Lady Roma's Romance

by Cynthia Bailey Pratt

  “You heard what we were talking of,” Sabina accused.

  “Such was not my intention. Though I did not know you were talking secrets until it was too late to tell you that I was listening for the secret was already out.”

  Roma muffled her mouth in her cloak, hastily reviewing all she had said. With a resigned sigh, she realized the folly of attempting to conceal what was already in plain view. “What do you think, then, Father?”

  “About Sabina’s earnest wish to make me happy? I intend to do all that I can to make it come true,” he said, clasping his fiancée’s hand tightly in both of his. “Your hands are like fish! That cloak is too thin. Let me put my arm around you.”

  “I am perfectly well,” she said firmly. “What do you think about Roma’s predicament?”

  He grew serious, the tone of his voice deep and resonant. “I think very well of the young man for his resolute refusal to live under the cat’s foot. He could never call his soul his own if his wife held the purse strings.”

  “It wouldn’t be like that,” Roma protested, even though she knew lovers had been making that promise in the same words for centuries. Countless times had those vows been broken yet it still served. “If that is the objection, then I shall make my fortune over to him, shillings, pence, and pounds.”

  “I couldn’t let you do that,” her father said. “Nor would it be of any use. He would still know where the money came from and be ashamed.”

  “Ashamed?”

  “Any man of quality would be ashamed of such a thing. If ever you meet a man who is not, then you may know he is not of any quality but the lowest.”

  “Like Elliot,” Roma said. “Yet you were willing to let me marry him.”

  “I gave my consent before I had his measure, my dear. Having once given my permission, I could not well withdraw it. Later, when I saw how inconsolable you were, I hadn’t the heart to make my true feelings known to you. It wouldn’t have mattered by then anyway.”

  “What do you think of Mr. Donovan, Father?”

  “He seems a fine young man. Loyal to his friends, kind to boring old men, and good to his aunt. A very likable chap.”

  “If he changed his mind, would I have your consent?”

  “No. Absolutely not.”

  Roma saw Sabina withdraw her hand from Lord Yarborough’s clasp. She tucked it into her sleeve, so perhaps her hands were merely cold, yet they could not be so frosty and severe as the look she turned on him. Roma could have sworn the temperature in the stuffy carriage went down by ten degrees. “Why not, pray?”

  “He is a man of no background. He has only the little money he collected from his pay and prize money earned in Spain. Who are his family? Where is he from? Is he Church of England, for heaven’s sake? I know nothing of him.”

  “He’s Lady Brownlow’s nephew,” Roma said, realizing how belittling it was to reduce Bret to this four-word phrase.

  “Lady Brownlow’s a very good sort of woman but, pardon me, not precisely out of the top drawer. Good-hearted, yes, generous to a fault, kindness self is she, but who are her parents? What was her family?”

  “Her family was good enough when I was engaged to Elliot”

  “That was a different tale. His father bore a title, of sorts, though it did not become him particularly well. But his son would have been accepted everywhere.”

  Roma laughed. “I never knew you felt this way.”

  He looked at her with great kindliness and love. “These things mustn’t be left to chance, Roma. Marriage is too important a step for a highborn lady to throw herself away on some handsome face. I’m very glad he had enough sense not to propose to you. Shows he has at least the instincts of a gentleman. No doubt his son will be all that one would wish, provided, of course, Mr. Donovan follows some suitable profession.”

  There were so many surprising notions in this speech that Roma hardly knew which to answer first. She’d hardly opened her mouth when her father said, “God bless my soul. Home already?” He pulled out his watch, turning it this way and that, to make the light fall upon the face. “Only an hour. I call that very good for the weather. Come, my dearest,” he said, reaching for the door latch.

  “Tell them to drive on to your house, please, Roger.”

  “But your sisters and mother are already at the door.”

  “Tell them to drive on, please.”

