by Jane Goodger
Nathaniel had yet to tour the gallery, but he was quite familiar with the Royal Academy, having visited several times when his grandfather was alive. When he stepped down from his hired hack and looked at the building’s façade, Nathaniel found himself already impressed. The gallery was housed in a large building designed in the renaissance style and featured a main door taken from a 16th century Venetian church. The Benningtons hoped to tour the gallery and then had invited Nathaniel for tea in their home, something he found himself, much to his surprise, looking forward to. How long had it been since he’d enjoyed a formal tea?
As he was about to step up, Bennington called out to him. The two, who apparently lived not far from the gallery, were heading his way. Bennington was sporting a top hat and Mrs. Bennington wearing her own version of a top hat—hers with a small garden of flowers atop it—as they hurried to where he was waiting. They seemed, he thought, to be a happy couple, well suited, a pair who enjoyed one another’s company and he was glad, suddenly, that he had accepted their invitation. He couldn’t remember the last time he had allowed himself a leisurely afternoon immersed in the arts, surrounded by his own ilk. It was, he thought, a bit like coming home after a long absence. St. Ives was lovely, but it was not home.
“We shall have to view Whistler’s painting, Nocturne in Black and Gold,” Mrs. Bennington said, lowering her voice. “It caused quite a stir. You were out of town, so you may not know. A reviewer said such horrid things about it, Mr. Whistler sued him for libel. Can you imagine?” Mrs. Bennington seemed delighted by this. “The reviewer gave Mr. Whistler a set-down for throwing paint at people,” she said.
“For ‘flinging a pot of paint in the public’s faces,’ is what I believe it said,” Mr. Bennington corrected, making Mrs. Bennington frown.
“Mr. Whistler sued for defamation,” Mrs. Bennington said with a nod. “Oh, I do hope the painting is still on display.”
The three entered the gallery and Mrs. Bennington made a great show of surprise to find two of her “dearest friends” just inside. Bennington gave Nathaniel a wink and a shrug as Mrs. Bennington made hasty introductions, and Nathaniel had to admit they were a lovely twosome, dressed sedately and fashionably for a day at a gallery. Thus far, he’d been able to avoid such matchmaking gestures, mostly because he’d avoided social situations and he’d only just come into his inheritance. He wondered how enthusiastic these two would be if they knew he was a pauper.
Then again…perhaps one was an heiress who could save him from his life of drudgery as a gardener. One was the daughter of an earl and one the granddaughter of a viscount. They were the sorts of girls he was supposed to end up with, those who had been bred to be ladies, to run grand households, those who would never, under any circumstances, end up behind a shed in a passionate embrace with a gardener.
They both bored him silly and seemed to be trying far too hard to impress him with their wit—as was the case with the redhead—and their pedigree, as was the case with the brunette.
The gallery, Nathaniel had to admit, was an impressive place, which displayed the art in an unusual way he’d never before seen. Rather than cram as many paintings as possible on a wall, as did the Royal Academy, each painting was given its own wall, its own alcove, which served, to his mind, to elevate the importance of the work. He quite liked it.
The small group was about to enter the west gallery and its soaring, glass-filled ceiling, when the two ladies who were in front of him stopped suddenly, one clutching the other’s arm. “Oh, there she is. The one I told you about. They were in Rotten Row two days ago in the most hideous carriage I’ve ever seen. It was all anyone could talk about, such a gaudy show,” the brunette said with a sniff.
Nathaniel got an immediate and terrible sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Gaudy show could apply to any number of people, but he feared in this case it described one particular family—the Andersons.
“Look what she’s wearing,” the redhead said and began to giggle behind her kid glove.
Nathaniel still could not see whom they were speaking of, and carefully made his way forward, his gaze seeking out, and finding, the Andersons. Oh, good God.
“Really, you two. You mustn’t be unkind. She obviously doesn’t know.” This from Mrs. Bennington, who despite her words, was trying not to smile.
