“Please, Marissa,” Claire said. If this conversation did not go well with her very best friend, what hope did she have of dismissing society’s rumors? “He is not a murderer. At the very worst he was a child who caused an accident with tragic consequences. At best, he had nothing to do with it at all, but has shouldered the blame for all these years. In either case, I do not find fault with him. In fact, he is rather wonderful.”
“I see. You have been swayed by a handsome man with a bit of mystery about him. But as you might recall, we have heard that he bears terrible scars of that night, which are likely to diminish one’s appreciation of his fine figure.”
Claire held her breath for a moment, knowing it was impossible for her to keep any secrets from her friend. “I have seen those scars and they do nothing to diminish my appreciation.”
Marissa nearly tipped off the chaise. “What have you done, my dear? And with this man?”
Claire waited, as her maid entered the room with an overloaded tray of tea and treats, including Claire’s favorites. She thought she ought to write down some of the recipes and give them to Mrs. Clark, if she ever saw Mrs. Clark again. But for now she reached for a cucumber and egg sandwich.
“I have done what I have longed to do since Glastonbury’s death, and have not dared with any gentleman of my acquaintance. I will not say I have not been tempted, but good sense always prevailed.”
“And what happened to your good sense whilst on holiday on Yorkshire?” Marissa asked.
“It did not abandon me. My eyes were open and clear-sighted when I did what I did, several times over.”
“Several times?” Marissa pressed her hand over her heart. “Will you marry the man?”
Claire was pretty certain that a bed of roses was not a proposal of marriage, but she also knew Max would not have gone to such trouble if he did not intend to make a compelling case in his favor. If she had not already guessed it, she knew last night in Brookside Cottage that she loved him and if he had asked for her hand then, she would have given him her promise. But he did not ask, and she did not insist upon it, and now they were in London, where roses were a bit harder to come by.
“I do not know,” Claire said, honestly. “He has not been out much in the world, and I should like for him and his sister to meet our friends and attend all the best events. I have taken on the responsibility of restoring his reputation, and can hardly step between him and ladies who will distract him from a widow who was a companion to his sister.”
“Of course. You are such an old dowd. Once Wentworth’s popularity is established, he will certainly find sweet young things who are all of—what?—four years younger than you. Why did I not think of that at once?”
Claire reached for another sandwich. “You know you cannot have it both ways, my dear. Either you are appalled by my relations with this man, and would be happy to see him out of my life. Or you want me to have him, and will strangle the competition.”
Marissa looked at her over her teacup. “I want what you want,” she said.
“Thank you,” Claire said, expressing a wealth of gratitude with those simple words.
“We shall begin at Mrs. Longreaves’ dinner party on Tuesday night, where I have already secured invitations for you, Lady Camille, and Wentworth. The St. Paul family will be dining there as well and their son is only recently back from Paris. I thought of him for Lady Camille.” Marissa paused and took a deep breath. “I daresay we shall have to visit my dressmaker immediately, for you wrote Lady Camille has an indifferent wardrobe. We would not want to add that to the list of qualities by which she shall be judged, for being blind is certainly sufficiently problematic. Then, I should like to . . .”
“One scarcely notices she is blind,” Claire broke in. “I find myself forgetting it all the time. She manages quite well, so long as she is in the company of a friend who understands how to help her. And we had some dresses made up in Middlebury. They are not the finest, I admit, but they will do until others are made. And of course she will need a gown for the ball we are planning for her. And there is one other thing.”
“Riding in the park; I have already thought of it. Can she manage on a saddle?”
“I believe she can, but that is not what I would ask,” said Claire. “Can you procure an invitation for a Mr. James Cosgrove, in Belgravia Square?”
Marissa frowned. “I never heard of the man.”
“He is the fourth son of the Duke of Lennox.”
“Which is exceedingly unfortunate,” Marissa pointed out.
“But he is a dear friend of Lady Camille, which is fortunate indeed.”
