With a surge of fresh rage, Amy ripped the ring from her finger and icily begged Mr. Baldwin to remove the offensive reminder of her folly from her sight.
“Gladly! I’m only grateful to have discovered so quickly what a mistake I was making.” With these last harsh words, Daniel turned and strode swiftly away from her.
Amelia watched him go in rigid hauteur. As soon as his form disappeared around the corner, however, she sank back down onto the settee and wept bitterly. She looked with blurred eyes at the poem, the hateful, hateful poem. Then she tore it savagely to shreds. This afforded her little comfort. She would much rather, she decided, have shredded Sir Uriah and Daniel Baldwin each by turns. Men were all abominable creatures, she now realized, and she was better off, much, much better, without them.
At length, her tears ceased to flow and she sat silently in dull misery, staring at her pink kid slipper. She did not know how long she had been sitting thus when she heard a steady footfall. She raised her head to dimly perceive Rose coming toward her.
“Amy! I’ve been searching for you this past hour! You must hurry to get dressed for dinner.” As Rose drew near she saw the red-rimmed eyes, the woeful turn of Amy’s usually smiling lips. “My dear, whatever has happened?” she asked in concern as she took the seat vacated some time since by Baldwin and enfolded the girl in her arms.
Fresh tears welled up in those violet eyes and as they spilled over onto the shoulder of Rose’s best indigo kerseymere, Amy haltingly explained what had happened.
“You see the poem arrived just as we were leaving, so I—I stuck it in my dress to read later. And when it fell out, Daniel thought—Daniel thought—” Amy finished with a dismal sniff.
“Do you . . . care . . . for Sir Uriah?”
“Oh, Rose, he is nothing but a fop!” Amy disclaimed impatiently. “He wears his shirt collars so high he cannot even turn his head! And he does not even know what a figure he cuts. But he writes such pretty things about me . . . I just wanted to read it . . .”
As the young voice died sadly away, Rose promised briskly to have speech with Mr. Baldwin and do what she could to set matters to rights.
“I do not think that you will be able to repair the damage that I have done, dear Rose,” Amy said mournfully. “But you are the best of good cousins to try.”
Eventually she allowed herself to be led to her bedchamber where she dressed with such an unusual lack of interest that her maid inquired solicitously if Miss was feeling quite the thing.
“Yes. No! It doesn’t matter!” Amy had snapped in reply before descending to bleakly partake in dinner.
Chapter 14
Swan giblet soup and stewed eels were lavishly followed by a saddle of mutton, roasted guinea fowl and pigeon pie, which in turn, were removed to be replaced with the main course of oyster patties and fricassee chicken. Each succeeding course of the princely meal was served in the grandest of style and seemed interminable to more than one of the earl’s guests.
Conversation was as a result on the desultory side and as the meal wore on, Hallbrook had turned more and more often to Miss Lawrence to sustain the discourse, which she did in her usual collected manner. The old man had been much impressed at the lady’s cool observation that there had never yet been a minister to equal Sir Robert Walpole and from that moment on, the earl had begun to favor her with his opinions on the current outlandish policies of the Regent’s ill-run government. As both Miss Lawrence on his left and Miss Helen on his right were good listeners, the earl was one of the few present to thoroughly enjoy his meal.
For her part, Rose had cause to be grateful to the golden French cherub who held aloft the candelabra, for effectively blocked her view of the viscount. Since her brief but unsettling encounter with Stratford that afternoon, she had humored herself for a time with wishing she had not come. But not being one to indulge in such fruitless conjecturings for long, Rose had soon put aside all fancies and reconciled herself to a trying visit. It was not as if she did not have anything to occupy her mind, she reflected facetiously, what with Mr. Baldwin and Amy rigidly exchanging commonplaces across the table and Helen returning Stratford’s pleasantries with a subdued abstraction. It was a matchmaker’s nightmare and she was still puzzling over how she would disentangle the twisted affairs when Lady Minerva finally stood to signal the removal of the dishes.
