by Lynn Morris
Valeria and Regina arrived at eight o’clock, and in such an intimate setting there was no nonsense about standing about discussing the weather. They arranged themselves comfortably in the drawing room. Alastair had greeted Valeria, maintaining his usual distance. Valeria seated herself on a sofa next to Elyse, and Alastair took his stance leaning against the mantelpiece, talking quietly to Regina. The butler duly announced that dinner was served, and Valeria thought she would sit by Alastair even if she had to chase him around the table.
He took his seat at the head, and Valeria sat at his right, across from Elyse. Regina sat by Elyse, with Lady Hylton at the foot and Reggie seated by Valeria. Valeria was so happy to see that they were using a small dining table that just seated six comfortably, so that the diners weren’t stranded four feet away from their neighbors.
But also, as this was an informal gathering, the rules of polite discourse didn’t apply, so one was not obliged to spend a certain amount of time alternating between dinner partners. As soon as they were seated and had started on the first course, Lady Hylton announced to the table, “We have made a decision, and I’m sorry, Regina, but we’re determined you will have to go along with us whether you like it or no. We would very much like for you, Valeria, and St. John to come to Foxden Park for the grouse at the beginning of August.”
Regina’s eyes lit up. “And you’re apologizing to me for this? I love Foxden, and St. John is of an age now when I think he’ll truly enjoy learning to shoot. And it would be a good time for me to give poor Mr. Chalmers a holiday, although I’m sure I don’t know how I’ll ever handle St. John and Niall by myself. Oh, Letitia, would you possibly include Niall in the invitation? He and St. John are inseparable…”
Reggie then began talking to Regina and Lady Hylton, rhapsodizing about the good shooting at Foxden, and promising to take St. John and Niall in hand.
Valeria turned to Alastair and asked politely, “So will you be at Foxden too, sir?”
He seemed to search her face with some caution, and his answer was vague. “I haven’t yet decided, ma’am. Much depends on what needs to be done at Hylton Hall.”
“I see,” Valeria said, her heart sinking. “I suppose I may have many things to attend to at Bellegarde too, after being away for five months.”
“Perhaps not. I have been in contact with Mr. Wheeler, and it seems to me that he is so capable that the estate needs very little attention. Are you inclined to wish to go to Foxden? Or perhaps you may think it would be a tedious bore after the diversions of London.”
Valeria tried hard to discern if he spoke with sarcasm, but his countenance was impassive. Even if he meant no reproof, obviously he was trying to find out if Valeria would go…and in that case, she thought sadly, he likely would not. Still, Valeria knew that it would upset her mother if she refused to go, especially as she could give no reason. Finally Valeria answered in a low voice, “As a matter of fact the excitements of London have worn on me. I’m looking forward to going home. I’m sure that in a month my mother will be anxious to see Lady Hylton again, and my brother will surely be wild for going to Foxden.”
He nodded noncommitally, and they sat in stony silence until finally Elyse started talking to Valeria about how very cool it was in the north even in August, and how much she liked having fires every night, and how even the storms on the moors had a wild romance of their own. During the rest of the dinner Alastair’s conversation with Valeria consisted of two comments, regarding the roast veal and the excellence of the pear and blackcurrant cream ices.
Alastair and Reggie had no desire to stay and drink port while the ladies retired, so they all went back to the drawing room together. By now Valeria was feeling almost a feverish desperation; she thought that this might be the very last chance she would ever have of communicating to Alastair her burning wish that they might go back to their old familiarity. But what could she do?
After they had sat in the drawing room for half an hour, with Alastair again remote and silent at the fireplace, Valeria had an inspiration. It was somewhat melodramatic; but now she didn’t care if she showed her heartache to the entire world. She had nothing at all left to lose.
