A Second Spring

by Carola Dunn

  A conformable wife! What he thought he wanted was someone as ruled by propriety and convention as himself, but there were chinks in his armour. How many gentlemen, asked what they wanted in a bride, would or could spout Shakespeare? He’d be bored to tears by a conformable wife.

  Rich, wise, virtuous, fair, mild, of good discourse, an excellent musician—forget the conformable part. “Ben, I do believe I have already hit upon the very person: Lady Eleanor Lacey.”

  “Lacey? Who is she?”

  “Lord Derrington’s sister. She was my dearest friend at school, and we’ve always kept up a correspondence.”

  “She’s your age? Why have I never met her? Why isn’t she married? Though I don’t insist upon beauty, I don’t care to face an antidote across the breakfast table every morning.”

  “Nell made her come-out when I did, then her mother died and she took over running the household for her father. She comes up to Town for brief visits but she never had a second Season. I must say, she has always seemed perfectly contented. She prefers the country.”

  “That is something in her favour. Derrington? Ah, yes, the Lacey Stables. The old earl died some eighteen months ago, did he not?”

  “Yes, so she kept house for her brother instead, until he married a few months since.”

  Ben gave her a shrewd look. “And now lady Eleanor’s nose is out of joint because she has to give precedence to her sister-in-law.”

  “Nell would never be so petty! Though I do think it must be difficult when she has been mistress of the household for seven or eight years. Heavens, how old that makes me feel!”

  “At any rate,” he said impatiently, “you believe she is no longer so contented with her lot that she is unwilling to marry. She sounds suitable. I shall have to meet her before I make an offer, of course.”

  Again Juliet was dismayed by his cold-blooded approach. “You may go down to Brantwood with the excuse of meeting a few carriage-horses before you make an offer on them,” she snapped.

  “An excellent notion. In any case, I daresay I shall have to purchase a barouche or landau and pair for my coachman to drive Lady Eleanor about in—if she proves acceptable. I’ll write to Derrington today. And now, my dear, I’ll pay my duty visit to the nursery. Thank you for your help.”

  Juliet glared at his oblivious back as he strolled from her boudoir. Her only consolation was that Nell was free to refuse him.

  * * * *

  Nell struggled to keep her face blank as Phyllis’s peevish voice besieged her. That’s what it was, not an assault to be repulsed, but a siege to be endured. How could Bertie have married the woman?

  “…And his letter says most particularly that he looks forward to meeting his sister’s dearest friend, so it’s perfectly obvious he has more on his mind than carriage horses.” Phyllis laughed with a ghastly roguishness. “He is just of an age to wish to be setting up his nursery.”

  Where Phyllis was concerned, Lord Clifford’s supposed desire to find a bride was pure wishful thinking, fuelled by her own desire to rid herself of her sister-in-law. Unfortunately, Nell knew she was right. Juliet’s letter had disclosed her brother’s intentions, as well as promising to take no offence should Nell refuse him.

  Juliet might forgive a refusal, but Phyllis never would, nor would she ever let Nell forget it. Unless she positively disliked the man, she would accept his offer. At six-and-twenty she was far too old to dream of love, and Brantwood was no longer a haven.

  She glanced sadly round the pretty, comfortable morning room, its flowered chintzes bright in the April sunshine. The new Lady Derrington’s plans for it included sphinxes, black lacquer, palm trees, and faux bamboo.

  “There is nothing to be done about your height,” Phyllis said discontentedly. “It will never do to hunch your shoulders. You must endeavour to remain seated as much as possible when in his company. As for your hair, that may be hidden under a cap. How fortunate you are more than old enough to be putting on caps.”

  “Why on earth should I hide my hair?” Nell demanded, shaken out of her apathy by the attack on her only vanity.

  “Gentlemen abominate red hair.” She tossed her own golden curls. As a bride of a few months, she had not yet taken to caps herself. “We shall have a cap or two specially made for you to hide every wisp. Of course, while he is here you will read only the most respectable novels and light verse—no Byron, and no philosophy! Gentlemen abominate a bluestocking. And none of your political talk. It is quite shocking the way you will be always trying to persuade Bertie with your radical fancies.”

