yes,” she breathed. “It’s my favorite thing to do. I could spend hours and hours just playing.”

  She batted her eyes, pretty eyes, for all they were brown, not greenish gray. Like her mother, she was slender but with the bloom of youth softening her contours. If he had never seen Roma, he might be charmed, but somehow in the last few days, he’d found a new standard of beauty. Still he smiled at her. “I should very much like to hear you play.”

  “Now?” she asked with an anxious glance at her mother. Mrs. Keane noticed and gave a quick shake of her head.

  “No, no,” he said. “I’d rather talk to you.”

  Very slightly, she relaxed. He wondered whether her practice had developed her talents or shown her to have none.

  “Have you been long in Bath, Mr. Donovan?”

  “Only a few days, so far. I’m visiting my aunt. And you ladies?”

  “We’ve been here a week. I was visiting my sister, Mrs. Martin, and she always comes to visit Mama when she is taking the waters. She’s in excellent health, of course, but it is better to be safe than sorry, don’t you think, Mr. Donovan?”