A Lady's Point of View

by Diamond, Jacqueline

  He wished he knew more of her. Now that she had become acceptable to society, no doubt the opportunity would present itself. Nevertheless, Edward determined silently, he would not call on the chit. He would never give his sister the satisfaction.

  Angela was experiencing emotions for which her placid childhood had left her unprepared. Her feelings toward Mr. Cockerell had changed sharply from the previous week. At first, she had considered him harsh and rag-mannered. Then she had been forced to concede that at least he attempted to be fair, which was more than one could say of most fashionable ladies and gentlemen.

  Today, seeing him again, she noticed small details that had escaped her before. His habit of rubbing the bridge of his nose when considering a serious matter; the way a smile transformed his sharp-featured face into gentleness; the erectness of his posture, and the natural facility with which he assumed leadership of any situation.

  Seeking him out privately had been foolhardy. But she hadn’t been able to resist trying to learn whether he loved the countess, and her relief upon finding that he did not confused her.

  Regarding him from across the lawn after their return, Angela became aware of a powerful desire to waltz close to him and inhale his rich masculine scent. Whatever could be the matter with her? How could she have such feelings toward Edward Cockerell, whom even his own sister regarded as hard-hearted? He would never have given her a moment’s consideration had it not been for Helen’s insistence.

  So Angela passed the hours acting pleasant and making conversation, never far from an awareness of her own tight-clenched heart. How she wished Meg were here to talk over the matter. Meg always had a common-sense solution to one’s problems.

  It cannot be that I love him, Angela thought in alarm. If I do, then I must never let him know. He would only despise me. Nor would she give him reason to think further ill of her, she decided, and went to seek out Helen.

  The older girl greeted her merrily. “Are you having a good time?” she asked. “I heard about the contretemps with Lady Darnet, that witch! Thank goodness for Aunt Emily.”

  “Helen, I need your opinion on a serious matter.” Angela drew her friend aside where no one would overhear.

  “Yes?” Miss Cockerell raised an eyebrow.

  “We haven’t been entirely honest with your brother,” Angela said. “As you know, I told him about Meg’s eyesight, but I said nothing of our financial difficulties.” She awaited her friend’s response, aware that Helen had not been advised of the full truth, either.

  “I know you’ve been on short rations for some time,” the girl replied with sympathy. “Meg never said as much, but I could tell. And your dress. I’m sure no one else has recognized it, but I couldn’t help doing so.”

  “Things are sorry indeed,” Angela admitted. “Please don’t let my mother know I told you. It’s only that your brother will think he’s been tricked if he learns the truth later. I believe we owe him our honesty.”

  “Oh, pooh,” said Helen. “He doesn’t deserve it!”

  “But he sponsored this garden party for me,” Angela pointed out. “And because of me he quarrelled with Lady Darnet.”

  “Nevertheless,” said the hostess, “he has such a stiff-necked notion of honour that he might refuse to introduce you to eligible gentlemen unless they knew the whole truth.”

  “That’s his right, if he wishes.” Agitated, Angela twisted a fold of the silver gauze skirt in her hand.

  “He might even refuse to let me frequent your company,” Helen added ominously.

  “I can’t believe he would be so cruel as that!” cried Angela. “It is not our fault, and he is a fair-minded gentleman.”

  “Perhaps,” said his sister. “But he would consider our patronage of you likely to entrap some other young man into an ill-considered marriage. Not that he could find you unsuitable, for you are well bred. But you know that many families count upon the bride’s marriage portion. For myself, I think love is all that matters, but Edward is impossible on the subject.”

  Impossible? Angela thought, gazing at Edward where he stood conversing with an elderly couple. She could only admire the fierceness of his convictions, and the depth of his regard for honesty.

  She still wished to tell him the truth about her situation, and would have done so had there been only her own welfare to consider. But she couldn’t betray her mother and sister. Their futures must come first, even though protecting them might ultimately mean sacrificing the regard of the man Angela cherished.

