by Lynn Morris
But this is different, Mirabella thought, and again began to feel uneasy. Why?
Echoes of her old nurse had made her smile, but the sudden unbidden recollection of her conversation with her Aunt Tirel made her frown darkly.
“Has it not occurred to you that perhaps this theoretical husband of yours may object to his wife having a man as her closest friend?
“And Giles’s theoretical wife? I can’t imagine that there are many women who wouldn’t be insanely jealous of you.”
She was so perturbed that she spoke aloud, her voice sounding harsh and jarring in the silent night. “Jealousy? Me? Jealous—of Barbara? That’s absurd, I’m not jealous of Barbara!”
It would be utterly ridiculous to be jealous of Barbara, she scolded herself. She wasn’t at all jealous of Giles’s attentions to Josephine, or Lady Jersey, who constantly flirted with him, or Lady Cowper, who particularly liked Giles and invited him to almost every party she gave.
Again she thought, But what if Barbara’s different? What if Giles has formed an affection for her?
And then the thought was like a shout in her head: What if Giles is in love with her?
Suddenly Mirabella felt the most miserable sensations she had ever known, first a sort of hot rush throughout her body that made her catch her breath, and then just as suddenly a cold bleak chill that made her feel slightly nauseated.
Giles…marrying Barbara. Giles marrying…ANYONE.
Giles marrying…anyone but me.
She set down her glass of ratafia and buried her face in her hands.
I am jealous of Barbara, because I want to marry Giles! Am I in love with him? What does that mean? When did this happen? How did this happen?
From here her mind spiraled downward into a series of what seemed like nonsensical, unconnected images: She and Giles as children, when she’d fallen and skinned her knee and he had tenderly dressed it with a piece of cloth he’d torn from the tail of his shirt. Giles at about seventeen years old, at dinner at Camarden, teasing her about her helpless revulsion toward oysters on the half shell. Giles at Knyveton Hall, pale and drawn and sorrowful, when his mother was dying. She and Giles playing the piano, singing, laughing. That golden day when she’d fallen into the stewpond.
Gradually she realized that these images were not at all unconnected or random; they were the fabric of a life, her life, that had been so closely interwoven with his.
How could I have been so dismally blind? How on earth could I have not realized this long ago?
The answer to the first question came to her instantly. She realized how selfish, how self-absorbed and self-serving she’d been. Aunt Tirel had been right. She had simply taken Giles for granted, as callously as she took for granted that she could walk and talk and was pretty and that men liked her and that she would arrange her life and that Giles would just be at her side, like a faithful dog.
All of that was true, but then a sort of mitigating factor occurred to her, although it gave her no comfort; in fact, it depressed her even more deeply, if that was possible. Giles had given every appearance of contentment with their friendly relationship. He had never given her any indication that he wished otherwise.
Never once has he acted as if he thought of marrying me. He’s not in love with me. And I’m in love with him.
The full enormity of it hit her with the force of a hard gale in a snowstorm. In love, real love, genuine longing and passion and desire. But it wasn’t just a physical longing, she wanted to live each day with him, she wanted to go to sleep with him at her side and wake up to him. She wanted to have his children. She wanted to be his companion and comfort and friend every day until they were old, and for the rest of her life until she died.
Abruptly Mirabella felt utterly drained, and couldn’t bear to think any more. She was so exhausted that she wondered how she would ever gather the strength to get back to her bed. She sat for a long time, staring blankly at the unfriendly night sky, until she realized that her crossed legs were numb. As if she were an old woman, slowly and painfully she rose and gathered her things.
Back in her bed she thought that she would never be able to sleep. But she did: quickly she sank into an oblivion that was dark and heavy. Her last thought was, oddly, a vivid image of the sweet picnic glade in the deer park, with the daisies in riotous bloom, and Giles, smiling at her.