“Of course. Once other gentlemen see his attentions to her, they will be encouraged to step forward. It is a very good strategy, Claire.”
Indeed. If all turned out well during this London sojourn, Max would find a charming, young thing to marry, and Camille would forget about her beau from Middlebury and run off with an earl. It was a wonderful plan and when all was said and done, Claire and Jamie Cosgrove could console themselves over a pot of tea.
“Is it?” Claire asked. “Suddenly, I find myself wondering what I am doing here in London.”
“This is where you belong, my friend,” sighed Marissa.
Claire thought about dipping her bare feet in the lovely brook in Yorkshire, the wide lawn at Brook Hall and the row of neatly tended quince trees. She knew she would no longer awaken each morning to the riotous sound of birds in the woods and walk through rows of lavender and coneflowers on her way to the meadow. The food on her London table would not come from her little patch of garden nor would the fish be caught in the Thames. Maxwell Brooks’s bedroom was no longer down the hall from her own.
“I used to think so,” Claire said. “Now, I am no longer certain of it.”
***
Marissa’s planned events for Claire’s calendar did not include the one thing Claire truly missed during her visit to Brookside Cottage, and so Claire set off the next morning to Mrs. Maybelle’s Home for Orphaned Girls before anything could distract her from her mission. She selected a lively book that Lady Camille and she enjoyed reading together, about a lost girl and a dog that follows her about, rescuing her from improbable situations and unlikely dangers. Mrs. Maybelle’s girls would either be terrified or delighted by their adventures, but Claire thought she could improvise with some facility.
She nearly missed the modest house in its row of neatly tended neighbors, and only realized her mistake when she recognized a small face in the window. The sight of one friend, of someone loved, reminded Claire that the trappings of wealth and the grandness of furnishings had nothing to do with what made a house a home. She returned to a place of comfort and joy and as she entered, it seemed that not only did the girls embrace her, but the house did as well.
“We missed you most terribly, Lady Claire,” one girl said.
“I am so happy to be back,” Claire responded. “And did you not enjoy the company of my friend, Mrs. Brooks, who came in my stead?”
“She is a very fine lady,” said one of the girls, glancing around at the others.
“Yes?” Claire prompted them.
“Mrs. Brooks would not sit on the floor,” the oldest girl said. “She told us it would be quite improper to do so.”
Claire smiled, glad that this was all. “Mrs. Brooks is correct, for sitting on the floor is rather unladylike. But one can behave a bit improperly when one is at home. Do you not agree, Mrs. Maybelle?”
“Welcome home, my lady,” the good woman said, punctuating all that Claire felt just now.
“It is my pleasure,” Claire said simply. “I have brought a very remarkable book with me, about a young girl who is quite lost until she finds a dog to help her find her way home.”
And so she settled herself on the worn rug and the girls gathered around and resumed
as if they had not just endured a separation of so many weeks. Claire did not have to probe too deeply to understand why this simple story affected her audience more than her reading of Tennyson or Bunyan: They all were lost girls, seeking a guide through the wilderness. The orphans desired nothing more than a home, each to her own. Lady Camille wanted to be mistress of a home wherein she was not a younger, dependent sister, but a woman in her own right, with a husband of her choosing. And she, Claire, with a choice of several properties with equally lonely beds, wanted someone she loved and trusted, with whom she could share her life.
No matter the words she read, her thoughts were only for Maxwell Brooks, which is why she was rendered speechless when his aunt strode through the door of Mrs. Maybelle’s parlour.
“Please, my lady,” urged one of the girls, tugging on Claire’s skirt.
“Yes, do not allow me to interrupt you,” said Adelaide Brooks. “I will sit here until you are done.”
She sat down on a stiff ladder-back chair. Of course.