In a lull in the conversation she said brightly, “You know, Godmother, that I began my first Season by entertaining you all with my musical accomplishment; and I certainly achieved my goal of never being obliged to perform again, for since then no one has evinced a passionate desire to hear more of Scarlatti’s Esercizi.” She smiled at Alastair but he remained impassive. With determination she continued, “However, just between us here, I should like to have a chance to redeem myself. May I play for you tonight, to end my Season?”
Lady Hylton said, “Good heavens, child, I would have asked you all the time if you hadn’t been so outspoken dead set against it. Please, please do grace us.”
Valeria went to the pianoforte, bent her head and closed her eyes for a brief moment to compose herself, then began to play. The tune was simple, and she played it very softly, a haunting strain in a minor key. Then, to the astonishment of all, Valeria sang.
My young love said to me,
My mother won’t mind
And my father won’t slight you
For your lack of kine.
And she laid her hand on me,
And this she did say:
It will not be long, love,
Till our wedding day.
As she stepped away from me
And she moved through the fair
And fondly I watched her
Move here and move there.
And then she made her way homeward,
With one star awake,
As the swan in the evening
Moved over the lake.
The people were saying,
No two e’er were wed
But one had a sorrow
That never was said.
And I smiled as she passed
With her goods and her gear,
And that was the last
That I saw of my dear.
Last night she came to me,
My dead love came in.
So softly she came
That her feet made no din.
As she laid her hand on me,
And this she did say:
It will not be long, love,
Till our wedding day.
Valeria’s midnight-dark eyes shimmered with unshed tears, and she kept her gaze fixed on Alastair’s face as she sang. He watched her, his expression one of slight confusion. But did Valeria see his eyes flicker, perhaps with comprehension, understanding, and acknowledgment? She didn’t know. He remained an enigma to her even until now…at the end.
A profound silence pervaded the room as the last sweet true notes died away. Regina, watching Valeria and Alastair, brushed her own tears away from her eyes, and she and Letitia shared a very quick worried expression. Elyse’s eyes darted from her brother to her friend, and perturbed incomprehension marred her face.
Lord Lydgate was the only person who didn’t sense the heated undercurrents in the room, and with distinct pleasure on his friendly features he began clapping loudly, and naturally everyone then joined in. “Miss Segrave, you’ve really been hiding your candle under a bush, haven’t you?”
“Under a bushel, Reggie,” Elyse corrected him.
“Never could understand that, makes no sense if you ask me,” he muttered. “A bushel of what?”
“Valeria, I had no idea you could sing like the very angels,” Elyse said. “Shame on you for deluding us in this infamous manner.”
Slowly Valeria rose and sat back down by Elyse. Only now did she take her eyes off Alastair. “I have been deluding all of you,” she said in a low voice, “but I can assure you that I never meant to do so in an infamous way.”
“Course not,” Reggie said cheerfully. “But still, really, Miss Segrave. ‘Set the pack a-howling,’ indeed!”
Valeria and Regina stayed until eleven o’clock, and not another word passed between
Valeria and Alastair. Studiously they avoided each other’s gaze. As they went home, Valeria thought, I see now that it is hopeless, I have lost him forever. I’m so glad that we’re going home…I don’t want to see him anymore, it hurts too much. Surely after some time and space between us this sorrow and bitterness will fade.
And so she prayed earnestly for the Lord to heal her and to console her, and she knew that He would be faithful in doing so. But in that endless sleepless night, and for many nights to come, healing and consolation seemed infinitely far away.
Chapter Twenty-five
RETURNING TO BELLEGARDE DID RELIEVE Valeria. It lifted the heavy burden of tension she had felt at the end of the Season. The sorrow and pain remained, but as the days went by, she found that the keen knife edge of them was lessened. Now she found much comfort in morning prayers, and at church, and she reflected that although she had determined that she would change her behavior and attitudes, her newfound relationship with her Heavenly Father and Savior had changed her soul, and the rest had followed as sweetly and as easily as the sun coming out after a long gentle rain.
