The Loving Seasons

by Laura Matthews

  “I shall be better tomorrow.”

  The note of supplication in her voice did not elude him, though it sat oddly with her words. Adam could not for a moment understand what it was she wanted of him. Her eyes never left his face but she lay rigid, almost as though she willed herself not to cry out if he made some movement. For God’s sake, she didn’t think he was going to make love to her when she was sick, did she? Adam became painfully aware that she did when she whispered, “If ... if it is all right with you, I should like to rest tonight. The feeling of nausea has not entirely abated.”

  Dunn’s sarcasm had stung Adam; Maggie’s entreaty horrified him. She really believed him such a monster as to force himself on her when she wasn’t well. How could she have acquired such an impression? She must surely be delirious?

  “I was on my way to my room,” he said stiffly. “I just stopped in to check on you.”

  Her eyes dropped, but not before he saw the relief in them. “That was kind of you, Greenwood. I’m sure I’ll be better tomorrow.”

  “No, you won’t,” he retorted. When her eyes flew to his, stricken, he continued, “You are likely to feel ill for some time, Margaret, in your condition. I don’t want you going out in the evenings anymore. You should stay at home and rest. There’s the child to think of, you know.”

  Maggie turned her head away from him so he wouldn’t see the traitorous tears that sprang up. “Yes, of course. Good night, Greenwood.”

  Now what had he done? He had at least planned to kiss her before he left. But if he approached her now he knew almost for a certainty that she would shrink from him. "Good night, Margaret.” Abruptly he turned and extinguished the lamp before stomping from the room. There was no understanding women, no matter how patient you were with them, he decided, upset. When had he ever forced her to make love with him? Her enthusiasm for the sport, it was true, was not always equal to his own, but she had never complained or fobbed him off with some imaginary headache.

  As he allowed his valet to remove his cravat and coat, he remembered that his sister, Cynthia, had not been at all easy to get on with when she was pregnant with her first child. That was it, of course, he thought with relief. Margaret’s illogical fancies were caused by her delicate condition and would vanish with the advent of the child. Unfortunately that happy occasion was months away, he remembered as he climbed into bed and punched his pillow into submission.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Anne set down her book as her elder brother Jack entered the conservatory. He was a decided contrast to William, not only in looks but in personality. Where William was fair and only of average height, Jack was dark and tall. Anne often felt that she fell somewhere between them, though luckily she was wrong. If she thought her chestnut hair undecided, others wondered at its magically appearing to change color with the light. Her height was perhaps above average for a woman and she had a rather boyish figure, but her countenance was most decidedly feminine with delicately arched brows, luminous brown eyes, and a cream complexion. Jack towered above her as she remained in the wicker seat.

  “Done in, are you?” he quizzed, pulling up a chair to join her.

  “Not a bit, though I admit to treasuring a few peaceful moments.”

  “Would you rather be alone? Actually I’d come to ask if you’d like to call on the Rogerses with me. You and Miss Rogers seem to have rapidly developed a thorough regard for one another.”

  “We have, or at least I for her. Oh, do sit down, Jack; I’m not that desperate for peace,” she assured him. This was her opportunity to do a little subtle investigation of her new friends, and she had no intention of allowing it to slip past. “Jack, Miss Rogers wasn’t at Almack’s last evening—I’ve never seen her there—and I was wondering… Well, I didn’t like to ask her but do you suppose she doesn’t have vouchers?”

  “I daresay she doesn’t, Annie, but not because she couldn’t get them. Harold and Lord Sefton know each other well, and I would be happy to secure them for her myself. I’m sure Harold knows that. They probably just don’t want to go. Not everyone is enamored of stuffiness and stale cake, you know.”

  She nodded dubiously and placed the book on the table beside her chair. “Is there some reason they don’t go about more in society, Jack? I mean, I’ve never seen either of them at an entertainment, except my ball and once at the theater.”

  “They live quietly,” he said, regarding her puzzled face. “You aren’t worried that you shouldn’t associate with them, are you, Annie? I thought I knew you better than that!”

  “No, of course it’s nothing of the sort!” Anne ran a finger along the arm of her chair and said carefully, “They’re friends of yours. I suppose I take it for granted that if one is accepted into society, one goes about as we do. Well, it’s almost expected of one, isn’t it?”

  “My dear sister, the advantage of being accepted in society is that you may do precisely as you wish, go where and when you wish. The Rogerses simply choose to limit their engagements to smaller circles. I’ve seen Harold and his sister at any number of dinner parties where there is some opportunity for intelligent discourse. Miss Rogers may not be at ease in large gatherings, but I promise you she holds her own in a lively discussion!”

  "I'm sure she would.” Anne smiled dolefully. “I can scarce keep up with her at times. But… Mr. Rogers. I mean, does he feel the same, or does he shun society in order to accommodate his sister?”

  Jack shrugged. “Lord, I don’t know, Anne. He doesn’t actually shun society; he’s as sociable as the next fellow, though a trifle more serious than most, perhaps. That’s one of the reasons I like him. Do you want to come with me or not, my dear?” he asked as he rose.

  “Let me grab a bonnet and wrap.”

  Mr. Rogers had a modest house in Argyll Street that Anne had visited on two occasions since her ball. Miss Rogers had once come to Grosvenor Square, but the carriage was not always available to her and Anne actually preferred the quiet of their time in Argyll Street. The house was never swarming with callers as her own often was, though on both previous occasions there had been numerous calling cards on the silver salver in the hall.