Claire smiled as she continued to read, perhaps a bit too quickly, but nonetheless concluded with some satisfaction. The girls had much to say about the lost girl, the noble dog, dogs they once cared for, girls who got lost in the marketplace, and a cat that caught a mouse and deposited it in a baby’s cradle. Claire commented briefly on all their stories, and feigned great interest. But she truly wished to know why Adelaide Brooks sought her out so soon after her return to London. What had she heard?
Mrs. Maybelle finally took pity on her generous benefactor and reminded the girls about a drawing lesson in the park. They each bid Claire farewell with a well-practiced curtsey, and left the room in set order, from the oldest to the toddlers.
“Mrs. Brooks! How good of you to visit me within hours of my return to London,” Claire said, remaining on her seat.
“I confess, I was not altogether sure you would be back, but I stopped at Wentworth House and Lady Camille told me you were at Eton Square. Your housekeeper told me where to find you, and here you are.”
“And it feels quite comfortable, I admit,” Claire said. “But have I usurped your position? I know you read to the girls in my absence.”
“I did, and the girls happily reminded me I was not nearly as good as you. Several of them unwittingly demonstrated my weaknesses by falling asleep during my dramatic reading as Lady Macbeth.”
“Lady Macbeth? It is no wonder, for you surely are the least likely woman to be convincing in such a role. There is nothing scheming or manipulative in your good nature,” Claire remarked.
Mrs. Brooks nodded her head, though she seemed hesitant to accept the kind words. “And yet I have been known to get what I desire.”
“If you mean you managed to find some purpose for my poor life by bringing me here, then that is quite different. Lady Macbeth sought power for her own gain. You, by contrast, are most generous to others.”
This is a compliment that seemed acceptable. “Yes, I suppose that is true. I do not seek power as it is understood by others; indeed, it would be quite unwelcome in my life.”
Claire was not uncertain why the conversation, which started so casually with playacting the role of Lady Macbeth, suddenly seemed to take a personal turn. But Mrs. Brooks, perhaps sensing the same thing, anticipated any questions.
“My husband would be the next Marquis Wentworth if anything happens to his nephew, you understand. That is, of course, until Maxwell marries and has a son. The fact that my husband would be a most reluctant marquis, and necessarily give up his profession, makes me much more than a matchmaking busybody when I introduce my nephew to eligible young ladies. I also advocate for my husband’s happiness, and thus for my own.”
“Do you introduce your nephew to many young ladies?” Claire asked, remembering the most awkward occasion of the meeting at the Armadale Ball.
“Hardly any, for he does not consider himself worthy, as you yourself were witness.”
“I was, but I think you will be remarkably pleased to know that much has changed. I did not think I would see him at all at Brookside Cottage, for you gave me reason to believe he would be in Portugal all the while. But he and I had much to say to each other and he finally was able to wander through the ruins of Brook Hall, a place he had not visited in all these years. I believe he is quite reconciled to taking his sister about in society and even enjoying it a bit himself.” Claire looked out the window while she delivered this information, as if it was hardly of interest to she herself.
“I see,” said Mrs. Brooks. “And all this was accomplished with nothing more than some conversation?”
Claire turned back to face her lover’s aunt. “Indeed.”
“Then it is as we guessed, Lady Claire. You are a most persuasive speaker.”
“Oh, yes. It is one of my finest talents,” Claire said. She hoped she sounded equally persuasive on that point and would not be questioned about the particulars of their conversations.
“Having persuaded my nephew to enter society and take his rightful place among his peers, I hope you will not abandon him now? He knows no one, of course.”
“I think I can safely say that the marquis is not nearly as needful of our help as you would believe, Mrs. Brooks. He has been damaged, of course, and perhaps even more so mentally than physically. And he has been reclusive, which has allowed dangerous rumors to spread about him. But his sister has taught him much about love and redemption, and he has apparently proven quite capable in serving Armadale. There is nothing of the invalid in his nature or behavior, I assure you. He may require some well-placed introductions, and you and I are recruited to assist in the planning of a fine ball for Camille’s coming-out, but you will soon realize that he can manage quite well on his own.”