  “Well—” she linked arms with Helen “—let’s not stand here gossiping like a pair of duchesses!”

  Together the two girls moved forward to mingle with their guests.

  Chapter Ten

  Edward Cockerell! Meg thought in amazement, reading Angela’s letter for the third time. My sister in love with Edward Cockerell! The poor girl.

  She laid aside the sheets of paper and stared out her bedroom window. For once, she failed to enjoy the crystal-clear details revealed even in twilight by her spectacles.

  If one were to believe Angela’s letter, the gentleman had given no indication of returning the sentiment. Indeed it was difficult to imagine that particular fellow possessing any sentiment whatsoever.

  And she asks for my advice? Meg reflected woefully. A fine one I am to be telling others how to handle their finer feelings.

  In the week since the party at Squire Roberts’s, Meg had reached a painful conclusion of her own. She had fallen in love with Lord Bryn.

  If Angela’s chances of success were slim, her own were hopeless. The man was all but engaged to Miss Geraint, and furthermore showed no sign of developing a tendre for Meg. Indeed, he had been scrupulously careful to keep a distance between them since that night.

  Yet despite her best intentions, Meg searched for him everywhere. When she walked with the children in the garden, her heart leaped at the distant sight of his tall figure astride his stallion. When she conducted lessons, she listened with one ear for his footsteps. In vain, for the most part. Since last Saturday, the marquis had made a habit of calling upon the children only when they were in the care of the maid Jenny.

  Meg had begun giving Vanessa deportment lessons as an excuse for marching her up and down the front stairs. No doubt the sound of girlish laughter had given his lordship sufficient warning, and he had kept away.

  I? Give advice?

  With a mirthless laugh, Meg turned from the window, and drew out her pen and paper. The time had come to tell her mother and sister the truth.

  Perhaps not the entire truth; no need to confess the futile attachment she had formed. But they must know where she was, and under what pretence.

  Her mother could best advise her whether to continue on to Derby or return to London. For in another week Miss Geraint and her family would be arriving, and Meg was determined to leave soon after.

  She tried to imagine her family’s reactions. Amusement and admiration, perhaps, on Angela’s part; shock and outrage, justifiably, on Lady Mary’s.

  Guiltily Meg wondered if she had betrayed her mother’s trust in her. A harmless misunderstanding—but why had she played along with it these past two weeks?

  The answer, she was forced to admit, was that her affection for Lord Bryn had begun the moment she’d first set eyes on him, however blurrily, as he rode up with those two ragamuffins in tow. His easy manner, both with the children and with the woman he believed to be their governess, had contrasted delightfully with the pompous gentlemen she had known in town.

  Not only that, but she had come to understand from the moment he kissed her, what it meant to be a woman. Such mysteries were kept carefully from the ears of unmarried misses. The marriage bed, so far as Meg had known, was a place for sleeping and, by some unknown means, for conceiving children.

  Even now, she had only vague suspicions of its true function, but they were solidifying night by night. Dreams troubled her slumber, dreams in which the marquis drew her close against his body, making
her flesh burn with indescribable sensations. She longed to return his wild kisses, to feel his touch upon her soft skin...

  Was this love? Or only wantonness against which to shield oneself, even in marriage? Would a husband be shocked by such abandon? Meg wished desperately that she knew.

  Wrenching herself back to the task at hand, she began to compose a letter to her mother and sister.

  The answers came swiftly. Meg read Lady Mary’s first. Her mother expressed dismay but also understanding. She had been young once, and knew that Meg’s high spirits had been much confined by her dismal experiences in London and her inability to see properly.

  If no one were the wiser, Meg might perhaps escape censure. Neither Lord Bryn nor Germaine Geraint ever came to town; and should Germaine’s cousins learn the truth, neither Helen nor Edward was likely to talk. Helen might be a gossip, but her loyalty to Meg was such that she would not risk hurting her.

  “Lord Bryn is reputed for his proper conduct, and so I know that nothing untoward has occurred, but one must be concerned with appearances,” Lady Mary wrote. “It is imperative that you leave as soon as possible.”