Neither of his grandsons appeared disposed to linger over the port so it was not long before Hallbrook suggested they follow the ladies. When they entered the Keep’s elegant Grand Salon, they found one member of the party already gone, for Miss Thacker had retired immediately after supper, declaring herself to be excessively fatigued. This highly unusual circumstance was questioned by no one, though her mother had focused upon her a searching regard which Amy was unable to meet.
Baldwin seemed inclined to echo Miss Thacker’s sentiments and withdraw, but he was thwarted in his attempt to do so by his grandfather who thrust a glass of claret into his hand and demanded to know what it was he saw in the flighty young miss.
“I regret to inform you, sir,” Daniel replied as he stiffly as he sat, “that you are laboring under a misapprehension. Miss Thacker and I have come to the conclusion that we should not suit.”
“Eh? Well ’tis like for the best, my boy. There’s no denying that she’s a taking little thing, but there’s plenty more of her sort about and make no mistake,” asserted the earl while shrewdly watching the young man from beneath half-closed lids.
Daniel colored, but made no reply and the old man soon shifted his eyes to the others in the room. As they came to rest upon Miss Lawrence seated on a remote sofa, he remarked in a less caustic tone, “Now there’s a woman of sense.”
Following the earl’s gaze, Baldwin instantly agreed. “Miss Lawrence is most worthy, sir. I have the highest regard for her.”
“To my way of thinking, it’s a great pity a gel such as that ain’t married,” asserted the earl, stabbing a bony finger into the air. “That’s a waste of a fine woman.”
His grandson appeared much struck with this observation. “Yes, sir, I believe it is,” he said in a thoughtful tone.
By then the earl had moved on to loudly demand of his daughter what she meant by foisting that mealy-faced schoolroom chit Jane onto the Andells, for if she thought to catch the young marquis with such a namby-pamby miss as that she would soon learn her mistake, and Daniel’s words were lost in the ensuing hostility as his mother rose to the defense of his young sister.
Crisis was avoided when Rose, seeing her sister turn white at the upraised voices of the earl and Lady Minerva, pleasantly inquired if a servant might not be sent to her rooms to fetch her sewing. “It is most relaxing, you know, and after such a busy day I dare say my mind could benefit from the soothing qualities of taking a stitch or two.”
Her request was immediately granted and Elizabeth Thacker took the opportunity to suggest a game of whist, having heard the earl was one of the finest players to be met. It proved to be the perfect answer of how to occupy the remainder of the evening for both Hallbrook and Lady Minerva were avid card-players and all mention of Jane was forgotten as a table was made ready.
Miss Lawrence firmly declined to play as her sewing was all she wanted of the evening. Miss Helen begged to be allowed to make her excuses, for though her stay in London had accustomed her to late hours, she wanted to be fresh for a promised early morning ride across the Keep’s estates with Lord Stratford. With a curtsey, she was gone, leaving Baldwin to make the fourth, for Stratford insisted piquet, not whist, was his game.
The party settled down to a quiet murmur over the card table while in her corner Rose began neatly stitching a monogram on a square of linen. The viscount paced the room several times, occasionally pausing to watch Miss Lawrence as her head bent over her nimble fingers. He was arrested in midstride by a curt command from his grandfather to make himself still or quit the room.
Stratford cast himself into a wingback chair which stood opposite Mi
ss Lawrence. Stretching out his long legs and hunching his shoulders into the corner of the chair, he studied her from beneath his heavy lids. Each stitch went up and came down methodically and gradually the broad shoulders relaxed, the set of his lordship’s jaw eased. Rose’s gaze came up from her needlework to meet his. She smiled and the viscount was conscious of a rare feeling of contentment.
“You are a most . . . restful . . . woman, Miss Lawrence,” he said before she could return to her work.
Her smile broadened. “Now that, at least, is a compliment I do not suspect you of practicing!”
“I cannot claim to have known many restful women,” he admitted with a rueful smile. “Tell me, what is it you are sewing?”
“It is to be a gift for Helen—a wedding gift,” she replied with only the ghost of her smile remaining. “I am working her new monogram upon it now.”
