Simply Perfect

by Mary Balogh

  Claudia went a little way ahead of him across the bridge and waved her arms and called out to a few groups of people who were in sight. It was obvious they read her message. The search was over—Lizzie had been found.

  By the time they approached the lake, everyone was waiting expectantly for them and Lizzie was half asleep. Horace bounded ahead, panting and woofing.

  They received a hero’s welcome. Everyone wanted to touch Lizzie, to ask if she had taken any harm, to ask what had happened, to explain how they had searched and searched and almost given up hope.

  “Your arms must be tired from carrying her, Attingsborough,” Rosthorn said. “Let me take her from you. Come, chérie.”

  “No,” Joseph said, tightening his hold. “Thank you, but she is fine where she is.”

  “She really ought to be taken back to Lindsey Hall immediately,” Wilma said. “Such a fuss, and it has threatened to ruin this splendid picnic. You really ought to have been doing your duty, Miss Martin, and keeping an eye on the girl instead of going walking with your betters.”

  “Wilma,” Neville said, “stuff it, will you?”

  “Well, really!” she said. “I demand an apol—”

  “This is absolutely not the time for cruelty and recriminations,” Gwen said. “Be quiet, Wilma.”

  “But it really ought to be said,” Portia added, “that it is disrespectful to Lady Redfield and Lady Ravensberg to have brought charity pupils to mingle with such a gathering and then to have left them to the chaperonage of someone else. And a blind charity girl is the outside of enough. We really ought—”

  “Lizzie Pickford,” Joseph said in a firm, clear voice to an attentive audience that consisted of his father and mother, his sister, his betrothed, and numerous relatives, acquaintances, and strangers, “is my daughter. And I love her more than life itself.”

  He felt Claudia’s hand on his arm. He lowered his head to kiss Lizzie’s upturned face. He felt Neville’s hand grasp his shoulder and squeeze hard.

  And then he became aware of an awful silence that overlaid the sounds of children at play.

  19

  The words Lady Sutton and Miss Hunt spoke cut Claudia like a knife. Though they were spitefully uttered, she was utterly defenseless against them. She had been terribly to blame. She had been walking with Charlie—ah, yes, with her betters—when she should have been keeping an eye on Lizzie.

  But perhaps even more than personal insult and guilt, she felt a deep and impotent anger to hear her precious charity girls spoken of so disparagingly in their hearing. And yet she could say nothing in their defense either. Perhaps Lady Ravensberg might have done so and informed Miss Hunt that they were here by her specific invitation. But the Marquess of Attingsborough spoke first.

  Lizzie Pickford is my daughter. And I love her more than life itself.

  Anger and guilt were forgotten in deep distress. Claudia set a hand on his arm and looked at Lizzie in some concern.

  Most of the younger children played on with the indefatigable energy of their age and a total unawareness of the drama unfolding around them. But somehow the noise they made only accentuated the awful silence that fell over everyone else.

  The lame and pretty Lady Muir spoke first.

  “Oh, Wilma,” she said, “now see what you have done. And you too, Miss Hunt. Oh, really, it is too bad of you.”

  “Miss Martin’s schoolgirls,” the Countess of Redfield said, “are here at my express invitation.”

  “And at mine,” Lady Ravensberg added. “It has been a delight to have them. All of them.”

  But everyone fell silent again as the Duke of Anburey got to his feet.

  “What is this?” he asked, frowning ferociously, though it did not seem that he expected an answer. “A son of mine making such a vulgar admission in such company? Before Lord and Lady Redfield in their own home? Before his mother and his sister? Before his betrothed? Before the whole world?”

  Claudia lowered her hand to her side. Lizzie turned her face into her father’s waistcoat.

  “I have never been more insulted in my life than I have been this afternoon,” Miss Hunt said. “And now I am expected to bear this?”

