by Carola Dunn
George looked at her searchingly. “I see you are better, Cl—Miss Sutton.” He glanced at Lord Pomeroy. “However, I believe it is time that we took our leave. May I call tomorrow to see how you go on?"
“Thank you, you are very kind, sir.” She was shy with him, shyer than she had been since their first meeting. Yet, as he bowed over her hand, she was overcome with an urge to run her fingers through his crisp, dark hair with its sprinkling of grey.
He was a flirt, she reminded herself fiercely, and she was an old maid.
Lord Pomeroy took his place. “I am persuaded, Miss Sutton, that fresh air without exertion will do you a world of good tomorrow. May I have the honour of driving you in the park if it is fine?"
From the corner of her eye, Claire saw George look startled and then sardonic. Wondering at his expression, she murmured a polite acceptance.
“Then I shall call for you at three, if that will suit.” Lord Pomeroy's calm, smiling courtesy was soothing.
“Well, Miss Elizabeth,” said George jovially, “shall we go along to keep an eye on your sister? I believe you will enjoy an outing in my high-perch phaeton."
“Oh yes, please!” Lizzie's blue eyes sparkled. “That will be beyond anything great."
“Three o'clock then."
Molly, who had been sitting in a corner quiet as a mouse to chaperone Lizzie, showed the gentlemen out. Lizzie peeked round the parlour door until the front door was firmly shut behind them, then she turned back to Claire.
“Whatever shall we wear?” she wailed.
Claire looked at her vaguely. “It does not signify,” she said.
“Yes it does.” Lizzie was indignant. “George and Bertram will not wish to be seen in the park with a pair of dowds."
“Lord Winterborne is too easygoing to mind what you wear, and Lord Pomeroy already knows me for a dowd."
“Fustian! Let me look at my lists. There must be something we can do to be ready by tomorrow. Ah, I know. We shall buy those shawls we saw at Waithman's. You remember the cashemire? Fastened at the throat with a brooch, like the picture in Ackermann's that I showed you, they will hide the worst, and they will always come in useful in future. Then I'm sure George and Bertram will have rugs to keep us warm, which will conceal our lower halves! We will need hats, though. A neutral straw, I think, then we can change the trimmings to match anything. I saw just the thing in Cranbourne Alley at an excellent price."
Claire rose and hugged her, kissing her cheek. “How very practical and ingenious you are becoming, dearest. But I do not need new clothes. Lord Pomeroy asked me to go with him only because I am the elder and he is too fastidious to ignore the niceties of convention. I confess I was surprised to see him at all, for I did not think him so taken with you as to disregard that dreadful scene! He might with perfect propriety have failed to call."
“He is not the least enamoured of me," Lizzie insisted. “It is you he is interested in. Are you not glad that he has not abandoned us?"
“Certainly. He is a courteous and considerate gentleman and must always be an acceptable escort for you.” Claire wondered at her insistence, but was too tired to pursue the subject. “I shall go and lie down for an hour before dinner,” she said. “Wake me if I fall asleep, for I missed luncheon and I am positively ravenous."
“So that is why you were faint,” said Lizzie with relief. “I shall have Mrs Rumbelow heat a bowl of soup and bring it up to you immediately."
As she made her way upstairs to her chamber, Claire considered this explanation with equal relief. How foolish of her to suppose that it was the sight of Lord Winterborne that had made her head swim!
Chapter XI—Lizzie
Lizzie sat, chin in hand, gazing out of the window at the fading pink of the sky above the houses on the far side of the square. It was most satisfactory that her indecorous outburst at their last meeting had not caused Lord Pomeroy to abandon his pursuit of Claire. She flushed as she recalled how she had defied her mother and rushed from the dining room. It was just the sort of ill-breeding his lordship most deplored.
She must watch her step in future so as not to jeopardise Claire's chances.
Molly came in. “I'll light the candles, miss,” she said, “and build up the fire a bit. I took Miss Claire her soup. Fancy them two lordships coming to visit, then!” She chattered as she bustled about the room setting everything to rights. “Lord Winterborne, he's right friendly, but that Lord Pomeroy, now, he's a proper gentleman. Allus polite an’ never familiar."