Carrying her luncheon basket, she lifted her head and smelled the ambrosial scents of the flowers in the cottage garden: sweet peas, snapdragons, alyssum, forget-me-nots, nasturtiums. The flowers grew in rich profusion right up to the walls of the summerhouse, a small cottage with large casement windows on all four walls, long ago painted blue but now faded to a gentle blue-gray. Actually summerhouse was a misnomer, for it had never been used as a house. Until this summer it had been a small, out-of-the-way shed that the gardeners used to store their tools. But now Valeria had taken it over, and here she had found another solace: painting. When she was working with her oils seemed to be the only time she was fully absorbed, and experiencing a keen pleasure. She unlocked the door, propped it open, and then opened the windows. The cheery August sunlight was perfect for an artist’s studio.
As she worked she reflected that it was going to be extremely hard for her to leave her oil paints behind for a month. What Lady Hylton had said was true. Oils had to be mixed with either linseed oil or turpentine, and there was a constant pervasive smell of the strong chemicals. It was especially true of Valeria’s studio, for she had found that she spent much more time learning how to mix the paints than she did actually painting. Some colors worked better with linseed oil, others with turpentine, and there were thousands of variations of each, requiring hours of experimentation. Valeria had resigned herself to the fact that she must go to Foxden Park; she would likely be no more listless and apathetic there than she was here. The Hyltons’ hunting lodge, though not really a small house, still had no adequate place for an odorous artist’s studio. Valeria consoled herself, only slightly, by reminding herself that she could take her watercolors at least.
She forgot all about luncheon, and was surprised when she finally noticed that the slanting bright sunbeams had grown dim. “Oh, dear, by the time I get all of this blasted blue paint off I’ll be late for dinner,” she mumbled to herself.
When she joined Regina, St. John, and Mr. Chalmers in the cozy morning room, the first thing St. John did was lift his head and sniff. “You smell like a sputtering lamp, Veri. Why do you always smell like that at dinner?”
“Oh, do be quiet, St. John, you’re not supposed to talk about how people smell,” she said crossly. At Regina’s mildly reproving glance, she smiled at her little brother and went on, “It’s my new eau de cologne, Arôme de la Lanterne.”
St. John’s downcast countenance instantly transformed into a bright grin. “Aroma of the Lantern!” Casting a sly glance at his tutor, he said, “You see, Mr. Chalmers, I really was attending to the French lesson.”
“I find that remarkable, my lord, since it seemed all you were doing was blowing bits of paper through a tube at Niall,” Mr. Chalmers said with equanimity.
“Actually, it was spit-wads, and it was Niall’s own fault, as he showed me how to make them,” St. John said in an aside to Valeria.
Appalled, Regina said, “Really, St. John, how can you think that it’s acceptable to talk about smells and—and—” The ever-genteel Regina couldn’t bring herself to repeat the word. Helplessly she went on, “Oh, I give up. I simply can’t think how I shall manage without your civilizing influence, Mr. Chalmers. No, no, please don’t offer again to accompany us; you fully deserve a month’s holiday. Indeed I can’t imagine how you’ve kept your sanity this long. Anyway, I’ve had a letter from Lady Hylton today that relieves my mind considerably.”
She cast an apprehensive glance at Valeria, but when she went on she sounded cheerful. “Lord Hylton has decided to join us at Foxden; in fact, he has gone ahead to make arrangements for us at the coaching inns.” To St. John she said sternly, “Lord Hylton is a firm man, and he would likely box your ears if you say such things as—as—what you said in the company of ladies.”
“Maybe, but he’s a right sport anyway. Does Foxden have a billiard room?” St. John asked eagerly. “Remember, we never finished my lessons.”
“I’m afraid it’s hopeless, Mamma,” Valeria said, but with a distracted air. “St. John is destined to become a rake. So—so Lord Hylton suddenly decided to go to Foxden? Does Lady Hylton—is there—any indication of why he changed his plans?”
“I’m not so sure it was really a change of plans, dear,” Regina answered cautiously. “He usually does go every year for the opening of grouse season.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Valeria said listlessly, and she lapsed into thoughtful silence for the rest of the meal.
