by Mary Balogh
“We’ll do it,” his grandfather said. “But now I will rest, Lucius.”
He was snoring lightly even before Lucius could tuck his hand beneath the blankets.
Lady Sinclair and her daughters were surprisingly easy to persuade.
Lucius’s mother was so pleased to have him living at Marshall House and behaving responsibly—most of the time—and showing concern and kindness for his grandfather and a willingness to escort his sisters on various outings that she was sure she would be delighted with any bride he chose since she had quite reconciled herself to the idea that he might never be finished sowing his wild oats. And if Miss Allard’s birth was of questionable legitimacy—well, so was that of a large segment of the ton. Genteel people simply did not talk of such matters.
A week later Lucius learned that she had made a point of speaking with the Countess of Fontbridge at Almack’s the evening before when she had taken Emily there. She had deliberately brought the conversation around to Frances Allard and had talked quite openly about her birth and connections but had also given it as her opinion that a young lady of such modesty and gentility and astonishing talent could only be a desirable friend to cultivate and perhaps—who could know for sure?—even more than a friend to the family in time.
Oh, and did Lady Fontbridge know that Miss Allard was heir to both Mrs. Melford and Miss Driscoll, great-aunts of Baron Clifton? With both of whom ladies, by the way, she had such a close and loving relationship that there were no secrets between them whatsoever?
“I have never heard Mama talk like it before,” Emily said proudly. “She quite outdid any of the tabbies in sweetness and venom, Luce. One could tell from the stiff, haughty look on the countess’s face that she understood very well indeed.”
“Emily,” their mother said sharply, “do watch your tongue. Your mother a tabby, indeed!”
But everyone gathered about the breakfast table only laughed.
Margaret, who at Christmas time had been volubly in favor of Portia as her brother’s bride, had married Tait for love and now gave it as her opinion that if Miss Allard was the woman Lucius loved, then she was not going to say anything to dissuade him. Besides, Tait had warned her long ago that Lucius would slit his throat rather than marry Portia when the time came.
Caroline, who was still living with her head in the clouds following her betrothal, could only applaud her brother’s choice of someone with whom he was so obviously enamored. Besides, she still felt somewhat awed by Miss Allard’s singing talent and thought that she would like very much to have her as a sister-in-law.
Emily had been severely disillusioned with Portia since seeing more of her than usual this spring. She did not think Portia at all right for Luce. Miss Allard, on the other hand, was perfect, as witness the fact that she had had the backbone to return to Bath to teach even though Luce had gone after her to try to persuade her to come back to London.
Amy was simply ecstatic.
A week or so after her meeting with the Countess of Fontbridge at Almack’s, the viscountess ran into Lady Lyle at a garden party to which she had taken both Caroline and Emily, and had a very similar sort of conversation with her about Frances—if conversation was the word, since Lady Sinclair did most of the talking and Lady Lyle listened with her habitual half-smile playing about her lips.
“But she was listening,” Caroline reported afterward.
Lucius was not allowing his mother to fight all his battles, however. He encountered George Ralston at Jackson’s boxing saloon one morning. Normally the two would have ignored each other, not because of any particular hostility between them but because they moved in totally different crowds. But on this particular morning Lucius took exception to the fall of Ralston’s cravat and told him so—to the mystified surprise of his friends. And then, quizzing glass to his eye, Lucius noticed a splash of mud on one of Ralston’s top boots and wondered audibly that anyone could keep such a slovenly valet unless he were basically slovenly himself.
He then, as if the thought had just struck him, invited Ralston to spar with him.
By now his friends’ reaction had progressed from surprise to amazement.
It was not a friendly sparring bout. Ralston was incensed at the insults to which he had been subjected by one of society’s most respected Corinthians, and Lucius was more than ready to give him satisfaction.
By the time Gentleman Jackson himself put a stop to the bout after six rounds of a planned ten, Lucius had shiny cheekbones and shinier knuckles and ribs that would remind him of the bout for several days to come, while Ralston had one eye reduced to a puffy slit, a cut over the other eye, a nose that glowed red and looked suspiciously as if it might be broken, and bruises about his arms and torso that would turn blacker by day’s end and keep their owner awake and stiff for many days and nights to come.
“Thank you,” Lucius said at the end of it all. “This has been a pleasure, Ralston. I must remember to tell Miss Frances Allard the next time I talk with her that I ran into you and spent a pleasant hour, ah, conversing with you. But perhaps you remember her as Mademoiselle Françoise Allard. Lord Heath is eager to sponsor her singing career—had you heard? She may well take him up on the offer since she is quite free to do so. You met her, I believe, when she was still a minor? A long time ago. Perhaps you do not even remember her after all. Ah, you have a tooth loose, do you? If I were you, I would not wiggle it, old chap. It might settle back into place if you leave it alone. Good day to you.”
“And what the devil was that all about?” one of the more obtuse of his friends asked him when they were out of earshot of Ralston.