“You speak passionately, Lady Claire. It is to your credit,” Mrs. Brooks said softly.
Claire blushed, not only for the passion, as her friend noted, but also for the sentiment. She did not deserve credit for returning Maxwell Brooks to the world. He made his own way, and some of his abilities were rather remarkable.
“The credit is your nephew’s, Mrs. Brooks. He will not disappoint you here in London, and I daresay your and Mr. Brooks’s fondest hopes will be realized.”
Adelaide Brooks and Claire studied each other for some moments, during which Claire ardently wished the older woman would just come out and directly ask the question that hung between them. But as she did not know for what Mrs. Brooks truly wished, it must remain unspoken until they better understood each other.
“You will be happy to know that he and Lady Camille are invited to a dinner at Mrs. Longreaves’ home on Tuesday,” Claire said.
“So I have been told. They have already accepted the invitation,” Mrs. Brooks said.
“Surely you are happy about this?” Claire asked. Her friend looked somewhat indifferent about the business.
“Indeed, I am. But this has nothing to do with my fondest hopes, you realize.”
Claire struggled to grasp the earlier threads of this conversation, knowing they were important to the weave of the tapestry, and yet unsure how the pattern would develop. She did not remember ever being so confused about matters of such importance to herself, and blamed it all on her sojourn in Yorkshire, where her companions said what they meant, and were honest, almost to a fault.
“But perhaps they have to do with mine,” Claire said, letting the lady believe what she would.
***
Max scarcely saw Lady Claire in the days between their arrival in London and Mrs. Longreaves’ dinner party. He heard her clear voice singing in the parlour as she helped Camille practice for a musical entertainment. And he knew she came one afternoon to advise his sister on what to wear for the party, for the scent of lavender led him to the closed door of the drawing room.
“I should not enter, my lord,” intoned one of
the servants, stepping in front of him.
“I beg your pardon, but this is my home and that is my drawing room. I believe I left a letter from my cousin upon the table,” Max argued, surprised to hear himself so authoritarian. But he hardly knew his staff here and did not feel quite as comfortable with them as he did with his people back in Yorkshire.
The man had the audacity to laugh. “Forgive me for saying so, my lord. But what was your drawing room is now a ladies’ dressing room. Lady Camille told me no one should enter but your aunt, a coterie of dressmakers and seamstresses and, of course, Lady Claire.”
“Of course,” Max said grudgingly, thinking they might as well be back in Yorkshire. “I could guess Lady Claire was behind all this.”
The man cleared his throat. “I should think she is in front of all this, leading in the others to do her bidding.”
“Yes,” Max agreed. “She is very good at that.”
And so he did not see her that day, or the next, and spoke five words of greeting to her on the day after. They agreed the weather was unseasonably warm and the riding along Rotten Row particularly congested. Claire assured him his sister was quite ready to be seen in her new wardrobe, and he told her James Cosgrove mentioned he was to attend the Longreaves’ party, though surprised to receive an invitation from a family hitherto unknown to him.
When he mentioned this bit of information to Camille she seemed indifferent to Cosgrove’s business, which Max took as a positive sign. That is, his sister, confident in her associations as well as in her dress, was perfectly willing to engage with gentlemen she did not yet know. Max supposed he must thank Claire for giving her such confidence. If only he could find her alone, he might do so in a satisfying manner.
In the meantime, he felt like a man wandering through the desert, seeking an oasis. He knew she was busy, not only with the business of properly presenting his sister, but with renewing old acquaintances. And he was busy, occupied with learning about the properties and businesses he scarcely concerned himself with before. He hitherto knew these by the ledgers of income received and cash outlaid, but now he visited buildings and sailing vessels and a small publishing business on Fleet Street that had been started by his maternal grandfather. It was all new and rather intriguing, but none of it was equal to an hour spent in Claire’s presence. Or ten minutes in her bed.
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