After St. John and Mr. Chalmers had left them in the drawing room, Valeria said, “Mamma, I must tell you something. I—I can’t go to Foxden. It’s difficult to explain, but I beg you will not make me go.”
Regina did not seem shocked, but she was openly distressed. “Oh, dearest, I’m so very sorry. Are you completely sure? Won’t you reconsider?”
Valeria swallowed hard. “I won’t change my mind, Mamma.”
Regina searched her face. Valeria was looking down, staring blankly into the mass of flowers on the cold hearth. Regina saw no trace of tears; but Valeria’s face was as desolate as if she had been weeping for hours. “Very well, my dear. If you are unable to go, then of course I won’t go without you, and leave you alone here.”
Sighing deeply, Valeria said, “I anticipated that you would say that, Mamma. But surely you know that it would be unfair to St. John, and even to you, for I know how much you enjoy being with Lady Hylton. So if you won’t go without me, I will go.
“But please understand this. I love you and St. John, of course, and would never wish to be without you. But in these days I’ve found that solitude has offered me a chance to reflect, to think, and to come to terms with—with—the future. So I would not be unhappy to be alone for a while, at all. In fact, I would welcome it.”
Regina reflected that for someone who was supposedly in a welcoming frame of mind, her daughter seemed to be very sad. Of course Regina knew the cause. Though Valeria had not been openly ecstatic about going to Foxden, she had been willing to go—until she had found out that Lord Hylton would be there. Regina and Letitia had often spoken about the estrangement between Valeria and Alastair. But neither of them had any idea whatsoever about the reason for it. Just as Valeria had not confided in Regina, Alastair had not mentioned a word to his mother about her. Regina sighed deeply. “Very well, as I said, I won’t force you to go against your will. But dearest, I know that you are distressed and upset; can’t you confide in me at all? I might be able to help, you know.”
Valeria shook her head. “Talking about it would do no good. There is no help for it in heaven or on earth.”
* * *
Alastair said to Fleming, “No, no, the blue won’t do, it’s too formal. The green, I think, with the brown waistcoat.” Finally the bottle-green coat, simple brown waistcoat patterned in black, buff breeches, and top boots satisfied him. “That will do, Fleming. Tell my mother I shall be dow
n shortly.”
He went to look out the old mullioned casement window, which faced out across the long moors, and the straight road leading to Foxden. It was too early to expect them, he thought, but still he had been searching all day. In his solitary afternoon ride, he had even ridden a couple of miles up the road, with some halfhearted notion that he might meet them. “Fool,” he muttered blackly to himself.
He went back to his chest and opened the top drawer. Inside, neatly folded and arranged, were collars and neckcloths. He reached into the very back of the drawer and pulled out a small black mask. Slowly he went to sit on the bed, letting the soft silk run through his fingers, remembering.
He had not intended to come to Foxden, for he was a strong-willed man, and he’d fully meant to fulfill his vow not to burden Valeria with his presence. But as the past weeks had gone by, and he had gone over and over in his mind every meeting he’d had with her since that night at the Pantheon, he had begun to feel a very slight glimmer of hope. She might have lost any fondness she might have had for him, and even believe him to be dishonorable; but at no time in her countenance or air had he detected any anger or disgust. Gradually he had come to think that away from the rarified hothouse atmosphere of London, in the warm and familial air of Foxden, he might be able to finally show her how bitterly he regretted his unforgivable words and actions of that night. He might be able to win back her respect.
Sighing, he carefully folded the mask and slipped it into his coat pocket. He had been carrying it ever since that night that Valeria had let it fall to the floor of the coach, awash with her tears. Angrily he told himself—again—that he was like some sort of lovesick sentimental languishing fool, a fully grown man carrying around a meaningless piece of cloth like that putridly virtuous Sir Galahad wearing a lady’s favor into a joust. But still he left it in his pocket as he went downstairs to the drawing room.