At least Claire seemed to be warming towards Lord Pomeroy, thought Lizzie. She had described him as courteous and considerate today, instead of reserved and insincere.
She did not do him justice, though. He had been more than considerate to poor Alfie, and in that business with Papa's stallion he had been brave and chivalrous. Nor had Lizzie found him so very reserved. He seemed withdrawn and reticent at times but she had laughed and quarrelled with him and knew him capable of frank sincerity.
He was as worthy of her sister's hand as any man could be, and she resolved to promote the match. For some reason the decision brought her little satisfaction.
“Can I get you anything, Miss Lizzie?” asked Molly, pausing on her way out.
“No. No, thank you. I shall go up to change shortly.” Lizzie knew Claire thought it ridiculous to change for dinner when it was just the two of them, but she enjoyed the ritual. She would enjoy it even more when she had some new gowns to put on.
March had come in like a lamb but there was a chill wind blowing when they set out the next morning to do their shopping. They walked briskly along Oxford Street to Cranbourne Alley, which Mrs Rumbelow had recommended as the best place for cheap bonnets and caps. Her delicately phrased warnings about the neighbourhood had passed right over Lizzie's head, and at ten in the morning none of the notorious Cyprians of nearby Seven Dials were in evidence.
Lizzie remembered from their explorations the shop where she had seen precisely what she wanted. Leaving Alfie with strict instructions to wait outside, they stepped in.
The plain straw bonnet Lizzie had her eye on was carried off to the workroom to be ornamented with a wreath of forget-me-nots and broad blue ribbons to tie beneath the chin. Claire was more difficult.
“That Leghorn hat with the broad brim is perfect,” said Lizzie. “You are tall enough to carry it off with an air."
“I do not need a new hat,” Claire protested. “A new ribbon for this one will be enough."
“But...” Lizzie began to argue, then changed her mind. “But if you will not have one, then I shall buy two and you may borrow one this afternoon."
“Certainly you must have two, but the Leghorn will not suit you."
Foiled, Lizzie grimaced and chose a hat with a narrower brim. While Claire was looking out of the window to make sure that Alfie had not disappeared, she ordered a bunch of lilac and a matching plume to be set to one side of the crown. They would go perfectly with the shawl she intended for her sister.
The milliner promised to have both hats ready to be picked up at midday, so they summoned a hackney to take them to the City, to Waithman's on Ludgate Hill.
Mrs Rumbelow had told them that Mr Waithman, linen draper and Member of Parliament for the City of London, had the best supply of shawls in the country. His prices were reasonable because he bought from the wives of merchants and soldiers, who came home from India with trunks full of the beautifully dyed and woven silks and cashemires for him. Lizzie hoped that the particular ones she had in mind were still there, but there were hundreds to choose from and she was sure of finding something to match the new hats.
She was prepared for another battle with Claire, but her sister could not resist the soft warmth of the cashemire. She leaned towards a practical brown instead of the delicate design of lilac and silvery-green Lizzie had picked out.
“Think how well this will go with Grandmama's amethyst brooch,” urged Lizzie. “You have nothing now to do it justice. This costs the same and
will wear as well as the brown. Are you afraid of looking pretty?"
Claire smiled wryly. “Fine feathers do not make fine birds,” she said. “Very well, I will take it. What have you in mind for yourself?"
Lizzie, with a triumphant grin, draped herself in a shawl patterned with a dozen shades of blue. “To go with Grandmama's sapphire,” she pointed out. “After all, they are the only jewels we own."
“To match the sapphire or your eyes?” Claire teased.
“It was you who told me that blue is my best colour. We will take these two,” she added to the shop assistant, quickly before Claire could change her mind. “Now let us go to the modiste and order some gowns, so that if George and Lord Pomeroy invite us out again we shall not have to hide beneath even the prettiest draperies!"
The package with the shawls, wrapped in brown paper and string, was given to Alfie to carry. He followed behind them holding it gingerly in both hands, as if it contained the finest crystal.