* * *
Giles and Lewin were having breakfast at the Great Piazza Coffee House, as had become their habit. Their flat had a small kitchen, and Giles’s valet, Minard, who was also serving as butler, footman, maid, and cook, would have been happy to prepare simple meals for them. But Giles and Lewin enjoyed the coffeehouse, even though it was sadly out of fashion for gentlemen. The coffeehouses had been the premier gathering place for the aristocracy and gentry in the previous century, but once membership in the exclusive gentlemen’s clubs such as White’s, Boodle’s, and Watier’s had become de rigueur for any man with social status, the coffeehouses had become the haunt of laborers, storekeepers, clerks, pensioners, soldiers, and crusty old men who had no liking for the rarified, dandified atmosphere of gentlemen’s clubs. Though the accents heard were usually wildly different from those in the prestigious clubs, the atmosphere was not so unlike. Men ate breakfast, read their papers, and talked quietly with friends about the war or politics or the Exchange while smoking cigars and drinking great quantities of ale, beer, tea, or coffee.
Giles and Lewin had their usual breakfast, a loaf of hot fresh bread and hunks of piquant Cheshire cheese. Giles always drank coffee, while Lewin, to Giles’s continued amusement, drank cup after cup of chocolate. At first Giles had teased him about drinking “nursery pap,” but it was nothing like the warm milky sweet stuff that children drank. It was sweet, yes, but steaming hot, thick, and seasoned with cinnamon and a very small dash of pepper. Lewin had told Giles, “In the last three years I had exactly one cup of chocolate. While I’m here I’m going to drink gallons of it.”
On this early morning, however, Giles didn’t seem to be amused at Lewin’s choice of beverage or anything else. He had said almost nothing as they walked to the coffeehouse, and now he sat staring glumly into his mug of coffee.
Lewin said, “Friend, I don’t mean to be ill-mannered—well, perhaps I do mean to be, because I’m going to be. You’re very poor company this morning.”
Giles replied, “I know, and I suppose that makes me ruder than you. I beg your pardon. It’s just that I’m thinking about Southam, and the morass he got entangled in, and how embarrassed he was, although I suppose most of that was of his own doing. And now it’s Aldington, and it’s worse. I’m afraid he’s going to get hurt, and hurt badly.”
Quietly Lewin said, “I don’t require or expect you to display your heart on your sleeve for me, but do be honest with yourself, Giles.”
Giles’s jaw clenched, and he said heavily, “You’re right. I’m not worried about Southam, he’s fully capable of taking care of himself. I am worried about Aldington, but that’s not what’s really bothering me. You know very well that I’m thinking of Mirabella, and what I’m feeling has nothing to do with charity for my fellow man. I’m jealous, and I’m cursing myself because of it.”
Lewin nodded. “I know it’s been hard on you. Even though we haven’t talked about it, I’ve seen it. No, don’t look so horrified, no one else would ever guess, especially Mirabella. In company you’ve been the same charming, affable chap you’ve always been. It’s only because I’ve seen you in private, as it were. But now, since we’re talking about it, let’s talk about it. And let’s play Mirabella’s game, and forget all about love. Why, why, why don’t you declare yourself to Mirabella? From what I’ve seen in the past months, the two of you would suit much better than these other fellows, and I know you could convince her.”
“Again, let me reiterate: I can’t support Mirabella in a proper manner, I won’t be able to do so for another year at least, perhaps two, and it almost sickens me to think of sponging off my
wife.
“But putting that aside for now, as for me persuading her to marry me, I think that would be impossible now even if I wished to. I think Mirabella’s set her course and made her plans. I knew that after we’d been here for about a week, and I saw the men she’d decided to choose from.”
Lewin looked mystified. “You knew what the first week? About Southam and Aldington?”
“Yes, and Brydges, who’s next in line, if she doesn’t stick with Aldington, and after last night I think he’s in the wastebin. You mean you didn’t see all this from the beginning?”
“No, I haven’t seen anything but Mirabella being herself. She’s always lively and charming and amusing.”
“She flirts with them,” Giles said bluntly. “I don’t mean that she’s a wanton heartless tease, but she plainly communicates to them that she’s interested in them, and they understand that she means she’s interested in marrying them. So that’s another point. She doesn’t flirt with me.”
“But your relationship with Mirabella is so much more than a simple flirtation.”
