Darby's Angel

by Marcy Stewart

  “You are the best of mothers,’’ Evelyn said with emotion, though she did not quit her seat beside Alexander.

  “And we are the best of guests,” Alexander commented, bringing a breath of levity to the gathering.

  While they still smiled, Edward whispered to his mother, saw her nod, then returned to his seat. He scanned the circle with the air of one about to make an announcement, and Darby felt a moment’s qualm as he gave her brother a knowing look. There was mischief brewing, she could feel it in her bones.

  “My mother and Evelyn and I were talking over luncheon today about Mr. Garrett’s visit,” said Edward, turning his brilliant eyes on Simon. “Since he employs himself as an actor, we thought he might entertain us this afternoon with a recitation.”

  “What an excellent notion,” Lenora said.

  Alexander looked dubious and raised his brows.

  Darby’s heart sank. She should have known someone would try to embarrass her angel. But that it should be Edward, and just when she had been thinking nice thoughts about him! Well, he did it in an unfortunate attempt to please Alex, she supposed.

  “Mr. Garrett mustn’t be expected to recite on a moment’s notice as if he were a performing bear,” she said nervously. “I’m certain if he were given time to prepare—”

  “What’s wrong?” asked Alexander, immediately becoming animated. “Don’t you believe him capable?”

  Darby glared at her brother. “Surely if—”

  “I’d be happy to recite,” said Simon, standing and walking to the fireplace with an unperturbed air. “How do you feel about Mr. Shakespeare?”

  “Ecstatic,” Alexander said. “How do you feel about Mr. Gainsborough?’’

  Edward thought this very funny, and laughed loudly. His mirth died when he saw Darby’s furious gaze upon him.

  “Sorry,” he said, his eyes wild as he attempted to restrain himself. “It’s his clothes; I can’t look at him seriously.”

  “But see how nice his hair is,” Mrs. Wallace contributed. “I think Mr. Garrett looks very well. Please go ahead, sir.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” Simon looked at Darby and smiled. “I often memorize poetry as a mental exercise. It’s been awhile since I’ve done the sonnets, though, so I hope I don’t forget in the middle.”

  “We’ll try not to be too surprised if that happens,” commented Alexander.

  Simon ignored him and lowered his gaze to the floor. Within instants, Darby felt a kind of power gathering about her angel, an energy building from some unknown source. Perhaps it came from heaven. Perhaps it flowed from themselves, for every person grew quiet, even Alexander. Simon began.

  “Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion’s paws,

  And make the earth devour her own sweet brood;

  Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger’s jaws,

  And burn the long-liv’d phoenix in her blood;

  Make glad and sorry seasons, as thou fleets,

  And do whate’er thou wilt, swift-footed Time,

  But I forbid thee one most heinous crime;

  O carve not with thy hours my love’s fair brow,

  Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen;

  Him in thy course untainted do allow,

  For beauty’s pattern to succeeding men.

  Yet, do thy worst, old Time: despite thy wrong,

  My love shall in my verse ever live young.”

  A profound silence fell when he finished. Darby felt paralyzed by the lovely sound of his voice, the musical manner in which he pronounced the words, even if he did so with an American accent. He had recited almost without emotion, yet one sensed he felt the poetry deeply. His recitation stirred her as nothing ever had.

  Mrs. Wallace burst into tears.

  “What is it, dear lady?” Edward said, rushing to her side again. This time, Evelyn, her cheeks darkening with embarrassment, joined him to pat her mother’s back.

  “I—am—so—very—o-o-old!” Mrs. Wallace cried. “Time has—has carved its hours in my brow, and I—I— I shall never be beautiful again!”

  “Now see what you’ve done,” Alexander growled to Simon.

  Simon paid him no mind, but squeezed between Evelyn and an irritated Edward to kneel on one knee before Mrs. Wallace. Seizing the hand that Edward did not hold, he kissed it and said,

  “To me, fair friend, you never can be old,

  For as you were when first your eye I eyed,

  Such seems your beauty still ...”

