by Mary Balogh
“Certainly I do,” he said, still smiling at her over Lizzie’s head.
“Shall we try it?” she asked.
Lizzie reached out a hand, and Miss Martin drew it through her arm. And they walked sedately onward in a tight line until Joseph realized Miss Martin was increasing the pace. He grinned and increased it even more. Lizzie, clinging tight, chuckled suddenly and then shrieked with laughter.
“We really are walking,” she cried.
He felt the ache of unshed tears in his throat.
“And so we are,” he said. “Perhaps we should run?”
They did so for a very short distance before slowing to a walk again and then stopping altogether. They were all laughing by then, and Lizzie was panting too.
He met Miss Martin’s eyes over the top of Lizzie’s head again. She was flushed and bright-eyed. Her slightly faded cotton dress was creased and the brim of her straw hat—the same one she had worn to the garden party—had blown out of shape. One errant lock of her hair hung loose about her shoulders. Her face was glistening with moisture.
Suddenly she looked very pretty indeed.
“Oh, listen!” Lizzie said suddenly, her head bent forward, her body very still. “Listen to the birds.”
They all listened intently, and indeed, there must have been a vast choir of them hidden among the leaves and branches of the trees, all singing their hearts out. It was a lovely summer sound, so easily missed when there was so much else to occupy the eyes or the mind.
Miss Martin was the first to move. She released Lizzie’s arm and stepped in front of her.
“Lizzie,” she said, “lift your face to the sun. Here, let me fold back this wide brim on your bonnet so that you can feel the lovely heat on your cheeks and eyelids. Breathe it in as you listen to the birds.”
“But Mother said—” Lizzie began.
“And she was very wise,” Miss Martin told her, folding back the soft brim to expose his daughter’s pale, thin face and her blind eyes. “No lady exposes her complexion to the sun long enough to bronze or burn her skin. But it is actually good to do so for a few minutes at a time. The warmth of the sun on the face is very good for the spirits.”
Ah, why had he never thought of that for himself?
Thus permitted, Lizzie tipped back her head so that the light and heat were full on her face. Her lips parted after a few moments and she slid her hand free of Joseph’s arm and held up her hands to the sun, palms out.
“Oh,” she said on a long sigh while Joseph felt that ache in his throat again.
She stood like that for some time until with sudden fright she pawed at the air with one hand.
“Papa?”
“I am right here, sweetheart,” he said, but he did not reach for her as he would normally have done. “I am not going to leave you. Neither is Miss Martin.”
“The sun does feel good,” she said, and, still holding up her hands, she turned to her right and then kept turning very slowly until she was facing almost in the direction from which she had started. The sun’s warm rays must have been her guide.
She laughed with the sheer carefree happiness of any child.
“Perhaps now,” Miss Martin said, “we should return to the blanket and have some tea. It is never good to overdo any exercise—and I am hungry.”
They turned and linked arms again and set off in the direction from which they had come. But Lizzie was not the only one bubbling with exuberance.
“Walking and running,” Joseph said. “They are tame stuff. I propose that we skip the rest of the way to the blanket.”
“Skip?” Lizzie asked as Miss Martin raised her eyebrows.
“You hop first on one foot and then on the other, all the while moving forward,” he said. “Like this.”
And he skipped along like an overgrown schoolboy, drawing the others with him until Miss Martin laughed aloud and skipped too. After a few awkward moments Lizzie joined them and they skipped along the avenue, the three of them, laughing and whooping and altogether making an undignified spectacle of themselves. It was a good thing any other people in the park were either out of sight altogether or else were so far away that they missed the show. Some of his friends might be interested to see him now, Joseph thought—skipping along a park avenue with his blind daughter and a school headmistress.
Doubtless Miss Martin’s pupils and teachers would be interested too.
But Lizzie’s carefree delight was worth any loss of dignity.
Miss Martin helped Lizzie off with her spencer when they reached the blanket and the shade, and suggested too that she take off her bonnet. She removed her own hat, as he did his, and set it on the grass. She smoothed her hands over her disordered hair, but it was a hopeless task. It would take a brush and a mirror to repair the damage. She looked utterly charming to him nevertheless.
They ate their tea with healthy appetites, devouring freshly baked buns with cheese and currant cakes and a rosy apple each. They washed it all down with lemonade that was sadly warm but was at least wet and thirst-quenching.
All the while they chattered on about nothing in particular until Lizzie fell silent and remained silent. She was curled up against Joseph’s side, and, looking down, he could see that she was fast asleep. He lowered her head to his lap and smoothed a hand over her slightly damp hair.
“I think,” he said softly, “you have just given her one of the happiest days of her life, Miss Martin. Probably the happiest.”
“I?” She touched her bosom. “What have I done?”
“You have given her permission to be a child,” he said, “to run and skip and lift her face to the sun and shout and laugh.”
She stared back at him but said nothing.