  Then came the part that softened Meg’s pain. “Matters are well in hand here in town, and Mr. Brummell has made it clear he harbours no resentment against you.

  “Since you inform me that Lord Bryn has paid you generous wages, you may use them, if you wish, to take the mail coach back to London. I cannot promise that you will find many of your dresses remaining unaltered, but at least we may enjoy your company. We miss you very much.”

  Angela’s letter was livelier but at the same time sadder. She wrote that they were invited everywhere, even to Almack’s, and had been out nearly every night. Mr. Cockerell and Helen often joined them, but although he spent considerable time in Angela’s company, Edward showed no sign of affection.

  “My only consolation lies in the fact that he displays no warmth toward Lady Darnet when we encounter her,” Angela went on. “What do you suppose this signifies? Is he attempting to make her jealous by attending on me, or does he do it only at Helen’s insistence?”

  Meg wished she knew the answer.

  Well, she had her own plans to make. The Geraints would be arriving Friday next. Meg decided that to prevent undue disruption to the children, she could remain until Monday, but no longer. Then it would be the task of their future mother to supervise the hiring of a new governess.

  She requested an audience with his lordship, and was told he would see her in his study. Carefully she reviewed in her mind the tale she’d composed, having decided that after their embrace the truth would only embarrass them both unduly.

  Never having visited this masculine room before, Meg entered timidly. Such a dark chamber, she noted, observing the mahogany furniture and deep-stained leather. How the marquis suited it, standing behind his desk, an ominous frown on his countenance.

  “How may I help you, Miss Linley?” he asked

  Meg clutched her hands together nervously. “My lord, I’ve received a letter from my mother. She writes that she is ill, and begs me to return to London.”

  His eyes contained an expression Meg could not read. “I’m sorry to hear that. I hope she will be soon mended.”

  “She didn’t say.” Meg inhaled deeply. “I realize this comes at an inconvenient time, with your visitors on their way. I thought I might remain until Monday.”

  “The children will miss you deeply.” His lordship tapped one finger upon the desktop. “Are you certain this is so great a crisis as to require your permanent departure? Perhaps a visit of a week or two—”

  “I think not,” Meg said. “I was given to understand she will need a nurse for some time.”

  There was nothing more to be said between them, and no words to say it. The air crackled with unspoken longing—at least for Meg.

  “Very well,” said the marquis at last. “I will have arrangements made for your conveyance.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” Meg curtseyed and turned away.

  “Miss Linley?”

  “Yes?” She looked back.

  “You may keep the spectacles,” he said. “We wouldn’t want you getting on the wrong carriage.”

  Meg nodded dumbly and hurried away. He had meant the remark as a jest, of course, a reference to the “joke” she had told when she arrived; but for some reason she found herself near tears.

  Later, when she revealed her news in the schoolroom, Tom’s small face crumpled and sobs wracked his frame. Meg held him close.

  Vanessa took a more pragmatic viewpoint. “When I have my come-out, will you be in town to advise me how to go on?” she asked.

  “I do hope so.” Meg felt grateful for the distraction, since she feared the girl might join Tom in his weeping. “Although that will be a few years hence.”

  The girl shrugged off this minor inconvenience. “Nevertheless, you shall assist me. I would like that very much. I shall have piles of new gowns, and you can tell me the best dressmakers.”

  “Oh, don’t be such a prattle-box!” wailed Tom. “Why can’t Uncle Andrew marry you, Miss Linley, instead of Miss Geraint!”

  “Don’t you like her?” Meg asked.

  “We’ve never met her.” Vanessa’s nose wrinkled. “But I’m sure I shan’t like her at all. She never goes to London, and they say her wardrobe is abominable.” Her tongue twisted a bit over that last word, but she managed to make herself understood.

  “I’m sure you’ll love her,” Meg said briskly. “And since you’ll have no one to give you lessons next week, we shall work doubly hard today. Ready?”

