Cygnet

by Hiatt, Brenda

  "They are indeed, Miss Wheaton. As lovely as yourself," he added, for the sole purpose of seeing her blush. They continued on for a few paces, and then he asked abruptly, "Tell me, Miss Wheaton, do you ever read the Examiner?"

  That sonnet he had read on Saturday —and reread many times since —had continued to haunt him. If this girl knew poetry, there was a chance she might know some poets as well, and he hoped that she might have a clue as to that particular one's identity. He had half formed a plan of assisting the man financially, if he were in need of it, but first he must discover who he was. So far, the few discreet enquiries he had made in literary circles had disclosed nothing.

  Deirdre, however, had suddenly gone rather pale. "The Examiner?" she repeated in a high, unnatural voice. "Is... is that a book?"

  "No, a literary newspaper," he replied, looking at her curiously. What ailed the girl? "It prints poetry occasionally, as I think I mentioned once before."

  She remembered vividly the one other time he had mentioned the Examiner: the time he had scorned the poetry in its pages as drivel! Fearful that she would hear her own piece subjected to the same scathing judgement, something she couldn't possibly endure from this man who meant so much to her, Deirdre answered quickly, in the same artificial tone.

  "Poetry? Well, no wonder I never heard of it! My father is a scholar, my lord, but the rest of us are hardly literary." She stared fixedly into the distance as she spoke, and so missed the sudden disappointment in Lord Wrotham's eyes.

  "I see. Well, never mind then," he said flatly. Then, with an animation that sounded oddly forced, "It looks as though it will be a splendid day, does it not?"

  Deirdre responded absently and barely knew what they discussed for the few remaining minutes of their walk. She was busy cursing herself for her cowardice. Surely, the Marquis had given her the perfect opening to reveal her love of poetry, and to determine whether she might be able to strike some chord of response in him? And she had thrown it away in her panic! Would she ever be able to summon the courage to tell him the truth now?

  * * *

  It was still early enough when Deirdre returned to Penrose House that she was able to change into one of her new day dresses and have her hair becomingly styled before descending to breakfast with her mother and sister. As Mrs. Jagels was often fully occupied with Celeste's hair and even that of Lady Penrose, who had discovered that her skills were superior to those of Mims, Marie had persuaded the hairdresser to teach her one or two of Deirdre's favourite styles and was now fairly competent with them.

  Deirdre was preoccupied throughout the morning, barely attending to Lady Penrose's comments during breakfast or those of their various callers afterwards. She was reliving the scene in the Park that morning and wondering if, just perhaps, she could have been mistaken about Lord Wrotham. Perhaps he had been about to praise her sonnet rather than condemn it. What she wouldn't have given to hear that! It could just as easily be, however, that his comment about the Examiner had nothing whatever to do with her poem and that she had taken fright at naught.

  She absently agreed to drive out with Mr. Barclay that afternoon as he left with the last of their callers, something she never would have done had she been properly attending. The usual hour for morning calls had passed when Mr. Leigh Hunt was announced a few minutes later. Lady Penrose greeted him cordially, but it was apparent to Deirdre that her mother had no notion of who he was. As he advanced towards her, however, Deirdre had to restrain the urge to rise and curtsy to this celebrated essayist, critic, poet and playwright, publisher of the Examiner itself!

  "Your servant, my lady," responded Mr. Hunt to the Baroness's greeting. "Might I know which of your fair daughters is Miss Deirdre Wheaton?"

  Lady Penrose's eyebrows rose at his phrasing, but she introduced him to both of her daughters as etiquette required. Thanking her, he seated himself near Deirdre with a reassuring smile.

  "Miss Wheaton, you must forgive me for not calling sooner. As you gave no hint of your connections in your letter, I had some little difficulty in locating you."

  "Letter?" echoed Lady Penrose in astonishment. "Deirdre, do you mean to say you have… just who are you sir?" she demanded of their guest, her head tilting back dangerously as she regarded him down the length of her patrician nose.

  Deirdre cringed. Mr. Hunt was a veritable giant among the literati of London, but it hardly surprised her that her mother would not know this, as Lady Penrose did not move in such circles herself.