  Mrs. Wallace gazed at him for what seemed hours to Darby. Finally, the lady took a long, shaking breath. Relinquishing her son’s fingers, she dried her tears with her handkerchief. After sniffing once more, she smiled timorously, then kissed Simon’s cheek.

  “I’m a silly woman sometimes,” she said, patting his hand and releasing him. “But you are a darling boy. Thank you, dear. Do you have something else for us? You are most accomplished.”

  Edward and Evelyn, obviously relieved, returned to their seats. Darby began to breathe again, and the shifting postures of the others signaled the relaxation of tension.

  Simon recited a few more sonnets, then was encouraged to read a passage from Agamemnon, Finally, he was permitted to sit down.

  “I should like to recite something I wrote this morning,” Claude said when the applause died. “It is not as good as Shakespeare, and I don’t have Mr. Garrett’s talent for performing. But it was composed from the heart.”

  “How marvelous!” exclaimed Mrs. Wallace. “We would be delighted.”

  “I’m not so certain,” Lenora said. “Really, Claude.”

  “I beg your indulgence, fair Lenora,” said Claude, pulling a sheet of paper from his waistcoat pocket and unfolding it. “This poem is not to you; or ... mayhaps it is. You must listen and decide. It’s entitled, ‘Ode to My Mystery Love.’”

  “Oh, famous! Shall we be able to guess who the lady is?” cried Mrs. Wallace, clapping her hands and laughing.

  “I think you might, for she is present,” Claude said as he positioned himself in front of the fireplace. There was little of Simon’s grace in his posture; in fact, he looked so comically stiff that Darby wondered if he mocked her angel. As Alexander snorted and glanced at Simon, her suspicion was confirmed.

  Claude shook his paper importantly, lowered it to his side, then frowned and peered at the floor as if looking for bugs. It was another blatant parody of Simon as he had been before speaking, and Darby’s spine stiffened in outrage. As Claude’s hesitation continued, snickers and chuckles could be heard, most of them sounding unwilling. Darby flashed Simon a distressed look, but he only stared at the table, a faint smile on his lips.

  Just as the pause became agony for Darby, Claude raised the paper noisily and began to read in a voice laden with drama.

  “Speak to me not of golden hair

  And tresses dark as midnight;

  Others may entangle there

  And feast their soul’s delight,

  As for me, I must declare

  A preference not renowned;

  Give to me an earthen girl

  And make her locklings brown—”

  “Oh, it is Evelyn!” interrupted Mrs. Wallace, to the obvious dismay of her daughter. “Evelyn’s locklings, er—locks, are brown!”

  Claude stared at Mrs. Wallace and raised one eyebrow. “If I may continue, ma’am?”

  “Yes, yes!” she said eagerly.

  “This is ridiculous,” Lenora muttered.

  Claude gave the younger widow a look of exaggerated woe and cleared his throat.

  “For brown are leaves that fall from trees

  And brown the wren as well;

  Brown the doe who laughing flees

  To weave enchantment’s spell.

  And as for eyes, I don’t despise

  The gleam of brown or blue;

  “But another shade!” my heart’s soul cries—

  And only grey will do—”

  “Oh, dear,” Mrs. Wallace s
aid. “It cannot be Evelyn, then. Why, it must be Darby!”

  “I’ve heard enough,” Alexander said in a fury. “Can we not have tea now?”

  “But I’ve not finished,” lamented Claude, pressing the paper to his heart. “The best parts are yet to come. There are pretty descriptions about winter skies, bubbling storms, willowy tallness—”

  Lenora’s laugh rang like crystal. “How you amuse us, Claude.”

  “I believe I’ve had enough verse, too,” Edward said. “Time to go outside, Mother.”

  “But, dearest—”

  Edward walked to his mother’s chair and tugged her upward. “Look at Alex, dear lady; he’s white with hunger. You know what he is when his appetite is raging.”

  Mrs. Wallace could not refuse to provide relief for a guest, and family and friends ambled outdoors in various stages of puzzlement and relief.