“So it is, and yet she’s never once communicated to me that she’s interested in marrying me. Anyway, I’ll come back around to my first objection to asking Mirabella to marry me. If I did, I’d look like the worst kind of fortune hunter. You’ve seen people in this town, you know what the gossip would be. In fact, Mirabella may even see me in that light. You’ll note that she’s particularly chosen titled, wealthy men.”
Now Lewin had doubts himself. Although he’d known Mirabella just as long as had Giles, her relationship with Giles was completely different. For one thing, Giles had a particular insight into Mirabella that he lacked; Giles was acutely intuitive about her. And though Lewin and Mirabella were close friends, she had never really spoken to him of intimate things such as her longing to have children, which she had often talked about with Giles. Perhaps Giles really did see the truth of the situation, and Lewin was the one who had no understanding of it.
But Lewin was a simple man, and he simply felt that Giles and Mirabella belonged together. He sighed deeply. “All I can say is that I think Jessica was right, love is blind.”
“Who the devil is Jessica?” Giles asked grumpily.
Lewin grinned. “Well, I suppose she didn’t actually say it, Shakespeare did. I can’t believe I bested you with a quote.”
“What? Oh. The Merchant of Venice. ‘But love is blind, and lovers cannot see / The pretty follies that themselves commit.’ Not really apt, for reasons that escape me right now but with which I’m sure I’ll crush you later.”
“Likely you will, and I’ll take my thrashing like a man. I’m going to go see Josephine and take her for a walk, I haven’t talked to her alone for forever, it seems. Do you want to come?”
“As you might imagine, I’m in no mood to entertain Mirabella just now. I think I’ll go to Jackson’s and see if I can find someone to pick a fight with.”
“I’m sorry for him,” Lewin said lightly, “but if it’ll lighten your mood, I hope you beat him to a bloody pulp.”
* * *
Lewin called at the Camarden town house and found his sister and Lord Camarden having an amiable breakfast. That is, they were sitting together amiably, but as always Lord Camarden was wholly absorbed in his newspapers, and Josephine ate in companionable silence. Lord Camarden was just as easy with the Rosboroughs as he was with his own family.
Lord Camarden grunted a welcome to Lewin, and Josephine gladly bade him sit down and have breakfast, but he declined. “I’ve already had breakfast, thank you. Just a cup of tea will do. I must say, Sister, I’m surprised to find you awake this early. I thought you had become a grand lady of leisure, not to grace us with your presence until at least midmorning.”
“Sometimes I am very grand and leisurely, and lie abed until ten o’clock or so. When I’m feeling especially dissolute I sleep until noon. But country habits die hard, Brother, and sometimes I awaken at dawn and can’t go back to sleep upon my life.”
“Good, I was hoping that you’d join me in being provincial and unfashionable and go for a walk in the park.”
Josephine’s eyes sparkled. “I’d love to, it’s ages since we’ve had a chance to visit, just us two. Will you wait until I dress? I promise to hurry.”
“I’ll wait, unless you take all morning as Lady Mirabella does.”
“I’ll never be that grand. Just half a moment, I’ll be right back.” She dashed into the house.
Lord Camarden carefully laid down his newspaper. “The news from Spain is encouraging. It seems Wellington has them on the run at last.”
Lewin nodded. “Yes, my lord. I expect to receive my orders any day now.”
“Expect to—and hope to?”
“I know that it’s difficult for the ladies to understand, but I am anxious to return to my regiment.”
Lord Camarden said, “It’s not just the ladies, Lewin. Any man who doesn’t have the calling of a soldier, and I do believe that it’s a calling, can never quite comprehend it. I got some glimpses of it from my father; even though he was a general, they had to virtually lash him to a chair before every battle to keep him off the front lines. At any rate, it’s probably best that the ladies don’t know until you actually receive your orders.”
They talked more of the army’s progress in Spain, and of Lord Wellington’s political finesse in commanding what was now the Sixth Coalition, allying the English with the forces of Austria, Prussia, Russia, Portugal, Sweden, Spain, and some miscellaneous German states.