The unhappiness which crossed his face tore at her, but she fought against showing any of this and said instead, “Do you know, back home in Willowley, I would have been abed an hour ago? I believe I must get my rest now or I shall not be a very restful woman any longer.”
Her attempt at raillery brought no response from Stratford, though he stood and moved to open the door for her. As she retired to her room, Rose sighed a little at her inability to have spoken, as promised, with Mr. Baldwin on Amy’s behalf, but she could not have borne the sweet torment of his lordship’s company throughout the whole of the card game waiting to do so. As it was, her peace of mind had been quite thoroughly uprooted. She would, she vowed with determination, think only of catching Mr. Baldwin at the first opportunity on the morrow.
But it was of a pair of dark, downturned eyes that she dreamt.
*****
In the event, Rose did not have to search out Daniel Baldwin in the morning, for the gentleman appeared as she was leaving the breakfast room to beg a few moments of her time. With a quizzical life her brow, she went with him to a small but cheery sitting room the east windows of which afforded an excellent view of the Keep’s well-manicured gardens. Turning her back upon this superb view, Rose sat on a bright green crocodile couch, folded her hands in her lap and waited calmly for him to begin.
He appeared to be having some difficulty collecting his thoughts, for twice his mouth opened and twice it closed before he nervously cleared his throat.
“Mr. Baldwin, if it is about your unfortunate misunderstanding with Amelia that you wish to speak, let me say that I am already fully informed of the circumstances,” Rose said helpfully.
“No! That is to say, yesterday’s occurrence only served to open my eyes to the folly I had committed in thinking Miss Thacker a suitable wife for me,” he responded with force.
“But she is! She loves you so very—”
“Madam, I’ve not come to speak of Miss Thacker,” Baldwin cut in. “Let me make it clear to you that the association is finished.”
“Oh, surely not! Such feelings as have passed between you—”
“Are now, gratefully, a thing of the past. Though I cannot deny certain . . . feelings still exist, they will no doubt diminish with time.”
“Mr. Baldwin, you would do well to reconsider. Amy’s indiscretion was not due to any lack of love for you, but to the natural flattery derived from Sir Uriah’s poetry. Why, she does not even like the man!”
“Which makes her behavior in encouraging him all the worse. I am no flatterer, ma’am, and if Miss Thacker will only sip from a honeyed cup, then we are much better parted.”
His expression was closed and Rose saw that it would be useless at this point to protest further. Having two stubborn brothers had taught her a great deal about argumentation and she felt that if she waited, another opportunity to convince him otherwise would present itself. It was with a sense of shock that she realized he was speaking to her.
“But I still believe it’s time I was married,” he said, “and that is why I’ve requested a moment with you. Miss Lawrence, the more I have seen of you, the more impressed I’ve been with your dignity of manner and your calm good sense. In short, I am asking you to do me the honor of accepting my hand in marriage.”
Her hand flew to her mouth as she leapt to her feet. “You cannot be serious!”
“I was never more so. Oh, do not be thinking I come to you with false fancies of love. I would not have you thinking me so fickle. Nor would I have you believing that I do not know my own mind. I assure you that I’ve given this matter great deliberation and am certain that we should be able to deal admirably well together. We are of much the same temperament and if I could not offer you any of the deeper feelings, I can and do offer you the home and hand of an honest man.”
“My calm good sense, as you put it, sir, can only lead me to decline.” She shook her head as he began to object. “It is true, we both admire and respect one another and I’m sure we could manage to rub along tolerably well together. But there, you see, I lack the desire to merely deal well with my husband. I want nothing less than a love match, Mr. Baldwin, and it is owing to this sad fault that I remain a spinster. I see you are shocked—you must even now be congratulating yourself on so narrowly escaping the union with one so filled with romantic notions as I.”
“Indeed, you are funning, Miss Lawrence! I think the more of you for your frankness and can only say that if, after reflection, you should change your mind, I am your obedient servant.”
With a bow he had gone from the room and Rose could only sink to the couch and wonder at the magnitude of her folly in ever agreeing to come to Hallbrook at all. Much wiser, she saw in retrospect, to have stayed in Willowley taking Dr. Newlyn’s restorative powders.