  * * *

  The following hour on the stone-flagged terrace was the most awkward one Darby could remember spending at the Wallaces’. Along with leaf-thin sandwiches, assorted delicacies, and lukewarm tea, simmering looks and smoldering emotions were served in heavy quantities.

  There was only one difference that could account for the change among them: Simon. Apparently, his presence served to either exhume long-withheld feelings or to cause them. She found herself studying him, wondering if he purposed the undercurrents or spawned them by accident. Whatever the reason, she wished herself home and in bed. She had rather not be present to observe her brother lavishing attention on Evelyn while watching Lenora fawn upon Simon. And she particularly did not enjoy becoming the center of Edward and Claude’s notice—especially Claude’s, for his poem had embarrassed her mightily.

  He had ever been gallant toward her, as gallant as he was to any lady; but there had never been evidence before today that his feelings toward her were so warm. She wished they were not. Now she struggled to divide her conversation equally between Claude and Edward, both of whom had seized the chairs flanking hers. First it would be an offer of a pastry from one, then the other would shift position so the sun’s glare would not fall into her delicate eyes. She began to feel like a bird torn between two tomcats.

  Thus, when only crumbs remained on the silver serving tray, Darby was pleased to hear Mrs. Wallace suggest they all walk in the garden. There was relief in the older lady’s voice as she spoke, as if she, too, had tired of the halting conversations and odd silences.

  Immediately did his mother finish speaking, Edward jumped to his feet and offered Darby his arm. Claude slapped his thigh, annoyed to be beaten in this game, then presented his escort to her other side.

  “No, no,” Edward said, rushing Darby forward and away from the gentleman’s reach. “Don’t mean to be rude, Claude, but I must speak with Darby privately about— about a suitable gift for Alex’s birthday.”

  Claude swept his hat from his head and bowed. Edward hurried Darby along until she was breathless.

  The Wallaces allowed their garden to grow in a natural manner, Mrs. Wallace detesting straight lines in her shrubbery as much as she hated couches in her drawing room. Clusters of wildflowers grew in wide, curving sections, and shrubs mixed with pinks and columbines scented the air, achingly sweet. Darby had always loved this garden; in effect it was a private and exotic maze with its grassy trails vending on for acres. Many a childish war had been waged here, and more than once she’d become lost among the syringas, sweet williams, and peonies.

  When they reached a branching of the path, he suggested they repair to the summerhouse and, before she could draw breath to agree or protest, he pulled her down a side trail.

  They were very far from the others now. Darby had time for only the quickest of looks over her shoulder to locate Simon before the hedges hid him from view. As she expected, Lenora clung to his arm, but her angel appeared to be doing everything in his power to remain close to Alexander and Evelyn. Claude, hands in pockets and whistling, trailed behind. By the look of things, Simon was trying to maintain a conversation among all of them. Well, good luck to him, for Alex’s face was dark as a storm cloud.

  Darby returned her attention to Edward, whose cheeks were red with the exertion of pulling her forward at a trot. Trickles of perspiration dampened his forehead and the curly dark hair beneath his hat. After her conversation with Evelyn last night, she had no wish to be alone with him; only her strong desire to flee Claude could have made her so thoughtless. Her popularity had unaccountably soared within the last twenty-four hours, and she liked it not at all.

  “Why are we running, Edward?” she panted.

  “I’m not running; this is merely fast walking.”

  “All right, then; why are we walking so fast?”

  “Because I want to get away from everyone else.”

  Dread sounded in her spirit like a tolling bell. “Why? Surely we are far enough now. I thought you wanted to discuss Alex’s gift.”

  He shook his head but did not speak again until they reached the summerhouse. This tiny, frame building, containing a single room that she had not entered in years, had six exposures surrounded by a railed porch. Weathered benches were spaced at regular intervals along the porch, and he pulled her up the steps and led her to one.

  “Whew. I’m hot enough to ignite a stack of wood,” he said, sitting beside her and leaning his back against the house.

  “And why should that be, I wonder? We haven’t moved so fast since we were children.”

  “Aw, I’m sorry, Darby.” He loosened his cravat, peered at her, then tucked a loose strand of her hair into her bonnet. “Didn’t mean to give you such a race, but I wanted you by myself for a few minutes.”