And the reason for that smile was immediately clear. Clara stood looking spectacularly overdressed in a gown more suited for a ballroom than a stroll through a gallery in daytime. His heart ached for her, because he suspected Clara knew what she was wearing was inappropriate, and likely knew she was an object of ridicule. At that moment, he wanted to throttle her parents, who were so clearly oblivious to their daughter’s suffering. Worse, he could do nothing to protect her.
“Some people think a bit of money will elevate them to a higher class. They’ll learn soon enough, I expect,” Mr. Bennington said, not unkindly.
“Yes, we all know marriage is the only thing that can do that,” Nathaniel said with deep irony.
Bennington chuckled. “I’m in wholehearted agreement. I was nothing until I married Mrs. Bennington.” That won him a smile from his wife.
“Are you saying that even those people could elevate themselves by marrying up? I daresay, she would never be welcomed into polite society,” the brunette said. “I’ve seen the type, the social climbers who believe a fine dress makes them a fine lady. It’s my understanding he’s a pig farmer or some such. Can you imagine? A pig farmer!”
Nathaniel saw Clara stiffen and he knew she must have heard the comment. Her cheeks flushed and she raised her chin a notch. God, he wanted to take her away from these prying eyes and vicious comments, but he was hardly in the position to do so. He wondered how she could endure such humiliation. And how dare her parents put her in a position to be ridiculed. “Despite her origins,” he said softly, “she is lovely, isn’t she?”
The brunette gave Clara an assessing look. “She’s one of the most beautiful girls I’ve ever seen,” she said, surprising Nathaniel. “In a way, I feel sorry for her.”
“Everyone feels sorry for her,” the redhead said. “But they also think she is ridiculous.”
“I believe Whistler’s painting is in the other gallery,” Nathaniel put in, leading the small group away from Clara. Just as they turned away, from the corner of his eye he saw Clara look in their direction and he jerked his face aside so she would see nothing but the back of his head. It was imperative that she not know he was in London, that he was a baron, that he was part of the group who had just been cruel to her. It had nothing to do with the diamond and everything to do with how he felt at that moment. Whatever was between them, it could not end this way, and certainly not so soon. When she returned from London, he would tell her the truth about who he was.
And pray she could forgive him.
“I just don’t understand it,” Hedra said. “We’ve done everything correctly. We’ve gone to ’yde Park, the galleries, even the opera. I know you are causing a stir. I see the eyes following you.”
The Andersons had been in London for more than two weeks, days spent attending public amusements that Hedra was convinced would bring attention to Clara. For her part, Clara did her best to keep her mother happy, though it was getting more and more difficult. Worse, the family was spending an ungodly amount of money. Her father went along silently, and while Clara knew he was just as determined as Hedra to find her a good match, the cost of the hunt weighed heavily on his mind.
Clara watched her mother pacing back and forth, wringing her hands, and her heart ached. Hedra had been certain this trip would be the success the other trips to London had not been. Armed with what she’d thought was the proper knowledge to garner invitations, Hedra had been certain this time would be different.
“We are not one of them, Mother. It is as simple as that. Perhaps we should set our sights…”
Hedra�
�s eyes flashed with anger. “Do not say it, Clara. Nothing good will come from lowering our expectations.” She slumped down onto a seat, then glared at it, for the furniture in their rented house was exceedingly uncomfortable. “If only Baron Longley had responded to my letter letting him know we are in town. He seemed so affable when we met him at the Gardeners’.” She stood suddenly, her face brightening. “Do you think perhaps he never received my correspondence? Why, that would explain his silence. He was so taken with you.”
“I think more that he was taken with his brandy,” Clara said, producing another scowl from her mother.
“We shall have to visit the baron in person.”
“No, Mother.” Good Lord, the thought of showing up uninvited on a baron’s doorstep was horrifying.
“Why ever not? He practically issued an invitation at the Gardeners’. I remember precisely what he said: ‘You should spend some time in London, Miss Anderson. I would be more than happy to make the introductions.’ If that is not an invitation, I do not know what is.”
“Yes, I know what he said, Mother. But I don’t think he thought we would take his invitation seriously.”