Soon Josephine returned, slightly breathless and hurriedly tucking some curls up into her bonnet. Casting a harried look over her shoulder, she said, “At least Colette didn’t follow me all the way down here. She was really quite shrill when I jammed on my bonnet before she’d finished my hair. It’s the first time in my life that I’ve regretted speaking French. Let’s hurry before she catches me.”
Grosvenor Square was only two blocks from Hyde Park. At this early hour it was almost deserted, except for a few elderly gentlemen taking a quiet, restful carriage ride. The sun was a watery blob in a smoky blue sky. Delicate little tendrils of mist rose from the Serpentine River.
Josephine sighed. “I miss home.”
“Do you? Are you ready to go home?”
“Not quite yet, I suppose.” She sounded unsure.
“No? Are you staying because you’ve come to love the glittering world of the Beau Monde, or are you determined to keep on being Mirabella’s nanny?”
“As for the first, I still enjoy observing the haut ton in their natural habitat, although I’ve found that they’re fairly predictable. As to the second, I wouldn’t tackle that job for all the guineas in London.”
Lewin grinned boyishly. “Ah, so it’s Harry Smythe after all.”
“I forbid you to tease me about Mr. Smythe, it’s none of your concern, and I don’t wish to talk about it.”
“I wish he had the same delicate sensibilities, for he continually talks about you.” He grew sober and said, “He is in love with you, you know.”
“I don’t think I knew for sure…maybe until just now.”
“And you, Sister? What are your feelings toward him?”
Josephine was silent for long moments. Lewin knew that though their demeanors were completely different, Josephine was fully as reserved and private as their mother. Even now she parried the question. “The Smythes live almost three hundred miles away, in Northumberland. Mr. Smythe will inherit the estate.”
Lightly Lewin said, “‘For this cause shall a man leave father and mother, and shall cleave to his wife.’”
“Yes, that all sounds well and good, but—Lewin, I told you I don’t want to talk about this, so just stop this instant.”
“Very well. Shall we talk about some other ill-starred lovers, like Mirabella and Giles? Could someone please explain to me what Mirabella thinks she’s doing?”
“She thinks she’s deciding on the man she’ll marry.” Lewin fr
owned darkly, and Josephine held up her hand. “I know, I thought the same as you did at first, that she’s being foolish and shallow. But from the things I’ve seen, things I’ve heard, things I’ve discerned here, I’ve finally come to understand that it’s exactly the way most marriages are decided on with these people. Sometimes the parents arrange it, if the girl is very young; even when couples decide themselves, they hardly ever base it on being in love.”
Lewin said with exasperation, “‘These people.’ It’s another world. Being here, it’s like—like living in Vauxhall Gardens. It’s lively and all sorts of fun, but it has nothing to do with the real world.”
“But it is the real world for most of these people. Giles, and Lord and Lady Camarden, and Mirabella, and even Lord and Lady Reynes are exceptions, because they seem to have lives away from London and Fashionable Society that they enjoy very much, and that’s our world. So how is Giles?”
“You know, men don’t tear their hearts out and endlessly dissect them like women do. All I know is that he’s in love with Mirabella, he has been for a long time, and he has no intention of telling her.”
“Yes, I thought so. Could you tell me why he won’t declare himself to Mirabella, without breaking his confidence?”
Lewin mulled this over, then answered, “I don’t think it would be betraying his confidence, because I think that if you and he had a long private conversation he’d confide in you himself.” He then went on to relate to her what Giles had said.
Thoughtfully Josephine said, “You know, I do understand his reasoning. I’ve had the same reservations, particularly about the ‘fortune hunter’ part. Mrs. Smythe would always think that of me.”
“If you love Harry Smythe, don’t let anyone or anything stop you from marrying him.”
Serenely Josephine said, “If I come to be sure in my heart that I love him, and that he is the man the Lord intends me to marry, then nothing at all would make me hesitate for a moment.”
“Good for you, Sister! But again, without breaking anyone’s confidence, do you think Mirabella really does love Giles, but she just doesn’t realize it?”