“I have loved her,” he said, “from the moment I first set eyes on her ten minutes after her birth. I believe I have loved her even more than I would otherwise have done just because she is blind. I have always wanted to breathe and eat and sleep for her and would gladly have died for her if it could have made a difference. I have tried to hold her safe in my arms and my love. I have never—”
Foolishly, he could not finish. He drew a deep breath instead and looked down at his child—who was so very nearly not a child any longer. That was the whole trouble.
“I believe that being a parent is not always a comfortable thing,” Miss Martin said. “Love can be so terribly painful. I have experienced a little of what it must be like through a few of my charity girls. They have been so very disadvantaged and I desperately want the rest of their lives to be perfect for them. But there is only so much I can do. Lizzie will always be blind, Lord Attingsborough. But she can find joy in life if she wishes and if those who love her will allow it.”
“Will you take her?” he asked, swallowing against what felt like a lump in his throat. “I do not know what else to do. Is school the right thing for her, though?”
She did not reply immediately. She was obviously thinking carefully.
“I do not know,” she said. “Give me a little more time.”
“Thank you,” he said. “Thank you for not saying no out of hand. And thank you for not saying yes before you have considered the matter with care. I would rather her not go at all than for it to be the wrong thing. I will care for her somehow no matter what.”
He looked back down at his daughter and continued to smooth his hand over her hair. It was ridiculously sentimental to think again that he would willingly die for her. The thing was, he could not. Neither could he live for her. It was a terrifying realization.
And yet somehow he was comforted by Miss Martin’s presence—even though she was not sure she could offer Lizzie a place at her school. She had shown his daughter—and him!—that she could have fun and even twirl about in the heat of the sun without holding on to anyone.
“I have often wondered,” he said without looking up, “what would have happened if Lizzie had not been blind. Sonia would have moved on to other admirers and it is altogether possible that I would ha
ve carried on with my own life much as before, while supporting the child I had sired but rarely saw—yet I would have believed I was doing my duty by her. I would perhaps have married Barbara and deprived myself of the pull of love to my first-born. But how impoverished my life would have been! Lizzie’s blindness is perhaps a curse to her, but it has been an abundant blessing to me. How strange! I had never realized that until today.”
“Blindness need not be a curse to Lizzie either,” she said. “We all have our crosses to bear, Lord Attingsborough. It is how we bear those crosses that proves our mettle—or lack of it. You have borne yours and become a better person, and it has enriched your life. Lizzie must be allowed to carry her own burden and triumph over it—or not.”
“Ah.” He sighed. “But it is that possibility of or not that breaks my heart.”
She smiled at him as he looked up at her, and it struck him that in fact she was more than just pretty. In fact, she was probably not pretty at all—that was far too girlish and frivolous a term.
“I do believe, Miss Martin,” he said without stopping to consider his words, “you must be the loveliest woman it has ever been my privilege to meet.”
Foolish and quite untrue words—and yet the truest he had ever spoken.
She stared back at him, her smile suddenly gone, until he lowered his gaze to Lizzie again. He hoped he had not hurt her, made her believe that he had merely been playing the gallant. But he could not think of a way of retrieving his words without hurting her more. The point was, he did not even know quite what he had meant by them himself. She was not lovely in any obvious sense. Not at all. And yet…
Good Lord, he was not becoming infatuated with Miss Claudia Martin, was he? There could be nothing more disastrous. But of course he was not. She had been kind to Lizzie, that was all—and it was impossible not to love her a little as a result. He loved the Smarts for the same reason.
“What happened to the dog?” he asked.
“A home happened—temporarily, at least,” she said, “and loving care from all quarters. And your mention of him has given me an idea. May I bring him to visit Lizzie?”
But Lizzie was stirring even as he raised his eyebrows, and he leaned over her and kissed her forehead. She smiled and reached up one hand to touch and pat his face.
“Papa,” she said, sounding sleepy and contented.
“It is time to go home, sweetheart,” he said.
“Oh, so soon?” she asked, but she did not look unhappy.
“Miss Martin will come and visit you again if you wish,” he said. “She will bring her little dog with her.”
“A dog?” she said, instantly more alert. “There was one on the street one day a few years ago. Do you remember, Papa? He barked and I was frightened, but then his owner brought him close and I patted him and he panted all over me. But Mother said I might not have one of my own. My stories always have a dog in them.”
“Do they? Then we must certainly have this one visit you,” he said. “Shall we invite Miss Martin to come too?”
She laughed, and it seemed to him that there was some unaccustomed color in her cheeks.
“Will you come, Miss Martin?” she asked. “And will you bring your dog? Please? I would like it of all things.”
“Very well, then,” Miss Martin said. “He is a very affectionate little thing. He will probably lick your face all over.”
Lizzie laughed with delight.
But this afternoon was rapidly coming to an end, Joseph thought. They must not be late back. Both he and Miss Martin had the evening visit to Vauxhall to prepare for—and he had a dinner to attend first.
He was sorry the outing was over. He was always sorry when his times with Lizzie were at an end. But today had been particularly pleasurable. They felt almost like a family.