“So that is the way the wind blows, is it, Sinclair?” a more astute friend asked with a grin.
It was indeed.
The two months until the end-of-year concert at Miss Martin’s school in Bath seemed interminable. And of course they were fraught with anxiety for Lucius since there was no assurance that Frances would be pleased to see him again or that she would have him even though he would be arriving armed with the blessing of every single member of his family.
One never knew with Frances.
In fact, just thinking about her stubbornness could arouse severe irritation in him.
He was just going to have to kidnap her and elope with her if she said no again. It was as simple as that.
Or go down on his knees and plead.
Or sink into a romantic decline.
But he would not think of failing. His grandfather, who was ready to try the Bath waters again, and Amy, who was mortally tired of London, were going with him. So were Tait and Margaret, who would not miss the action for worlds, they said. At least Tait said that. Margaret was far more genteel and declared her eagerness to see Bath again, since she had not been there in five years.
And Mrs. Melford and Miss Driscoll were going, since Bath was not far off their route home and they were eager to see their dear Frances in the setting of her school. And they had always wanted to meet her friends there, including Miss Martin, and to hear her choirs.
Lucius strongly suspected that they had decided to go there after hearing that he was going. They wanted him to marry their great-niece.
And he, heaven help him, was more than willing to oblige.
The last month of the school year was always frantically busy. This year was no exception. There were examinations to set and mark, oral French examinations to administer, report cards to make out, prizewinners to select—and the final concert to prepare for.
That last was what consumed everyone’s energies through every spare moment that was not taken up with academics and eating and sleeping—and even those last two activities had to be curtailed during the final week.
Frances was perhaps the busiest, since all the musical items with the exception of the country dancing were hers to prepare and perfect. But all the teachers had a part to play. Claudia was to be the mistress of ceremonies, and she had her own final speech to prepare. Susanna had written, cast, produced, a
nd stage-managed a skit on school life and rehearsed with her girls for long hours and in great secrecy—and with much laughter, judging by the sounds that drifted down from her classroom. Mr. Upton had designed the stage sets for the whole concert, and Anne had a group of girls—plus David—producing them in the art room every afternoon and evening when they could escape from study and homework.
Frances had given Claudia notice effective the end of the year. She had not been running away when she came here more than three years ago. She had come to make her life better and to find herself, and she was proud of the success she had achieved at both. But if she stayed, she had decided after several sleepless nights and several frank talks with her friends, then she would be hiding from reality.
For reality and dreams had finally coincided, and if she turned away this time she would be denying fate and might never again have the chance to fulfill her destiny.
She was going to find Lord Heath. She was going to put herself in his hands and discover where her singing voice could take her.
She was going to follow her dream.
Anne and Susanna had both shed tears over her, though both vehemently declared that she was doing the right thing. But they would miss her dreadfully. Their life at the school would not be the same without her.
But they would never speak to her again, Susanna told her, if she did not go.
And they would hear of her progress and her fame, Anne told her, and burst with pride over her.
She was simply not going to accept the notice, Claudia declared. She would hire a replacement teacher until Christmas. If by then Frances wished to return, her position would be open for her. If not, then a permanent replacement would be made.
“You will not fail whatever happens, Frances,” she said. “If you go on to sing as a career, then it will be what you were born to do. If you find that after all the life does not suit you, then you will return to what you do superbly well, as numerous girls who have been at this school during the past three years will testify for the rest of their lives.”
And so the day of the concert dawned and progressed in the usual pattern, with every possible disaster threatening and being averted at the last possible moment—dancers could not find their dancing slippers and singers could not find their music and no one could find Martha Wright, the youngest pupil at the school, who was to be first on the stage to welcome the guests and who was finally found shut inside a broom closet, reciting her lines with tightly closed eyes and fingers pressed into her ears.
Susanna was peeping around the stage curtain shortly before the program was to begin to see if anyone had come—always the final anxiety of such evenings.
“Oh, my,” she said over her shoulder to Frances, who was arranging her music on a music stand, “the hall is full.”
It always was, of course.
“Oh, and look!” Susanna continued just when she had seemed about to drop the curtain back in place. “Come and look, Frances. Six rows back, left-hand side.”
Frances always resisted the temptation to peep. She was too afraid that someone in the audience would catch her at it. But she could hardly refuse when Susanna looked at her with such saucer eyes and flushed cheeks—and then impish grin.
Frances looked.
Strangely, though they were more to the middle than the left, it was her great-aunts she saw first. But before she could react to the joy that welled up in her, she realized that Susanna had never met them and would not therefore recognize them. Her eyes moved left.
The Earl of Edgecombe sat next to Great-Aunt Martha, and then Lady Tait and Lord Tait and then Amy and then . . .
Frances drew a slow, long breath and allowed the curtain to fall into place.
“Frances.” Susanna caught her up in a hug despite the curious glances of a few of the girls who were busy in the wings. There were tears in her eyes. “Oh, Frances, you are going to be happy. One of us is going to be happy. I am so . . . happy.”