  "Mama, this is Mr. Leigh Hunt, the publisher of the Examiner," she interposed quickly. Then, as her mother still looked blank, she added, "You must know, the paper which printed my sonnet."

  Lady Penrose's brow cleared as her suspicions were laid to rest. "Ah!" she said. "A literary gentleman. Now I understand." Deirdre knew that to her mind, a scholarly gentleman was by definition harmless.

  "I hope you do not mind terribly that I printed your poem without consulting you, Miss Wheaton," continued Mr. Hunt, now that his identity had been settled. "I needed a piece for that issue, and I had no time— the pressures of business, I'm certain you understand." Deirdre nodded uncertainly. "To be perfectly frank, Miss Wheaton, from the tone of your letter I rather feared that you might refuse permission, so I took this step on my own, though of course I did not publish your name without your authorization."

  "I... I am very pleased that you found my sonnet worthy of your paper, Mr. Hunt," said Deirdre hesitantly. "Really, all I had expected was your advice on whether or not my collection might be publishable. I did not presume—"

  "No," he broke in, "I am the one who presumed. And I must tell you, Miss Wheaton, that the response to your sonnet has been extremely favourable thus far. I have received numerous letters about it, all demanding to know who the new poet is. That is why I am here."

  "You have not told everyone?" exclaimed Lady Penrose in alarm. "I would not have my daughter branded a bluestocking, Mr. Hunt. Surely you can understand."

  "Yes, my lady, of course, of course," he said quickly, throwing a sympathetic glance Deirdre's way. "Though surely 'branded' is rather a strong term? Now that I know who Miss Deirdre Wheaton is, how exalted her connections—" he half bowed in the Baroness's direction "—I can see why her anonymity must be preserved. D I signed her name and D she shall remain, in my paper, at least."

  Lady Penrose sighed in relief, but Deirdre wasn't sure if she were more relieved or disappointed. To be famous... And he had said that her sonnet was well received! She was eager to hear more on that topic, but Mr. Hunt spoke before she could think of a discreet way to enquire.

  "Miss Wheaton, I have come to ask your permission to publish more of your poetry— anonymously, of course! " he added, with a glance at Lady Penrose. "Also, to ask if you have any works which you have not yet shown me. I am very impressed with what I have seen thus far and would like to encourage you to have a volume of your poetry published, as a book. I have received more than one offer to undertake that endeavour, based solely on your 'Dreams of July.'"

  "Would… would that be done anonymously as well?" asked Deirdre shakily, scarcely daring to believe her ears.

  "That would be your decision," he replied. "Of course, your patrons may well demand to know your identity before advancing any sums of money…"

  "Out of the question!" declared Lady Penrose. "You are suggesting that my daughter sell her poetry? How vulgar!"

  Mr. Hunt looked slightly taken aback. "Well, er, you may get back to me on that matter, Miss Wheaton. About any other works...?"

  "I've written only one or two poems since arriving in Town," said Deirdre, still half-dazed. "One is fairly short, but the other—" She broke off suddenly, remembering the long poem she had written the day she had discovered Lord Wrotham's aversion to poetry. She had only read it over once, but she knew that it was by far the best thing she had ever written.

  "Whatever you can send, I'll be glad to see," Mr. Hunt assured her. "If I might include your 'Nightingale's Song' in
next week's edition?" He glanced from Deirdre to her mother.

  "As long as her name is not printed, I have no objection, I suppose," said Lady Penrose stiffly. Deirdre could not suppress a smile.

  "I'll bid you good day then, ladies. Pray consider the idea of a published collection, Miss Wheaton," were his parting words as he bowed himself out of the room.

  "Well!" exclaimed Lady Penrose when he had gone. "I hope you will not let this go to your head, miss! Still, I suppose I must write to tell your father about all of this. He will undoubtedly be pleased," she predicted sourly. "Just remember if you will, Didi, that gentlemen do not care for literary females. It is the surest way to frighten them off." Having imparted this pearl of wisdom, she rose to consult the housekeeper about that evening's dinner menu.