But the strange, unbidden thought brought a frown to his face. Lizzie would always be his beloved child, but she would never be part of his family. And as for Miss Martin, well…
“Time to go,” he said, getting to his feet.
10
Lady Balderston had invited Joseph to dinner, and it was quickly obvious to him that there were no other guests, that he and the Balderstons and their daughter were to dine en famille. And if that fact were not statement enough of his new status as Miss Hunt’s almost betrothed, then Lady Balderston’s words not long after they sat down were.
“It was extremely obliging of Viscountess Ravensberg to invite Portia to Alvesley Park for the Redfields’ anniversary celebrations this summer,” she remarked as servants removed the soup plates from the table and brought on the next course.
Ah. It was to be a preeminently family gathering for the fortieth wedding anniversary of the earl and countess. Miss Hunt was already family, then?
“I had not yet informed Lord Attingsborough of the invitation, Mama,” she said. “But yes, it is true. Lady Sutton was obliging enough to invite me to call upon Lady Ravensberg with her this afternoon, and while we were there she informed her cousin that I had no plans for the summer other than to go home with Mama and Papa. And so Lady Ravensberg invited me to go to Alvesley. It was all very gratifying.”
“Indeed so,” Joseph said, smiling at both ladies. “I will be going there too.”
“But of course,” Miss Hunt said. “I am well aware that I would not have been invited otherwise. There would have been no point, would there?”
And there was no point in delaying his marriage proposal any longer, Joseph thought. It was obviously merely a formality anyway. The Balderstons and Miss Hunt herself clearly thought so. So did his sister—who nevertheless ought not to have taken matters into her own hands this afternoon.
It was just that he would have liked a little time for courtship.
Balderston was already attacking his roast duck and giving it his full attention. Joseph glanced at him, but now was not the time for plain speaking. He would make an appointment at some other time to speak formally with his future father-in-law. Then he would make an official offer to Miss Hunt, and all would be done. The course of the rest of his life—and hers—would be mapped out.
There was very little time for courtship, then, but there was still some. For the rest of the dinner and the journey to Vauxhall, where they were to meet Lauren and Kit and their party, Joseph focused his attention upon his future bride, deliberately noting again how beautiful she was, how elegant, how refined, how perfect in every way.
He was going to make himself fall in love with her as far as he could, he decided as his carriage proceeded on its way to Vauxhall. He had no desire to enter into a loveless marriage just because his father expected it of him and because circumstances demanded it of him.
“You look particularly lovely tonight,” he said, touching the back of her hand and letting his fingers linger on the fine, smooth skin there. “Pink suits your coloring.”
“Thank you,” she said, turning her head to smile at him.
“I suppose you know,” he said, “that your father visited mine in Bath a couple of weeks or so ago.”
“Yes, of course,” she said.
“And you know the nature of that visit?”
“Of course,” she said again.
Her face was still turned to his. She was still smiling.
“You are not in any way upset by it?” he asked her. “You do not feel perhaps that your hand is being forced?”
“Of course not,” she said.
“Or that you are being rushed?”
“No.”
He had wanted to be sure of that. It was all very well for him to accept that he needed a bride and that this woman was the best available candidate. But it took two to make a marriage. He would not have her pressured into marrying him if she would prefer not to.
“I am delighted to hear it,” he said.
He would not take the next logical step of asking her to marry him now—he had not yet spoken to her father, and he had the distinct impression that that might matter to her. But he supposed t
hey were one step closer to being officially betrothed.
She did indeed look lovely in pink, a color reflected in her cheeks and highlighted by her shining blond hair. He bent his head to kiss her. But she turned her face before his lips could meet hers so that they grazed her cheek instead. Then she drew a little farther to her side of the carriage. She was still smiling.
“Have I offended you?” he asked after a few moments.
Perhaps she thought kisses inappropriate before an official betrothal.
“You have not offended me, Lord Attingsborough,” she said. “It was merely an unnecessary gesture.”
“Unnecessary?” He raised his eyebrows and gazed at her perfect profile in the gathering dusk.
The carriage rumbled onto the bridge over the Thames. They would be at Vauxhall soon.
“I do not need to be wooed with such foolishness as kisses,” she said. “I am no silly girl.”
No, indeed she was not, by Jove.
“Kisses are foolish?” He was suddenly amused and bent his head closer to hers again, hoping to coax a smile of genuine amusement from her. Perhaps he had merely flustered her by attempting to kiss her.
“Always,” she said.
“Even,” he said, “between lovers? Between a husband and wife?”
“I believe, Lord Attingsborough,” she said, “that members of polite society ought to be above such vulgarity. Kisses and romance are for the lower orders, who belong there just because they know nothing of wise and prudent alliances.”
What the devil? Good Lord!
He was amused no longer.
And it struck him suddenly that in all the years of their acquaintance there had never been any moments of flirtation, any knowing glances, any forbidden touches, any stolen kisses—any of those little gestures between two people who were aware of each other sexually. He could not even remember a time when they had laughed together. There had never been the faintest hint of romance in their relationship.
But all that was about to change, surely.
Or was it?