Since Lizzie had very firm ideas about what she wanted, it did not take long to order two walking dresses, a carriage dress and an evening gown. However, by the time her measurements had been taken it was growing late.
“I had hoped to explore Hatchard's book shop and Hookham's Library,” she said, “but we must get home in time for you to eat before they arrive. It would be too dreadful if you swooned in the park."
“I can think of few things less likely!” Claire laughed. “Pray do not treat me like an invalid only because I felt a little faint yesterday."
“Then have we time to order your gowns now?"
“No, you are right. Though I am not an invalid, I am hungry. Let us go. We can go to the library tomorrow, but pray remember not to display your interest in history in public. Mama is right about that, it would be fatal to your chances to be thought a bluestocking."
The sun had disappeared behind a pall of clouds and the wind had grown keener. When Lord Pomeroy arrived in Portman Square, on the stroke of three, he asked Claire solicitously if she thought it was too cold to go out in an open carriage.
“I have a fur rug in the curricle,” he added.
Claire threw a mischievous glance at Lizzie but answered soberly, “I shall do very well, sir, with the rug."
“Then if Miss Elizabeth will excuse us, let us go at once before it grows any colder."
Lizzie helped Claire don her shawl and hat, fastening the amethyst brooch and tying the lilac ribbons. She thought her sister looked charming, and noted a glint of approval—and relief?—in Lord Pomeroy's eye. He must have expected her to be shabbily dressed, so his invitation to drive in public with him argued a definite determination to court her seriously. Lizzie watched wistfully from the window as he handed her up into the carriage and took his place beside her.
Before they drove off, George's phaeton pulled up alongside and he stopped for a word with them. By the time Molly showed him into the parlour, Lizzie had on her new finery and was ready to go.
“I take it you are no more deterred by the wind than is your sister,” he said with a smile. “What a delightful bonnet, my dear, and the shawl intensifies the glorious blue of your eyes, as I am quite certain was your intention."
She laughed. “I mean to wear nothing but blue. However, I trust that you have a rug to cover my skirts, for my pelisse is two years old and looks it."
“Such vanity!” he teased, escorting her downstairs. “I fear there will be few to admire you, for the Season has scarce begun and the icy wind will deter all but the bravest."
They entered Hyde Park by the nearby Cumberland Gate. Though there were indeed few carriages to be seen, Lizzie thoroughly enjoyed the view from George's high-perch phaeton. The hood was up, protecting them from the worst of the wind. She chattered happily as they drove south and he responded with his usual amused sympathy. He waved occasionally to an acquaintance. No one stopped to exchange greetings, appearing eager to take their turn about the park and hurry home to the fireside.
They had nearly reached the ruffled waters of the Serpentine when Lord Pomeroy's curricle came towards them. Lizzie waved gaily, but his lordship and Claire were so deep in conversation that they did not notice her. She felt her heart give an odd little twist.
Of course she could only be glad to see them so much in sympathy. It must be the thought of losing her beloved sister that made her feel so peculiar.
George had fallen silent beside her. She glanced up at him and surprised a look of envy on his face. Even an incorrigible flirt, she supposed, must occasionally feel the want of a loving wife. She patted his arm sympathetically.
Startled, he looked down at her, then he smiled. “You must have great faith in my ability as a whip. Had I jerked on the reins, we might have ended up in the Serpentine, not an inviting prospect at this time of year."
“My brother told me that you are a top sawyer, and a member of the Four-Horse Club, whatever that may be. He seemed to think it a great honour."
“It is, but even a member of the Four-Horse Club has been known to overset a high-perch phaeton. It is not the most stable of carriages."
“Then why did you ask me to drive in it with you?” Lizzie asked pertly.
“Because you are no timorous miss and I thought you would enjoy it."
“I do, indeed I do, but I should have enjoyed it still more had I known from the outset that it was an adventure!"
“Minx."
He turned the phaeton to head for home. The hood no longer sheltered them from the biting wind and he urged his team from a trot to a canter.