  “Hardly radical, merely reformist.”

  “I am sure no lady knows the difference. You must play for Lord Clifford, that goes without saying. Your performance upon the pianoforte is really quite adequate, my dear Eleanor. But pray avoid that horrid, noisy, new German composer whose music you recently received.”

  “Avoid Beethoven?” she asked, surprised.

  “Far too passionate,” said Phyllis delicately. “Not at all ladylike. Haydn is much more decorous. Which reminds me, on no account must you drive your dog-cart about the countryside. A gig with a single placid horse is acceptable, provided you stay within the park. A dog-cart is a gentleman’s vehicle, and to take a lively pair on the public roads is not at all proper, as I have previously had reason to advise you.”

  “I don’t own a gig,” Nell pointed out, “nor is there a single nag in Bertie’s stables I should describe as placid.”

  “There will be no need for you to drive anywhere while Lord Clifford is here. If you require exercise, a stroll in the shrubbery will suffice—none of your cross-country rambles! Of course, you will leave the parish visiting to the vicar’s wife. One must be charitable, but it is quite beneath the dignity of the sister of an earl actually to call upon labourers and people of that sort.”

  “If someone has need of me, I shall go. Besides, a stroll in the shrubbery may conceivably suffice me for a few days, but it will not do for Maera.” She reached down to fondle the ears of the shaggy beast stretched in watchful repose beside her chair.

  “One of the stableboys may exercise that horrid great mongrel of yours. It will have to be confined to the stables in any case. The only unexceptionable dog for a lady is a pug.”

  Nell knew the only reason Maera was still allowed indoors was that Phyllis had not yet managed to break Bertie of bringing in whatever spaniel or pointer happened to be at his heels. Sooner or later she would succeed in banning dogs from the house.

  She must have been storing up a list of her sister-in-law’s faults. It was not as if Nell ever did anything outrageous. Papa had not minde how she spent her time as long as she made him comfortable and did not scare the horses, so she quietly went her own way. She had been her own mistress for years.

  In fact, Bertie had taught her to drive a pair and Papa had given her both the dog-cart and Vesta and Vulcan, her spirited, perfectly matched chestnuts. To match her fiery head, he’d said. Papa had not abominated red hair.

  Tears rose to her eyes. She fiercely blinked them away.

  “I shall lend you some of my French perfume,” said Phyllis graciously.

  That was the last straw. She had to draw a line somewhere. “If Lord Clifford doesn’t care for lavender water,” she snapped, “he may go to the de…depths of the ocean!”

  “Well, really!” Phyllis was thoroughly offended. “I’m only trying to help. At your age you must seize your chance.”

  With difficulty, Nell mastered her temper, as Miss Lindisfarne had taught her years ago. “But, Phyllis,” she said in desperation, “if I behave as you suggest, Lord Clifford will not know what I am really like.”

  Phyllis stared, astonished. “Good gracious, Eleanor, once he has come up to scratch and you are safely married, what has that to say to anything?”

  So that was why poor Bertie had married her. He had mistaken a carefully constructed façade for reality, and discovered the reality too late.

  Was Nell prepared to pl
ay the same trick on the unknown Lord Clifford? It was not as if she had any desire to make him live beneath the cat’s paw. She would make him comfortable, as she had Papa, and perhaps he’d allow her a little freedom in exchange. He would want children, at least an heir. No more dying of envy whenever she saw a woman with a babe in her arms. No more wondering whether she should marry a man she did not care for, solely for the sake of children.

  As Phyllis nagged on, anything seemed preferable to staying at Brantwood.

  * * * *

  “I believe Lady Eleanor is in the music room, my lord.”

  Benedict thanked the butler with a nod and made his way towards the music room. In five days at Brantwood he had yet to speak to Lady Eleanor alone. The Derringtons were all that was hospitable. There were other guests, many of them interested in purchasing the young earl’s fine carriage horses. Days were filled with shooting parties, outings on horseback with the ladies in carriages, a hunt with the South Berkshire. Every evening there were more guests to dinner, followed by music and cards and billiards.