  The brief remainder of the trip was performed in silence, except for the cry of the driver to the horses. The wheels rolled smoothly over the lightly dusted street. When the equipage drove up in front of their house, Wilde had the door open in a trice and came down the steps with an umbrella extended for their shelter.

  “Shall I have the carriage wait?” he asked, when Sabina emerged.

  “No, thank you,” she said. “I shall stay the night with Lady Roma.”

  “Very good, miss.”

  Roma forbore to smile as she passed Sabina in the hall. However, she could not resist a round of pretended applause, making no more noise than a heartbeat. Her tone and attitude toward the butler had been “to the manor born,” and Roma could tell that Wilde recognized it, too.

  “Tea, I think, Wilde,” Roma said, reminding him that it was still his duty to obey her.

  “It is already prepared, my lady.”

  “You know, Roma, I begin to suspect that Wilde is a treasure.” Sabina said with just enough force to reach the ears of a man closing the door.

  He nearly ran into his lordship, who had taken off his dancing pumps in the hall in favor of a pair of comfortable slippers. “I—I beg your pardon, my lord,” he said with a bow, opening the door for him.

  “The man’s nervous,” Lord Yarborough said, holding his hands out to the fire as it crackled and snapped. “What does he have to be nervous about?”

  Sabina ignored this gambit. “Roger. Answer me plainly. Do you mean to say that if Roma married Mr. Donovan or someone like him that you . . . that you would cast her off?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Don’t hold my feet to the fire, Sabina,” Lord Yarborough said. “Roma wouldn’t marry a man of low degree. She has too much pride. You heard her say so yourself.”

  Roma studied her father, wondering just how completely he identified with the heavy Roman fathers of antiquity. There had been plenty of them to ape. “I confess I begin to be devouringly curious to know your answer. Would you, indeed, cast me off?”

  He hesitated, taking a deep breath. “I would have arranged this matter for you, had you taken me into your confidence.”

  “Which matter?”

  “A marriage. If I had known you had recovered from your grief for Elliot Brownlow, I would have taken it upon myself to find you a suitable husband. I have friends enough with sons. Surely one of them would have done for you.”

  “I don’t wish to be married to someone who will ‘do’ for me. Perhaps once it would have been enough but not now. I’m sorry I never told you that I had recovered from Elliot’s death. I didn’t realize I had, not at first. But when I met Bret, I knew I had. I never would have thrown myself at Elliot’s head the way I have with Bret.”

  “What?” her father demanded.

  “He didn’t propose to me, Father. I proposed to him.”

  “The impudent dog,” Lord Yarborough said. “Refusing my daughter? Outrageous.”

  The two women looked at him in surprise. “But, Roger, you just said...”

  “Such a marriage is impossible. But he should have been flattered enough to accept.”

  “Father, you cannot be angry with him for not accepting me and appalled that he might have proposed to me. Not at one and the same time.”

  “I don’t care to discuss the matter any more tonight. Sabina, if you wish to return to your mother’s house, pray let me know and I will escort you thither. I don’t believe this snow will amount to much.”

  “I will go back, after I’ve drunk some tea to warm me.”

  Wilde came in, then, his arms outstretched to
balance the massive silver tray. Someone in the kitchen had pulled out all the stops to impress their future mistress. There were enough cakes for a small party of famished men and a stacked epergne of fascinating variations on the usual sandwich. It was a pity no one felt like doing it justice. Roma hoped no feelings would be hurt when the tray returned nearly untouched.

  “Wilde? From which inns do the London coaches depart?”

  “There are several, my lady, depending on when you wish to leave and when you wish to arrive.” His eyes took on a faraway look as he recited, “A four-seater leaves from York House at five minutes to six A.M. There are several others throughout the day, ending with the Bristol Mail leaving from the Lamb at five-and-twenty past five in the evening. With that, naturally, one does not arrive in London until early in the morning.”