  They nodded reluctantly, and the business of daily living gradually took the edge off Tom’s misery.

  On Thursday morning, the day before the Geraints were to arrive, Lord Bryn gave Meg permission to ride with Mrs. Franklin into the town of Macclesfield. Although farther afield than Stockport and Marple, it boasted excellent shops.

  Jenny was away helping her ailing sister, and so the children were entrusted to the timorous Bertha.

  “She’ll do well enough. They never drop the mouse down anyone’s skirts twice,” said Mrs. Franklin as she and Meg set off in the curricle.

  In town, Meg selected hair ribbons for herself and gifts to take Lady Mary and Angela. For her mother, she chose a pair of gloves, and for her sister a lace-edged handkerchief, which could be used to fill in a low neckline when the season ended and they retreated to the country.

  Mrs. Franklin took considerably longer selecting household items. Meg spent the time strolling about the silk-manufacturing town, admiring its medieval architecture, hilly streets, and picturesque black-and-white-timbered houses.

  The two women treated themselves to luncheon at the Cat and Fiddle Inn in a splendid moorland setting three miles to the east.

  ‘‘It’s right sorry I am that you’ll be leaving,” said Mrs. Franklin. “By the by, Lord Bryn mentioned that you’re invited to attend the ball he’s holding for the Geraints Saturday night.”

  Meg bit her lip. Suppose someone should know her? Unlikely, but dangerous. However, she saw no polite way to decline. And after all, the only ones at the ball would be the Geraint family and the neighbours.

  “I fear I haven’t a proper gown,” she said.

  Mrs. Franklin waved away the objection. “With your beauty, girl, you’d look splendid in my old gingham! And your clothes may not be fancy, but they’re quality.”

  The real objection, Meg considered as they returned home in the curricle, was that at the ball the marquis was expected to announce his engagement. Would she be able to hide her unhappiness and congratulate the couple as she ought?

  You got yourself into this situation, Meg Linley, and you shall carry it off! she commanded in a mental approximation of Lady Mary’s tones.

  They arrived at Brynwood to find the place in turmoil.

  “The bloody children have disappeared again,” snapped the marquis, his temper overcoming his usual good manners. “They’re nowhe
re to be found, and Bertha’s in hysterics, shrieking about a ghost.”

  Meg fought a smile. “Have you searched the attic? Vanessa tells me they like to play dress-up.”

  “We’ve examined all the usual places,” Mr. Franklin interjected smoothly. “We believe they may have gone berrying again, as they did the day you arrived, Miss Linley.”

  “Then I shall go and look for them.” Unwilling in her haste to take the time to change her clothes—her attire was sensible enough—Meg set off in a southerly direction. Lord Bryn and the servants headed elsewhere.

  It was well past midday as Meg started out. She wasn’t overly concerned for the children’s safety, but she knew that Tom would do whatever Vanessa commanded, and it was impossible to tell what notion the girl might take into her head.

  After a time, Meg’s voice grew hoarse with calling, and her legs began to ache with the unaccustomed walking. Still she pushed on, growing more and more anxious as the sun descended through the western sky.

  At last she saw a figure on the horizon, north of her. A man and horse.

  He galloped toward her, and Meg saw that it was Lord Bryn. At any other time, she would have been lost in admiration of his fine figure and splendid horsemanship, but now she waited in a torment for news of the runaways.

  When the rider drew up, Meg saw with relief that he was smiling. “We’ve found the little rascals!” he called. “They were in your room, Miss Linley, playing dress-up with your clothes.”

  Meg shook her head ruefully. “If only I’d gone up to change before coming out to search.!”

  “You must be weary.” His lordship swung down from King Arthur. “I’ll give you a ride back, then.”

  She regarded him askance. “I’m hardly attired for riding, Lord Bryn.” Indeed, Meg had never ridden astride, for Lady Mary insisted that a gentlewoman rode only sidesaddle.

  “No one’s about to notice nor care,” he replied. Relief at finding the children had dispelled his dour mood, and he grinned boyishly.