  He would have thought no one guessed his real purpose were it not for Lady Derrington’s constant hints and determined chaperonage of her sister-in-law.

  He was well satisfied with what he had seen of Lady Eleanor. She seemed at ease among her brother’s guests and, he gathered, had played hostess to admiration in her equally hospitable father’s time. Her dress was neat and proper, neither dowdy nor excessively fashionable. Her face was pleasant, distinguished neither by daunting beauty nor plainness. She was neither fat nor thin, and she moved with grace. When she played Haydn or Scarlatti upon the spinet in the drawing room after dinner, her touch was light and sure. Benedict looked forward to musical evenings in his own home.

  If Lady Eleanor had a fault, it was that she was rather too quiet. On the other hand, Lady Derrington talked enough for two, enough to convince him the last thing he wanted was a garrulous wife. He had decided to propose.

  His interview with Lord Derrington proved most satisfactory. Lady Eleanor possessed a considerable fortune in her own right—naturally he would settle it upon her and her children. He had no need of her money but at least it proved she wouldn’t be marrying him for his wealth.

  He was not ill-looking. He had every intention of being a considerate husband, and he’d provide her with a family and an establishment of her own. What more could any woman desire?

  The music-room door was closed. As Benedict opened it, a flood of sound engulfed him, urgent, demanding, troubled. Startled, he stepped forward. The music came to a sudden halt.

  Lady Eleanor sat at the pianoforte, her hands still on the keys. She stared at him as if turned to stone by his sudden appearance.

  “What were you playing?” he asked to put her at her ease, advancing towards the instrument.

  She jumped up, closing the music. “A new piece, Lord Clifford. I fear I have by no means yet mastered it. Were you… were you looking for me?”

  “Yes. I have something particular to say to you, Lady Eleanor. Will you not be seated?”

  “No, thank you,” she said with an odd hint of defiance. Tall and elegant in leaf-green sarsenet trimmed with white Valenciennes, she moved to the window where she gazed out at a glinting April shower.

  For the first time, Benedict felt a hint of awkwardness. After all, he had never before proposed marriage. But gentlemen did it every day. It was nothing out of the ordinary. There was even a prescribed form of sorts—stuff about hands and hearts. However, he was not going to lower himself to offer Spanish coin. Hearts had nothing to do with the matter.

  “I have spoken to your brother,” he said. “He has given me permission to address you and reason to hope that you will not look unkindly upon my suit. Lady Eleanor, you will do me the greatest honour if you will grant me your hand in marriage.”

  She turned. With the bright rectangle of the window behind her, he was unable to read her face, but he thought her regard was searching. Surely she wasn’t trying to find a courteous way to tell him his hopes were unfounded!

  After a moment, she said with quiet dignity, “Thank you, sir, I am happy to accept your flattering offer, and I shall do my best to be a good wife to you.”

  And now, Benedict found, came the truly awkward part. He could not take this cool, self-possessed woman in his arms and kiss her as instinct bade him. He would not lie and tell her she had made him the happiest of men. In any normal social situation, precisely the correct words were always on the tip of his tongue, but now he found himself at a loss.

  “You are very kind,” he said. “I shall do my best to be a good husband. You do not care for a long engagement, I trust? I believe a June wedding is traditional, if you can be ready in time.”

  “June will do very well.”

  She held out her hand to him and he bowed over it, venturing to touch his lips to her knuckles. There didn’t seem to be anything else to say, so he left her.

  She had accepted him. Why, then, this chilly, hollow feeling of disappointment?

  As he politely closed the music-room door behind him, he realised he didn’t know the colour of her hair or eyes.

  * * * *

  “I can’t do it, Agnes, indeed I cannot!” Staring into the looking-glass, Nell saw the panic in her voice reflected in her grey-green eyes. Her face was pale above the white nightgown.