  “Calm yourself, my dear Miss Hunt,” the Countess of Sutton said, patting her arm. “I am deeply ashamed of you, Joseph, and can only hope that you spoke in the heat of the moment and are already feeling properly remorseful. I believe a public apology to Papa and Miss Hunt and Lady Redfield is in order.”

  “I do apologize,” he said, “for the distress I have caused and for the manner in which I have finally acknowledged Lizzie. But I cannot be sorry for the fact that she is my daughter. Or for the fact that I love her.”

  “Oh, Joseph,” the Duchess of Anburey said. She had got to her feet with her husband and was walking toward her son. “This child is yours? Your daughter? My granddaughter?”

  “Sadie!” the duke said in a forbidding tone.

  “But she is beautiful,” she said, touching the backs of her knuckles to Lizzie’s cheek. “I am so happy she is safe. We were all dreadfully worried about her.”

  “Sadie,” the duke said again.

  Viscount Ravensberg cleared his throat.

  “I suggest,” he said, “that this discussion be removed indoors, where those people who are most nearly concerned may be afforded some privacy. And Lizzie probably needs to be taken out of the sun. Lauren?”

  “I’ll go ahead,” the viscountess said, “and find a quiet room where she may lie down and rest. She looks quite exhausted, poor child.”

  “I will put her in my room if I may, Lauren,” the Marquess of Attingsborough said.

  The Duke of Anburey was already taking the duchess by the arm and turning her in the direction of the house. Miss Hunt gathered up her skirt and turned to follow. Lady Sutton linked an arm through hers and went with her. Lord Sutton walked on Miss Hunt’s other side.

  “Shall I carry her for you, Joe?” the Earl of Kilbourne offered.

  “No.” The marquess shook his head. “But thank you, Nev.”

  He took a few steps in the direction of the house but then stopped and looked back at Claudia.

  “Come with us?” he said. “Come and watch Lizzie for me?”

  She nodded and fell into step beside him. What an awful ending to the picnic for those who were left behind, she thought. But perhaps not. It was certainly a picnic no one was going to forget in a hurry. It would doubtless be the subject of animated conversation for days, even weeks to come.

  It was a solemn procession that made its way to the house, except for Horace, who darted ahead and raced back, all panting breath and lolling tongue as if this were a new game devised entirely for his amusement. Viscount and Viscountess Ravensberg came along behind them and caught up with the marquess when they were near the house.

  “Where did you find her, Joseph?” the viscountess asked softly.

  “There is a little hut in the woods on the other side of the bridge,” the marquess said. “She was in there.”

  “Ah,” the viscount said, “we must have forgotten to lock it the last time we were there, Lauren. We sometimes do forget.”

  “And thank heaven we did,” she said. “She is so sweet, Joseph, and of course she looks like you.”

  And then they all reached the house, and the viscount directed everyone to the library.

  The marquess did not follow them. He led the way upstairs, and Claudia went with him to his room, a large, comfortable guest chamber overlooking the eastern flower garden and the hills beyond. Claudia drew back the covers from the canopied bed, and he set Lizzie down in the middle of it. He sat beside her and held her hand.

  “Papa,” she said, “you told them.”

  “Yes,” he said, “I did, did I not?”

  “And now,” she said, “everyone will hate me.”

  “My mother does not,” he said, “and Cousin Neville does not. Neither does Cousin Lauren, who just told me you are sweet and look like me. If you had had ey
es to see a few minutes ago, you would have seen that most people were looking at you with liking and sympathy—and happiness that you were safe.”

  “She hates me,” she said. “Miss Hunt.”

  “I think,” he said, “it is me she hates at the moment, Lizzie.”

  “Will the girls hate me?” she asked.

  It was Claudia who answered.

  “Molly does not,” she said. “She was weeping just now because she was so happy to see you again. I cannot speak for the others, but I will say this. I am not sure it is a good idea to try to win love by pretending to be what we are not—you are not an orphaned charity girl, are you? It is perhaps better for all of us to risk being loved—or not—for who we really are.”

  “I am Papa’s daughter,” Lizzie said.