  “If I had an appointment in London at ten o’clock in St. James, let us say, which coach-”

  “Wilde, that will do,” Lord Yarborough said.

  “Not just yet, Wilde. If you please.”

  He cast a worried glance at his employer, but the years of obeying Lady Roma’s orders prevailed. “I would recommend the coach which leaves from Fromont and Company at half-past twelve. This permits one to have a long night’s rest and a good meal before setting out. As you know, my lady, such things are essential if one is to endure the rigors of public travel.”

  “Thank you, Wilde. Pray send the footman early to secure me a place on the waybill. And if you would be good enough to order me a hamper to take along. Some cold chicken or whatever Cook can devise in the time. There should be sufficient for two.”

  “Roma, what are you planning?”

  She waited until the door closed once more behind Wilde. Then she walked up to her father and smiled at him with great love. “I shall go to London. Aunt Clare has asked me several times to come and stay. I shall see a little of the town and pursue my future husband. It takes three readings of the banns on successive Sundays to be married. That means I have no less than three weeks to make Bret change his mind. I will, too.”

  “Have you gone mad?”

  “You’ve always encouraged me to do what I see fit whether in making us comfortable in some farmer’s cot or running the household at Yarborough Hall. Not once, that I can recall, have you questioned my judgment or doubted my abilities.”

  “But you are very competent at those things. The most competent woman I have known. But marriage ... no woman may choose for herself with wisdom.”

  Roma glanced over her shoulder at Sabina. “I suggest you talk that subject over with your own future wife. For myself, I have considerable packing to do.” With that, she left the room.

  “Roma,” he said, but his stentorian bellow was not a great success. It came out more as a plea.

  Sabina slipped off the settee and brought him a cup of tea. “Here, my true love, though I wish it were brandy.”

  He looked down at her with troubled eyes as he sipped it. “I don’t understand. She never once said she was unhappy.”

  “She probably didn’t know what she lacked until happiness came for her. That’s what happened to me. I wasn’t unhappy living with Mother, though I know she became so used to having my service that she would sometimes forget it was voluntary. I felt useful and kept very busy with all my little duties.”

  “I never ordered Roma about,” he protested.

  “I don’t mean to imply that you did. But didn’t you take her for granted, just a little? We women don’t mind that so much; most of the time we don’t even notice it until something happens to bring it forcibly to our attention. Like falling in love. Feeling so cherished only points out with what little regard some others may treat us.”

  “Your mother is not a very wise woman to have forgotten that you were more than just a drudge.”

  “If it hadn’t been for you, Roger ... When I fell in love with you at first sight, I knew I could never return to that dull misery. Even if you hadn’t come, if we’d never met again, I would have found a way out.” She smiled reminiscently. “I’d already clipped out several advertisements for governesses and companions. I’d even written a few replies, though I’d not yet built up enough courage to send any of them.”

  “You would never have been offered any such position. You’re much too pretty. I’ve thought so from the first time we met. You were so shy, sketching away in the museum.”

  “But that wasn’t the first time we met. Oh, I don’t expect you to remember, though you had it very pat. ‘Lady Lingamore’s rout, last spring.’ I was glad you remembered me even a little, for I took one look at you and my heart was gone, flying away like a bird.”

  “You didn’t say anything.”

  “What could I say?” she asked. “I couldn’t throw myself at your feet. I could only cling to a shred of hope that someday we might meet again.”

  “And now we’ll never be parted,” he said, running his fingertip over the gentle curve of her face.

  “I’m afraid you may often wish me at Jericho, for I mean to hang about your neck, hardly to be shook off.”

  “Shall I stoop to make it easier?” he offered, bending lower.

  She nipped the cup from his hands. “More tea, my lord?”

  “Sabina . . . come here.” For a moment, she let him kiss her, the cup held out and away, but when her pulse quickened, she pulled out of his arms.

  “We must be good,” she said. Seating herself again behind the large silver pot, she poured out a second cup and fixed it to his liking. Her smile was very demure yet mischievous.