  Her misgivings had grown during the four weeks since Lord Clifford’s proposal, and had come to a head during evensong that very evening. She hadn’t seen her prospective husband since the day after his offer, when he had bowed to her wish for a quiet wedding in the village church. Sitting in the church today, she had tried to imagine herself standing with him before the altar, promising to love, honour and obey a stranger. Impossible!

  Her abigail paused with the hairbrush in one plump hand poised above the flowing copper tresses. “Then you shan’t, my lady,” she said soothingly. “Though when all’s said and done, he’s a handsome, well-set-up gentleman, with a good handle to his name and no need of your fortune, from what I hear.”

  “Handsome? He might be handsome if there were only a little animation in his face. His features are well enough, but so impassive I never saw him smile, or even frown. When we discussed the arrangements for our wedding—even when he proposed to me—we could have been planning the dullest of dinner parties.”

  “There’s some men don’t care to show their deepest feelings, dearie.”

  “Even to the women they’re going to marry? I don’t believe he has any feelings. How can I spend the rest of my life with a block of wood? A block of ice!”

  “His valet says he’s a good master, a good landlord, and a good brother.”

  “But I should not be his servant, his tenant, nor his sister.”

  “Ah well, ‘tis not the end of the world,” said Agnes philosophically, resuming the brushing of Nell’s hair with long, rhythmic strokes. “You’ve turned down others afore.”

  “But never after first accepting them. And then I had a happy, peaceful home… Oh, Agnes, I miss Papa so! If he were still alive, I’d not have considered accepting Lord Clifford.”

  Their eyes met in the mirror. Nell never directly criticised her sister-in-law to any servant, but her abigail knew well enough what was driving her from Brantwood.

  When Bertie married, Nell had welcomed the new Lady Derrington and willingly turned over the reins of the household. That was not enough for Phyllis, whose chief joy in life was the exercise of authority. First, Miss Lindisfarne must go.

  Lindy, Nell’s governess before she went away to school, had returned as her companion when her mother died. But Nell needed no companion, Phyllis said, now that her brother’s wife was living at Brantwood. Nell would have fought, but Miss Lindisfarne, foreseeing endless battle, chose a graceful retirement.

  At once Nell made plans for them to set up house together. Her personal income was adequate for a perfectly comfortable existence with as many of the elegancies of life as intereste
d either. Phyllis was horrified. Everyone would say she had driven her husband’s sister from her home.

  For Bertie’s sake, Nell stayed. Envying Lindy her escape, she frequently visited her friend at her cottage near Hungerford, some five-and-twenty miles distant. Phyllis promptly made it plain that she didn’t actually want her sister-in-law at Brantwood. It was Nell’s duty to find a husband and remove herself in an unexceptionable way for which no one could hold Phyllis to blame.

  So Nell had accepted Lord Clifford.

  “I cannot live with a man who never laughs,” she said firmly as Agnes loosely plaited her hair for the night. “We shall go and live with Miss Lindisfarne.”

  “Just give me the word, my lady, and I’ll pack.”

  “Bless you, Agnes. What should I ever do without you?”

  Nell felt much better for having come to a decision. She fell asleep quicker than she had in weeks, but when she woke in the small hours of the morning, all the difficulties seemed overwhelming.

  The moment she revealed that she meant to cry off, the nagging would start. Phyllis was quite capable of following her to Lindy’s and making both their lives a misery. In the end, if only for the sake of peace, Nell would give up and return to Brantwood. She’d find herself tied for life to a man she didn’t know.

  Throwing a wrap about her shoulders, she went to sit on the windowseat. Maera scrabbled out from under the bed and came to lay a heavy, loving head in her lap. Outside, beneath a full moon, white candles bloomed on the chestnut trees in the park and the fragrance of lilac wafted in through the open window. Under the calming influence of the May night, the answer came to her.

  If she disappeared the day before the wedding, it would be too late for anyone to fetch her back.

  To desert him at the last minute was not very fair to Lord Clifford, she acknowledged, but it was not as if they were to be married at St George’s, Hanover Square, before half the peerage. Besides, it allowed him three more weeks to reveal to her what sort of man he was. If he showed himself to be a real person with feelings to be hurt, she would reconsider.