  “Yes.”

  “His bastard daughter,” she added.

  Claudia saw him frown and open his mouth to speak. She spoke first.

  “Yes,” she agreed. “But that word suggests someone who is resented and unloved. Sometimes our choice of words is important, and one of the wonders of the English language is that there are often several words for the same thing. It would be more appropriate, perhaps, to describe yourself as your papa’s illegitimate daughter or—better yet—as his love child. That is exactly what you are. Though it is not necessarily who you are. None of us can be described by labels—even a hundred labels or a thousand.”

  Lizzie smiled and lifted a hand to stroke her father’s face.

  “I am your love child, Papa,” she said.

  “You certainly are.” He caught her hand and kissed the palm. “And now I must go downstairs, sweetheart. Miss Martin will stay with you, though I daresay you will be asleep in no time. You have had a busy day.”

  She yawned hugely as if to prove him right.

  He got to his feet and looked at Claudia. She smiled ruefully at him. He half shrugged his shoulders and left the room without another word.

  “Mmm,” Lizzie said as Horace jumped up onto the bed to curl up against her, “the pillow smells of Papa.”

  Claudia looked directly at Horace, who gazed back in perfect contentment, his head on his paws. If she had not rushed to his defense in Hyde Park that afternoon, she thought, all this would very probably not have happened. How strange a thing fate was and the chain of seemingly minor, unrelated events that all led inexorably to some major conclusion.

  Lizzie yawned again and was almost instantly asleep.

  And what now? Claudia wondered. Was she going to take Lizzie back to school with her when she and Eleanor and the other girls returned to Bath within the next week or so? Even though she knew that Lizzie did not want to go? Did either of them have any other choice now? What other option was there for the child? Claudia could only imagine what was transpiring downstairs in the library. And what choice did she have? She loved Lizzie.

  There was a soft tap on the door about ten minutes later, and Susanna and Anne opened it and tiptoed inside without waiting for an answer.

  “Oh,” Susanna said softly, looking toward the bed, “she is asleep. I am glad for her sake. She looked in shock out there at the lake.”

  “The poor dear child,” Anne said, looking toward Lizzie too. “This has been a sad ending to the afternoon for her. Yet earlier she enjoyed herself so much. A few times I was close to tears just watching her have fun.”

  The three of them sat close to the window, some distance from the bed.

  “Everyone is leaving,” Susanna said. “The children must all be exhausted. It is almost evening already. They have played for hours without stopping.”

  “Lizzie was afraid,” Claudia said, “that everyone must hate her now.”

  “Quite the contrary,” Anne said. “It was a rather shocking revelation, especially for Lauren and Gwen and the rest of Lord Attingsborough’s family, but I do believe most people are secretly charmed by the fact that she is his daughter. Everyone had fallen for her anyway.”

  “I have been wondering,” Claudia said, “if Lizzie and I will still be welcome at Lindsey Hall. I did bring her there under false pretenses, after all.”

  “I overheard the Duke of Bewcastle remark to the duchess,” Susanna said, “that some people deserve their comeuppance and it is gratifying to see them get it. It was obvious he was referring to Lady Sutton and Miss Hunt.”

  “And Lady Hallmere declared quite openly,” Anne said, “that the marquess’s revelation was quite the most splendid moment of this or any afternoon she can remember. And everyone wanted to know if anyone else knew what had happened to Lizzie to cause her to get lost, and where you found her. Where did you find her?”

  Claudia told them.

  “I suppose,” Susanna said, “you visited Lizzie in London, Claudia.”

  “Several times,” Claudia said.

  “As I thought,” Susanna said with a sigh. “There goes my theory that Joseph was sweet on you when he took you driving so often. Perhaps it is just as well, though. Your romance would have had a tragic ending, would it not, since he was bound to offer for Miss Hunt. Though my opinion of her deteriorates every day.”

  Anne was looking closely at Claudia.