“Why would we not?” Hedra said, throwing her hands in the air. She was getting agitated and Clara knew it wouldn’t be long before her face grew flushed and she became flustered. Even after all this time, Clara hadn’t gotten the courage to tell her mother the true reason the Gardeners had invited them to their home.
“We should visit his lordship tomorrow,” Clara said in an effort to appease her mother. “Do you think we should send a note first?”
Hedra calmed immediately. “No. Let’s just visit. He did invite us, after all.”
The next day, the Andersons piled into their carriage and drove to Baron Longley’s home in St. John’s Square. When they pulled up in front of the large, Greek-inspired home with its soaring pillars, Clara swallowed heavily—at the same time her mother let out a small sound of awe. “I had no idea the baron was so wealthy,” she said, then grinned at Clara. “Oh, can’t you just imagine being mistress of such a fine home?”
Clara gazed up at the monument to wealth and power that was the baron’s home, and felt slightly sick. Nothing good would come of this visit, she was sure of it. But perhaps this was just what her mother needed to finally accept that her dreams of marrying Clara to a titled gentleman could never be realized. Once the step was lowered, the Andersons descended from the carriage and milled in front of the house.
“You’re sure of this, Mrs. Anderson?” her father asked, and Clara realized her father was nearly as nervous as she was.
“Yes,” Hedra said with a firm nod. But when she rolled her lips together, Clara realized her mother was a bundle of nerves as well. Hedra looked Clara over, hastily adjusted her hat, then started up the steps to the massive entrance.
Her father lifted the large knocker, a boar’s head, its mouth holding a brass ring with a hammer, and let it fall. The three jerked at the overly loud sound the knocker made, and Clara had to stifle a bit of hysterical laughter. A door opened revealing an excruciatingly proper butler, who looked them over, quickly determining they were no one of consequence despite their fine clothes and expensive carriage.
“How may I help you?” he said, addressing Clara’s father.
“His lordship issued an invitation that we visit him when we were in London. We’re the Andersons. Of St. Ives. Here to see Baron Longley.” Clara’s heart ached for her father, who seemed to be getting more and more flustered the longer he spoke. He was completely out of his element. They were all completely out of their element, and Clara wished she’d had the courage to insist to her mother that this visit was a mistake.
“Your card, sir.” The butler held out the small, gleaming silver platter held in his pristine white-gloved hand and waited patiently while her father fished about in his pockets, finally producing a card. The butler looked at the card and hesitated before stepping back and allowing them entry, and Clara let out a breath of relief. She’d been terrified that the butler would leave them standing on the stoop. Nearly as bad, but not quite, the family was left in the foyer and Clara wondered if her parents were aware of the slight. Based on her mother’s beaming face, she thought not. Clara was only aware because of her training at finishing school and the stories the other girls had told.
To Clara’s surprise, the butler returned momentarily with Baron Longley not far behind. Perhaps she had been mistaken; perhaps the baron did remember the invitation. Clara dipped a curtsy, her heart hammering in her chest. The baron looked just as he had at the Gardeners’, except now, the man was frowning at them.
“Mr. Burke informed me that I had issued an invitation to you. I do apologize, but I do not recall doing so.”
Hedra’s smile faltered a bit, but she gamely responded. “When we were at the Gardeners’. You recall, Clara was there and she sang with Miss Gardener.”
The baron looked at Clara as if he’d never seen her before in his life and his eyes swept over her form in a most insulting manner. Then his expression cleared and he laughed. “I recall now. You’re the companion.”
Clara’s cheeks flushed red.
“I’m sure you are mistaken, Lord Longley. We were invited guests of the Gardeners,” Hedra said calmly enough, though Clara sensed her mother was taken aback by their reception.
The baron’s gaze became icy as he turned toward Hedra. “You are the upstarts who made fools of yourselves trying to pretend you are something you are not.”
“Now, now,” her father said, taking a step forward. “Who do you think you are talking to?”