  * * *

  Lord Wrotham watched Deirdre and her groom ride away down the path towards the Park gate, a frown furrowing his brow. He simply could not understand Miss Wheaton. At one moment she quoted lines from one of Shakespeare's more obscure sonnets, and the next she spoke as if poetry was something she had scarcely heard of. Her father was a scholar, she had said; perhaps the lines were simply something she had heard him say, which had remained in her mind.

  For she was not dull-witted, of that Wrotham was certain. Even when discussing something as inconsequential as the weather, her words were well chosen, reflecting a keen intelligence. If it were possible, he would almost have thought she seemed afraid to admit to a knowledge of poetry. But of course, that was absurd.

  With an effort, he thrust all thoughts of Miss Deirdre Wheaton from his mind and, immediately and unbidden, the words of that haunting sonnet "Dreams of July" arose to take their place. His desire to meet the author returned in full force and he made a sudden decision. He would go to the office of the Examiner and ask Mr. Hunt himself who had penned it. The fellow, whoever he was, must be encouraged in his art; Wrotham merely desired to ascertain that he would be.

  Riding in the direction of the business district later that day, Wrotham realized that a large part of his enthusiasm to discover the unknown poet's identity stemmed from a hope of becoming acquainted with him, of cultivating another literary friend in London. He cautioned himself that he was like to be disappointed, as he had been before. Take Byron, for example. Reading the man's poetry, Wrotham had thought he would like him instantly —until he got to know him. Lord Byron's dissipated, even wanton lifestyle had soon killed all desire in Wrotham to befriend him. This fellow might well be cut from the same cloth.

  "Still, it cannot hurt to meet him," he told himself. Charles was the best of good fellows, but Wrotham often found himself longing for a deeper level of conversation than Lord Ellerby could provide him. He was acquainted with many of London's literary gentlemen, of course, but could call none of them close friends.

  Wrotham strode purposefully into the offices of the Examiner, therefore, and asked the young man who greeted him whether Mr. Hunt were in. "You may tell him that the Marquis of Wrotham desires to speak to him." Wrotham rarely made use of the influence his rank accorded him, but the young man had looked disposed to argue and he had no wish to wrangle with him.

  "Certainly, my lord, right away, my lord," replied the clerk, his eyes widening respectfully. Nobility were not unheard of in this office, but their visits were rare, and usually by appointment.

  Mr. Hunt was apparently not so awed by the importance of his visitor as his underling, for he left the Marquis kicking his heels for some ten minutes before inviting him into his inner office. It did not occur to Wrotham to take offence, however: Hunt's genius, particularly as a critic, placed him on equal footing with a peer of the realm, at least in the mind of so literary a man as Wrotham.

  "Pray be seated, my lord," said Mr. Hunt, gesturing to the most comfortable-looking chair in the office. "I have no sherry to offer you, but perhaps you would care for a brandy?"

  "Thank you, no," declined the Marquis politely. "I'll not take up any more of your time than is strictly necessary. I know you are a busy man, and I would not wish to interfere in any way with the production of your excellent paper."

  Hunt bowed his head in acknowledgement of the praise and Wrotham continued.

  "I require some information from you, Mr. Hunt. Specifically, I wish to know the identity of the poet who wrote that most exceptional sonnet, 'Dreams of July,' the one who merely signed himself D. "

  Mr. Hunt smiled. "I fear a great many people share that wish, my lord. I have been inundated by requests for our anonymous new poet's name. Quite a talent, don't you think?"

  "Indubitably," agreed Lord Wrotham. "I believe he has the potential to surpass Byron. Who is he, Mr. Hunt?" he asked bluntly. "I might be willing to subsidize his career in part, so you will admit I have a reason for asking."

  The publisher's smile broadened. "Alas, you are also not the first to make that offer, my lord. Unfortunately, I must tell you that I spoke to the young... man only this morning and he is absolutely resolved upon maintaining his secrecy, as is his family, and I cannot fault her, er, his reason. Money does not appear to be a particular object with them. I am sorry, my lord. D must remain unknown to the world, at least for the present."