  “I am not so sure tragedy has been averted, Susanna,” she said. “Even apart from his looks, the Marquess of Attingsborough is an enormously charming gentleman. And any man’s appeal can only be enhanced when he is seen to be devoted to his child. Claudia?”

  “What nonsense!” Claudia said briskly, though she still kept her voice low. “It is pure business between me and the marquess. He wishes to place Lizzie at my school, and I have brought her here with Eleanor and the other girls as a trial. There is nothing else between us. Nothing at all.”

  But both her friends were looking at her with deep sympathy in their eyes, just as if she had confessed to an undying passion for the man.

  “Oh, Claudia,” Susanna said, “I am so sorry. Frances and I made a joke of it in London, I remember, but it was not funny at all. I am so sorry.”

  Anne merely leaned forward and took hold of Claudia’s hand and squeezed.

  “Well,” Claudia said, her voice still brisk, “I always did say dukes were nothing but trouble, did I not? The Marquess of Attingsborough is not a duke yet, but I ought nonetheless to have run a thousand miles the moment I set eyes on him.”

  “And that was my fault,” Susanna said.

  And now she could no longer deny the truth to them, Claudia thought. She would be the object of their pity forever after. She squared her shoulders and pressed her lips together.

  When a footman opened the library door and Joseph stepped inside, it was to find his mother and father alone there. His mother was seated beside the fireplace. His father was pacing, his hands clasped behind his back, though he stopped when he saw his son, a frown causing a deep crease between his brows.

  “Well?” he said after they had all regarded one another silently for a few seconds. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

  Joseph stood where he was, just inside the door.

  “Lizzie is my daughter,” he said. “She is almost twelve years old though she looks younger. She was born blind. I have housed and supported her all her life. I have been part of her life from the beginning. I love her.”

  “She seems like a very sweet child, Joseph,” his mother said. “But how very sad that she is—”

  The duke quelled her with a look.

  “I did not ask, Joseph,” he said, “for a history. Of course you have taken responsibility for the support of your bastard child. I would expect no less of a gentleman and a son of mine. What I do need to have explained is the presence of the child in this neighborhood and her appearance at Alvesley this afternoon where she was bound to be seen by your mother and your sister and your betrothed.”

  As if Lizzie were somehow contaminated. But of course she was in the minds of polite society.

  “I am hoping to place her at Miss Martin’s school,” he explained. “Her mother died at the end
of last year. Lauren invited Miss Martin and Miss Thompson to bring the girls to the picnic this afternoon.”

  “And you did not think to inform them,” his father asked, his face ruddy with anger, a pulse beating visibly at one temple, “that it would be the depths of vulgarity to bring the blind child with them? Do not attempt an answer. I do not wish to hear it. And do not attempt an explanation of your appalling outburst after Wilma and Miss Hunt had reprimanded that schoolteacher. There can be no explanation.”

  “Webster,” Joseph’s mother said, “do calm yourself. You will make yourself ill again.”

  “Then you will know, Sadie, at whose door to lay the blame,” he said.

  Joseph pursed his lips.

  “What I do demand,” his father said, turning his attention back to his son, “is that neither your mother nor Wilma nor Miss Hunt ever hear another word of your private affairs after today. You will apologize to your mother in my hearing. You will apologize to Wilma and to Lady Redfield and Lauren and the Duchess of Bewcastle, whose home you have sullied quite atrociously. And you will make your peace with Miss Hunt and assure her that she will never hear the like from you again.”

  “Mama,” Joseph said, turning his attention to her. She held her hands clasped together at her bosom. “I have caused you distress today, both at the picnic and now. I am deeply sorry.”

  “Oh, Joseph,” she said, “you must have been more frantic than any of us when that poor child was missing. Did she take any harm?”

  “Sadie—” the duke said, frowning ferociously.

  “Shock and exhaustion, Mama,” Joseph said. “No physical injuries, though. Miss Martin is sitting with her. I expect she is asleep by now.”

  “Poor child,” she said again.