The baron turned to Clara’s father, seemingly amused by his bluster. “You, sir, are the tin miner, are you not? While I do appreciate your…fortitude…I must ask you all to leave my home. Did you really believe I had issued an invitation to visit me in my home?”
“You did, my lord,” Clara said, feeling her anger grow. “I recall precisely what you said. Then again, I was not inebriated, as you were.”
The skin around the baron’s thin mouth turned white. “You may leave. Now.”
Clara’s father made to take another step toward the baron, but Clara laid a hand on his arm. “Let us go, Father. I never did enjoy the scent of false superiority.” She glared at the baron for good measure, then turned her back and headed for the door, praying her parents would follow her. With cheeks burning and eyes blurred with tears of anger and humiliation, Clara hardly was aware of the footman who opened the door for her.
Two days later, she sat with her parents in their carriage, headed south. Her mother was weepy, her father stoic, and Clara, despite her guilt, was elated. Her only regret was that her mother was clearly suffering from all that had happened in London.
“All that money, wasted,” her father would mumble at least once per hour. That would bring on more tears, and Clara would comfort her mother.
“I just don’t understand it,” Hedra said for the hundredth time.
Clara looked at her mother sympathetically, but inside she was baffled at how consciously blind Hedra had been. No one had ever opened their arms to the Anderson family. If they were accepted at all, it was only because there was some ulterior motive. But Clara had gone along, simply to make her mother happy, to fall into the fantasy that she might be Lady Clara one day.
“No more,” she said softly. At least she’d meant to say it softly. Her mother’s head snapped in her direction and she began a fresh bout of tears.
“For God’s sake, Mrs. Anderson, the girl is right. Enough is enough. She’ll marry a good Cornish man from a good family and that will have to satisfy you.”
Hedra was silent—stunned—for about thirty seconds before she began wailing, and Clara watched, frozen in place, as her father’s face grew redder and redder. She wondered if she were about to witness her father strike her mother for the first time. Instead, he sta
red stonily out the window, and eventually Hedra’s tears subsided and she fell asleep, falling against her husband, who put a gentle arm around her. Clara looked at her father and gave him a small smile. From his expression, a mixture of regret and understanding, she knew with certainty that her father had been doing for years the same thing she had—trying to make his wife’s dreams come true no matter the cost.
Soon enough, the motion of the carriage and the blessed silence inside it served to lull her father to sleep, leaving Clara wide awake and alone with her thoughts. Despite her mother’s misery, Clara could not stop the surge of joy that bubbled up inside. Finally, she was free. Even if she never married, at least it would be her choice. She and Harriet could live together as old spinsters in that cottage Harriet dreamed up when she’d been a girl. Or…
She could marry a handsome gardener and live on a large estate. Perhaps Lord Berkley could hire Mr. Emory and they could live out their days in St. Ives, happy together, having a family. That was all she’d ever truly wanted from life and now it seemed it might be in her grasp.
All she had to do was convince Mr. Emory that she would not be settling by marrying a gardener. At that moment, buoyed up by her joy, she thought it only a matter of time before she could convince him they could be happy together. Surely he felt the same way. A man didn’t kiss a girl the way he kissed her if he were not in love. She could hardly wait to get home to see him, to convince him she had absolutely no interest in the aristocracy. If she never saw another lord or lady again it would be too soon. Other than Lord Berkley, of course, who would be their employer, and he was very nearly pleasant. For a peer.
Clara leaned her head against the well-padded carriage and gazed out the window, a dreamy smile on her face as she watched a pretty little village pass by. She’d be in St. Ives tomorrow, home, and she would never have to leave again.
When Nathaniel looked up and saw the Andersons’ carriage, he had to stop himself from running toward it to make certain Clara was within. The family wasn’t to have returned to St. Ives for several weeks, and he wondered what had precipitated their early return. London in the winter, with its choking fog and disease, was the last place on Earth he’d want someone he loved… He stopped that thought abruptly, shocked that it had formed in his mind so quickly, as if loving Clara was something he’d long since accepted. As the carriage went out of sight, he tried to come up with a reason to go to the front of the house but could not.