After a time, though not yet fully recovered from the shock of Mr. Baldwin’s proposal, she removed to the library where she attempted to compose a duty letter to her mother. She was sitting staring at an empty sheet, nibbling on the end of her pen when Helen ran lightly into the room. Rose looked up with a start as the door opened, but upon seeing her sister, smiled widely and set the pen aside.
Her deep blue velvet riding habit swished as Helen rushed over to exchange a quick hug. “Rose, I’ve had the most famous notion!” she exclaimed happily.
“You have decided to elope to Gretna Green,” Rose teased.
“No, this is much, much better!” Helen dropped gracefully onto the nearest chair and beamed at her sister as she pulled off her tan kid gloves. She was rosy and obviously bursting with some bit of thrilling news. “You shall never guess!”
Rose propped her elbows on the desk of the mahogany secretary and gazed at Helen over her laced fingers.
“You are to come live with us!”
Her hands parted. Rose sat upright. “What?”
“You mustn’t think you would be intruding for I have asked Stratford and he was very, very kind. He thought it an excellent notion—in fact, he insisted upon it!” she explained proudly. When her sister did not respond with the enthusiasm she had expected, her pretty face fell. “What’s wrong, Rose? Is it not what you should like?”
“Of course, dearest, but there is Mama, you know, and the boys—”
“Is that all?” Helen interrupted with relief. “You know Mama is quite content with Nell and the boys will be going off to school soon. And we’ll go home for visits as often as we like, for my lord has said we might. It must be better, surely, to live with me than to remain under Nell’s charity!”
“But I cannot wish to impose upon newlyweds,” she protested dully.
“Don’t be a ninny! I shall need you, especially if—if there are babies soon. So no more argufying with me! It is as good as settled!” She jumped up and with a quick kiss on Rose’s cap, ran from the room.
Rose sat stunned. She could not make her home with the Viscount and Viscountess Stratford. The daily torment of seeing Stratford, yet never having him—and oh, the temptation!—made such an action clearly unthinkable. She wanted as she had never wanted before to cast away every scruple and fall in with Helen’s scheme
. But if she did, how long could she resist her desires? She was weak, too weak. Eventually, she would give in and become Stratford’s mistress. Such a course could only end with them loathing what they had done, despising themselves and one another.
The idea of returning to Willowley to live out the rest of her days in her brother’s home was equally depressing. And even were she to return home, Rose thought, there would be no refuge. Family gatherings would throw them together perilously often. Not that Stratford would ever countenance her return. What had Helen said? He thought it an excellent notion—in fact, he insisted upon it! No, he would not easily let her retreat to the nebulous comfort of Appleton Cottage.
There could be but one way to remove the danger of her vulnerable love for Stratford—marriage. Rose had ever scoffed at those who denied love as the sole basis for marriage, but she knew her own love match could never be. It did not matter whom she wed, only that she do so quickly.
Through the dull ache of her heart crept the realization that she must accept Daniel Baldwin’s proposal. Though she tried to argue against it, it was a futile battle. Rose saw only the need to place herself beyond the menace of her yearnings.
She sat rubbing her fingertips against her temple, then rose and crossed purposefully to where a finely worked tapestry bell-pull hung invitingly on the wall. Rose reached, hesitated, then grabbed the pull and yanked with a strength that sent the bell in the servants’ hall dancing wildly. She was still standing motionless by the pull when a young footman appeared. In a voice void of emotion she requested him to inform Mr. Baldwin that she desired to see him, if he pleased.
Before the footman returned with the gentleman, she had ample time to compose herself. When Mr. Baldwin bowed over her hand and murmured, “Servant, ma’am,” with a questioning look in his hazel eyes, she was able to meet that look without the least appearance of the great agitation she had been experiencing.
“I trust you’ll not think me flighty, Mr. Baldwin, or given to frequent changes of mind, for in general I assure you, it is not my way,” she said by way of introduction as he seated himself opposite her.
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