“One should never underestimate the ability of March to emulate January,” he said apologetically. “If the weather ever improves, do you suppose your sister will like to ride in my dangerous vehicle?"
“I am sure she will. Just because she is quiet, it does not mean that she is poor-spirited."
“I did not mean to suggest any such thing."
Lizzie was surprised by the deep sincerity in his voice, quite unlike his usual joking manner. A little taken aback, she said in a deliberately bright voice, “Only do not tell her beforehand that there is anything out of the way about it, for if there is anything she fears it is drawing attention to herself. I would not have her miss the treat for such a nonsensical reason."
He gave her a grin of complicity but said drily, “I am persuaded that is one fear you do not share!"
Lizzie was glad of a hot cup of tea when they reached home, and the gentlemen were warmed with a glass of wine. They sat in the back parlour, which had a wider fireplace. Their lordships appropriated the new leather-covered armchairs, declaring them more fit for masculine use than the elegant but fragile Hepplewhite and Sheraton.
As soon as her hands had thawed sufficiently, Lizzie took up her embroidery, a cushion cover for the new chairs. Lord Pomeroy admired the design of aconites and snowdrops.
“A delightful change from the usual roses,” he said, then coloured slightly and glanced at Claire. “Begging your pardon, Miss Sutton! I've nothing against roses, I assure you."
“Embroidered roses cannot possibly be compared with the real thing,” Lizzie asserted loyally.
“I wonder what would be your opinion of Miss Linwood's Exhibition,” Lord Pomeroy said. “You have not heard of it? It consists of copies in embroidery of some of the paintings of the Old Masters. They are generally much admired."
“I have never seen the paintings, so I doubt I could properly appreciate Miss Linwood's work, though I should like to see it anyway."
“You must allow me to take you one of these days, first to the Royal Academy and then to Miss Linwood's in Leicester Square."
“I shall look forward to it, sir, but it will have to wait until I have some new dresses."
Lord Pomeroy laughed. “If it were anyone but you, Miss Elizabeth, I should protest loudly and say that you will do me credit whatever your dress. But I know your love of frankness so I will say instead that I anticipate with the greatest pleasure seeing you in fashionable clothe
s."
“You are insulting, my lord,” Lizzie pouted. “You mean, I collect, that I am not at present fit to be seen in your company?"
“If ever I heard such blatant fishing for a compliment!” he marvelled. “Wait a moment, let me see.” He struck a pose. “Miss Elizabeth, your eyes are blue as the heavens above, your golden curls like a ray of sunshine brightening the day."
“Very nice. But I wish you will call me Lizzie. When I hear ‘Elizabeth’ I always think of Mama."
“Of course, Miss Lizzie."
“No, just Lizzie. I wish you will not be so formal!"
“I hardly think that will be proper,” his lordship said stiffly.
She studied his face. Her suggestion obviously made him uncomfortable. Were appearances so important to Lord Pomeroy that he shied away from the merest hint of impropriety, or was it the suggestion of intimacy he shunned? She suspected the latter, but wondered whether he himself realised it. Of one thing she was sure: Claire was wrong in believing him insensitive. More likely, excessive sensitivity made him afraid of exposing his feelings.
She sighed.
“Lizzie, I'm sorry.” He reached for her hand with a rueful look. “Of course there can be no harm in it. I am a pompous slowtop, or any name you wish to call me."
“Bertram will do very well.” With a tremulous smile she put her hand in his, to be enveloped in his warm strength. For an endless moment her eyes met eyes as blue as her own. Then he let go her hand and she breathed again.
He stood up. “It is time I was on my way,” he said in a neutral voice. “I shall call tomorrow, Miss Sutton, to assure myself that you have not taken cold from our drive. Or may I call you Claire, since Lizzie and I have just concluded a pact against formality?” He smiled with his habitual charm.
Claire looked flustered. “If you wish, my lord,” she faltered.
“Bertram,” he corrected gently, raising her hand to his lips.
Lizzie looked away.
George also departed. He was going out of town for a few days, but he promised to call upon his return.