  “Why?” she repeated, then wished she hadn’t when she saw a look of tenderness enter his eyes.

  “When do you want to get married?” he blurted.

  Darby stared at him speechlessly.

  “I didn’t say that very well,” he continued. “Maybe I should get down on one knee. I will if you want.”

  “No! No. You don’t have to do that.” She turned her gaze to a distant stand of beech trees and swallowed before adding, “You surprise me, Edward.”

  “Surprise you? Haven’t we planned this all our lives?”

  “Yes, but I thought you were going to wait until you became twenty-one to ask me.”

  There was silence for the space of several heartbeats, then he said in resentful tones, “I wonder who told you that little nugget of information?”

  “Oh, it does not matter,” Darby said uneasily.

  “It does to me, and I know who the culprit is: Miss Evelyn Tell-All Wallace, that’s who.”

  “Oh, never mind that; the question remains: Why are you asking me now?”

  He sighed and scratched his ear. “I’m afraid if I don’t, someone else will jump ahead of me.”

  “Oh, Edward,” she said, and laughed a little.

  “Well, Heathershaw is penning you poems, isn’t he?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not interested in Claude.”

  “You say that now, but you might change your mind. Ladies like poetry and all that. I couldn’t rhyme two words if my life depended on it. Heathershaw’s not a bad-looking fellow, either, and he dresses well. You might be swept off your feet, since he has the advantage of living under your roof.”

  “Yes,” she said, her voice dripping irony. “And the advantage of living off our hospitality, or rather, the hospitality of my aunt and uncle, funded by my brother and me. Don’t think of it again; he is out of the question. How could I consider a man who has no prospects and seems determined not to form any?”

  Edward remained quiet for a moment. “You have great dreams for your potteries,” he said faintly. “I myself am not as driven as you are. You probably think I have no prospects, either.”

  “Don’t be silly. You run your estate, and that is no mean occupation. Your farms are becoming well-known.”

  “Yes, the dairy is growing, isn’t it?” he said eagerly. “
I think Father would not have been ashamed of me.”

  “I’m certain he would be most proud,” she said, viewing his boyish features with pleasure.

  Her regard served to encourage him. “When we’re wed, I want to use the managing skills I’ve learned to help you run the potteries. I know Alex doesn’t want to.”

  She stirred uncomfortably and tried to swallow the taste of indignation in her mouth. Edward meant well, but she had not spent half her life directing the potteries to be replaced now.

  “Well, you can’t expect to go on as always once children come along,” he argued, when her silence lengthened.

  “Children! You are moving too quickly for me, Edward.”

  “Yes, I suppose I am, since you haven’t officially agreed to marry me yet.”

  He gave her a look of such puppy-like anticipation that she laughed. “I believe you should wait a year and ask me again.”

  His mouth tightened. “And leave you free to be caught by any male who wanders by? That Garrett fellow, for instance. I’ve noticed how you look at him. I think his story about being robbed is a tale suitable for a winter fire and hot chocolate. And, I don’t mind telling you, I find your inviting him to your house the oddest thing of all. A stranger, Darby? He is a complete stranger to you?”

  “Are you accusing me of lying?” she asked in outraged tones, forgetting for the moment that she had stretched the truth a little.

  “No,” he said, deflating. “No, I’m aware you never lie.”

  Drowning beneath waves of guilt, she said, “Let me reassure you that I’m not romantically inclined toward Simon.” Shuddering suddenly, she saw again the depraved images that had plagued her during church. “You must stop worrying, Edward. Truly.”

  “Then you do intend to marry me?”

  Of a sudden, her head became too weighty for her shoulders, and she looked down at her lap. “It’s what we have always planned, isn’t it?”

  “Is that a yes?” he asked gladly. “Shall I tell the others?”

  “No! You must give me time to think upon it, Edward.”

  “Oh, very well, I’ll give you time, though you should know whether you want to or not by now. I want an answer by this week’s end, do you hear? No locking my heart in your bower, Princess Rose.”