  * * *

  CHAPTER 12

  Lord Wrotham rode slowly away from the Examiner office. He could not fault Mr. Hunt; indeed, his respect for the man was increased by his refusal to be swayed by rank to break his word. The Marquis would simply have to work on the few clues supplied him during the interview. He reviewed them carefully.

  Mr. Hunt's slip, from which he had quickly recovered, told Wrotham that the mysterious poet was in all likelihood a female. The reference to family, in addition, implied that she might very well be a lady of Quality, perhaps a married one whose husband did not wish his wife's name made public. Either her first or last name likely began with the letter D. Finally, Hunt had spoken to her only that morning, so it had to be someone currently residing in London.

  Wrotham considered the various ladies he knew of who might fit those circumstances. Lady Doncastle, perhaps? Her husband would certainly not wish his wife known for scintillating verse, as he was such a dullard himself. Or what about Mrs. Hervey? Wasn't her first name Dorothea? She was known to be a bit of a bluestocking, besides.

  Finally, he shook his head in resignation. He simply had too little to go on; D might be one of a dozen or more married ladies. The initial might even have been chosen to throw people off the scent. Besides, if the poet were a lady— and maybe Hunt was so shrewd that the slip had been deliberate —his hopes of a friendship would likely come to naught anyway.

  Checking his watch, he saw that it was half past four. Miss Wheaton would surely distract his mind from the matter. If he fetched his phaeton at once, he could be at Penrose House before five to take her driving. His mood considerably lightened by this decision, he turned his horse and set it into a brisk trot.

  * * *

  Deirdre would have forgotten her engagement to drive out with Mr. Barclay if her mother had not reminded her, so flustered was she by Mr. Hunt's visit that morning. She had spent much of the afternoon with Beata, who alone of her relatives in London could be relied upon to understand her conflicting feelings. When she returned to Penrose House it was past four, but the time had been well spent, for her mind was more settled than it had been for days.

  "Gracious, Didi!" exclaimed Lady Penrose when she entered the drawing-room. "You are still in your morning dress. Is that what you plan to wear to the Park? By the bye, I can't think why you should want to encourage that spindle-shanked Mr. Barclay when Lord Wrotham is so much better a catch."

  Deirdre choked on a laugh at her mother's description of Mr. Barclay. "How uncharitable, Mama," she exclaimed. "I merely agreed to drive in the Park with him. It seemed uncivil to refuse, when I had no other engagement." In truth, she scarcely remembered her conversation with the man, so overshadowed had it been by her next visitor. Not that Mr. Barclay was particularly memorable, even at the
best of times. "I shall change at once."

  Upon her return, properly clad in a lilac carriage dress, Deirdre was dismayed to find Lord Wrotham awaiting her.

  "I had hoped to take you driving again, Miss Wheaton," he said regretfully, "but your mother informs me you are already engaged. Perhaps another day?"

  Deirdre felt a sharp pang of disappointment. Drat Mr. Barclay, she thought almost involuntarily. Whyever had she agreed to go with him? "Perhaps," was all she said, however. Perhaps it would be as well for Lord Wrotham to understand that she was not at his beck and call.

  The same thought apparently occurred to the Marquis, for he said, "I see I must plan further ahead with such a popular lady as yourself, Miss Wheaton. I shall hope to engage you for another drive within the week."

  She inclined her head regally, mindful of the advice Beata had just given her. "That would be pleasant, my lord," she said coolly, and was rewarded by a searching look from his lordship. Keep him wondering, was what her sister had advised. He seemed to be doing just that, no doubt wondering too, who it was she had a prior engagement with.

  "Bid you good day then, Miss Wheaton, ladies," he said with an all-encompassing bow.

  Unfortunately, Mr. Barclay arrived just before Lord Wrotham was out of the house, announcing loudly to the butler that he was come to take Miss Wheaton driving. Deirdre, eyeing Mr. Barclay's thinning blond hair, spreading waistline and, yes, spindle shanks, in some dismay, thought it extremely unlikely that Lord Wrotham would be jealous.

  To make matters worse, it became apparent during the drive that Mr. Barclay had discovered, most likely from Celeste, Deirdre's affinity for poetry. He therefore tried to impress her with his own knowledge, which was obviously quite limited.