Frances was too numb to feel anything except bewilderment.
But there was no time for feelings. It was seven o’clock, and Claudia always insisted that school functions begin promptly.
Anne appeared with Martha Wright, squeezed her thin shoulders and even kissed her cheek, and sent her out onto the stage.
The dress rehearsal during the afternoon had proceeded as badly as it possibly could. But Miss Martin had cheerfully assured girls and teachers alike that that was always a good sign and boded well for the real performance during the evening.
She was proved quite right.
The choirs sang in perfect pitch and harmony, the dancers were light on their feet and did not get tangled up in their ribbons even once, the choral speaking group recited with great verve and dramatic expression as if they were one voice, Elaine Rundel and young David Jewell sang their solos to perfection, Hannah Swan and Veronica Lane played their duet on the old pianoforte without hitting a wrong key, though it must have been clear even to the least musical ear in the audience that the instrument had had its day and was not likely to have many more, and the skit Susanna’s group performed, depicting teachers and girls preparing for a concert, drew laughter from the audience and applause even before it was finished.
The evening ended with a speech by Miss Martin, outlining some of the more significant achievements of the year, and then the presentation of prizes.
Frances never afterward knew how she had got through it all. Every time she was on stage conducting a choir and turned to acknowledge the applause of the audience, she saw either her great-aunts beaming up at her or the earl and Amy. She never once glanced at Lucius. She dared not.
But she knew he was smiling at her with that gleam in his eyes and that tight-lipped, square-jawed expression that demonstrated pride and affection and desire.
And love.
She no longer doubted that he loved her.
Or that she loved him.
The only thing she had doubted was the possibility that there could ever be any future for them.
But the Earl of Edgecombe was with him. So were Amy and Lord and Lady Tait. So were her great-aunts.
What could it mean?
She did not dare answer her own question.
She tried not even to ask it. She tried to concentrate on the concert, to give the girls the attention they deserved. Unwittingly, she gave them even more than usual, and they performed for her even better than they usually did.
But finally the last prize had been presented and the last applause had died away, and there was nothing left to do but go out into the hall with the girls and the other teachers to mingle with the guests while trays of biscuits and lemonade were handed around.
Great-Aunt Martha and Great-Aunt Gertrude were there waiting to hug Frances and exclaim over the loveliness of all the music. Amy was right behind them. Lord Tait bowed to her and Lady Tait smiled with something more than just graciousness in her manner. The Earl of Edgecombe, looking a little more stooped than usual, took both her hands in his, squeezed them, and told her that she appeared to be just as good a teacher as she was a singer—and that was saying something.
Lucius remained in the background and was in no hurry to come forward, it seemed. But Frances, glancing at him, felt as if her knees might buckle under her. His eyes were positively devouring her.
“Frances,” he said at last, reaching for her hand and carrying it to his lips when she offered it, “I have said good-bye to you for the last time. I positively refuse to say it ever again. If you try to insist, I shall go off on my own without a word to sulk.”
She could feel the color rising in her cheeks. Her great-aunts were listening. So were his grandfather and sisters and brother-in-law. So were Anne and David, who had come up behind her.
“Lucius!” she said softly.
He would not let her hand go. His eyes were definitely smiling now.
“The final impediment has been removed,” he said as Susanna approached from behind him. “We have the blessing
of every member of my family. I have not asked your great-aunts, but I would wager we have their blessing too.”
“Lucius!”
She was beginning to feel horribly embarrassed. People were beginning to look. A number of the girls were beginning to nudge one another and titter. There was their teacher, Miss Allard, in the middle of the hall, her hand held close to the heart of a handsome, fashionable gentleman who was laughing down into her face, the expression on his own suggesting that it was more than just amusement he was feeling.
Claudia had noticed and was coming their way.
Frances looked at him in mute appeal.
And then her daring, impulsive, annoying, wonderful Lucius did surely the most reckless thing he had ever done in his life. He risked everything.
“Frances,” he said without even trying to lower his voice or make the moment in any way private, “my dearest love, will you do me the great honor of marrying me?”
There were gasps and squeals and shushing noises and sighs. Someone sniveled—either Amy or one of the aunts.
It was the sort of marriage proposal, a distant part of Frances’s brain thought, that no woman would ever even dream of receiving. It was the sort of marriage proposal every woman deserved.
She bit her lip.
And then smiled radiantly.
“Oh, yes, Lucius,” she said. “Yes, of course I will.”
She had been wrong. The last applause of the evening had not yet died away. Her cheeks flamed as everyone within hearing distance clapped again.
Viscount Sinclair, lowering his head as if to kiss the back of Miss Allard’s hand, kissed her briefly and hard on the lips instead.
And then they were claimed by family and friends and squealing girls.
“And now,” Claudia said at last with a sigh that was belied by warmly smiling eyes, “I suppose I am going to have to accept your resignation after all, Frances. But I always did say I would be prepared to do so in a good cause, did I not?”