  “I still don’t understand how Roma could fall in love with a man so far beneath her,” Lord Yarborough said, reaching for a crisp biscuit, as he sat beside her.

  “Love takes no notice of rank. Shakespeare says so and he ought to know. But then, it’s an ill-regulated world for which I am very grateful. For I know I am not of your rank.”

  “Your father was at least a gentleman, and your mother’s family, too, is very well established.”

  “But, Roger,” Sabina said fervently, “I wouldn’t have cared what you were. It’s very pleasant your being an earl, but I would have loved you no matter what profession you had.”

  “But a brewer...”

  “I would have loved you if you’d been driving a brewer’s wagon, let alone if you’d been the owner’s great-nephew. Roma told me that this man wants to turn the whole concern over to Bret as soon as he’s ready to take the reins. Whatever problems Bret and Roma may have, poverty won’t be among them.”

  “Then why did he indicate that it was her fortune that stood between them when he is to have one of his own?”

  Sabina bit her lip. “I’m afraid it may be her title that is the real stumbling block. After all, ‘Lady Roma and Mr. Bret Donovan’ does have a curious sound to it.”

  “I could lock her in her room until she comes to her senses.”

  Sabina lay her head against his shoulder. “Let her go, Roger. She’s no fool. She’ll get what she wants.”

  * * * *

  Doubts came in with the morning light. What if he didn’t want her? What if he’d only said those things to be polite, knowing that he was leaving and not wishing to hurt her? Bret had always been kind to her, even while telling her when she was foolish. Perhaps he’d gone to London to escape her importunities, rather than give her a heavy set-down. What if she found him in town and he was not pleased to see her? She could imagine so clearly his consternation, his embarrassment as he rejected her. Just imagining it made her cheeks burn.

  Roma considered throwing the coverlet over her head and staying in bed until Christmas, 1843. Thirty years in bed, more or less, and the worst would be over.

  Here came Pigeon, bustling, the tray rattling as she set it down, jerking open the curtains to let in the soft light.

  “A fine day, my lady. The snow isn’t so deep as an ankle. You’ll not need your pattens today.”

  Could she tell Pigeon she did not feel well and that their trip woul
d be postponed indefinitely? No, she’d rally ‘round with blue pills and black drafts, mercury and St. John’s Wort, until it was safer to be out of bed than in. Roma threw aside the covers and sat up.

  “Good morning, my lady,” Pigeon said.

  “You’re in a good humor.”

  “I always feel more lively after it snows. Something to do with the air, I fancy.” She gave a little sniff and turned to more serious matters. “I’ve laid out your green day dress, my lady, as that is the most comfortable for traveling. Would you prefer your velvet pelisse with the high collar or the blue one of Cord Du Roi?”

  “The green, please, Pigeon. The other one still isn’t quite right under the arms.”

  “Very good, my lady.” Pigeon brought the tray to lay across Roma’s knees. “If I may continue with our packing?”

  “By all means.”

  Roma did not particularly wish to take her maid on this journey, but it would be quite impossible to leave without her and not only for the sake of propriety. Pigeon would never forgive her. “I don’t know how I would manage without you,” she said.

  Another slight sniff. “I must have a word with that feckless laundry maid before I go. She has skimped on the bluing again.”

  Roma felt a little shy at going downstairs and put it off as long as she could. She knew perfectly well that the servants were gossiping as hard as they could, not only within this household, but across fences and in queues throughout the city. Yet it was not the reluctance to meet Wilde’s sympathetic and sentimental eye that kept her lingering in her room. She didn’t want to begin the argument over again with her father for fear that this time, he might persuade her. But she refused to listen to the counsels of cowardice.

  Roma pushed her way into his study. “I’m ready to go, Father.”

  He stood by the globe under the window, spinning it idly with his fingers while he gazed out at the street. “Will you return for my wedding?” he asked.