  The dark-red brick of the facade was pierced by tall, many-paned windows which were gracefully arched but stood in uneven rows. There was no imposing entrance, not even a stair, because the house was set almost at the level of the pavement. The pediment over the door was an inverted V of spectacularly modest proportions, and it echoed the roof line with its short exposed beams under the eaves. Anne adored the house.

  Inside the setting was just as unassuming, yet comfortable. Jack and Anne were led by a footman up the stairs to a drawing room overlooking the street. It also had a view of the house opposite, of course, which the present occupant had turned into a fencing studio. Miss Rogers had laughingly confessed to Anne that she spent hours watching the gentlemen learning the graceful but dying sport. “I use my opera glasses and sit back from the window. Do you think it terribly outré of me?” she had asked. Anne found Miss Rogers delightful.

  Mr. and Miss Rogers were alone in the drawing room, which was furnished with a silk-covered Hepplewhite sofa of carved mahogany and several painted oval-back chairs. On the walls hung some landscapes done by Miss Rogers, professionally mounted and framed at her brother’s insistence. Mr. Rogers did not embarrass her by pointing them out to visitors, but proudly admitted her talent when they were praised. In his own home he appeared slightly less austere than he had at Anne’s ball, and the clear hazel eyes were more frequently lit with the humorous gleam she had detected that evening. On each occasion when she had called he had stayed with the two young ladies for a brief ten minutes before excusing himself. But always prior to leaving them he smiled at her a smile so warm it made his eyes crinkle. Anne thought him charming.

  In fact, she thought him more than charming. His presence seemed to affect her entire body in a way that she had never experienced before. She found herself slightly breathless when speaking to him, a
nd noted a tension in her chest that was not altogether unpleasant. But these symptoms of heightened awareness frequently had the adverse effect of making her somewhat awkward. She would lose the train of the conversation and have to beg his pardon, or make Miss Rogers repeat herself. Her hands would become conspicuous (to her mind) so that she had to think of where to put them. She smiled too much to cover her confusion. And yet, for all this discomfort, she made no effort to avoid Mr. Rogers’s company. She felt drawn to him, came especially alive in his presence.

  And Miss Helena Rogers fascinated her. With her stark white hair she might have been mistaken, from a distance, for a woman years older. A stranger was far more likely to take her for thirty than twenty, and thus automatically assign her the position of a spinster. Realizing it was unfair of her and yet unable to block out the thought, Anne wondered why Helena did not resort to the simple expedient of dying her hair. Surely it would make life simpler, make her acceptance by her contemporaries easier. It was not as though she were disfigured in some uncorrectable way—with a squint or limp. A skilled hairdresser could dye the hair to a perfectly normal color and Miss Rogers would appear just as everyone else. It was not as though the young lady relished the difference in her appearance. Had it been Emma… Well, Emma would have made the most of a unique attribute, exploited it for the attention it drew. Miss Rogers made no attempt to flaunt or disguise it, but her unease amongst strangers pointed—did it not?—to an unhappy awareness of her difference. She might go about more in society with her brother if she looked more usual.

  Lost in her thoughts, Anne was unaware that she had been questioned until her brother Jack tapped her wrist and asked, “Well, my dear, do you wish to go to Ackermann’s Art Library? Harold says he promised to take you there one day.”

  Embarrassed, Anne hastened into speech. “Oh, yes. It’s in the Strand, is it not? Papa has all twenty-four parts of the Microcosm of London which Ackermann published.”

  “Yes, I mentioned that,” Jack replied patiently.

  Helena Rogers smiled understandingly at Anne. “Harold thinks I’m the only lady in London whose mind wanders occasionally. Do you think he believes one’s own thoughts could not possibly be as interesting as the conversation going on about one?”

  Trying to recover lost ground, Anne gave a mock sigh. “I fear my thoughts are never as elevated as they might be. While those about me are discussing intriguing philosophical issues, I suddenly find myself wondering if I replied to an invitation I had set aside to consider. Mr. Rogers would be quite right in thinking my wool-gathering frightfully uninteresting.”

  Mr. Rogers smiled at her. “A mysterious thing, the working of the mind. How easily it accommodates both the sublime and the practical. Helena can make a most penetrating remark on the nature of ethics one moment, and the next apply it quite specifically to the running of a household.” He gave his sister a fond look. “I admire such a facility.”

  As they descended the staircase Mr. Rogers spoke of Mr. Rudolph Ackermann, who was not only a bookseller and publisher but a successful coach designer who operated an art school, sold materials for artists, and had provided aid to refugees during Napoleon’s oppression. No comment was necessary and Anne found herself staring at Miss Rogers’s hair as she followed her friend. But Anne was not unconscious of Mr. Rogers handing her into the carriage and she almost missed Helena’s question on a gentleman emerging from the house across the street.

  "Do you know that man, Lady Anne? I’ve never met him anywhere, but you should see him fence! I daresay he doesn’t come for lessons at all but for a mere sparring session with M. Persigny. He’s incredibly graceful and astonishingly swift.”

  The gentleman in question was adjusting his beaver hat to a suitably sportive angle, and Anne had only a glimpse of his face before he turned and strode down the pavement, his malacca cane swinging cheerfully. He was dressed fashionably in a blue coat and tan pantaloons that set off his athletic figure. Even as he turned the corner his self-confident air was as unmistakable as his coal-black hair

  “I have the feeling that I’ve seen him,” Anne mused as her brother and Mr. Rogers joined them in the carriage, “but I cannot remember where. Did you know that gentleman, Jack? The one who came out of the house across the street?”

  “I didn’t notice him, Anne. Sorry. Harold and I were discussing the merits of the bays. I’m afraid the off-leader is about due to be put out to pasture, and Harold said Brackenbury has a bay that might do admirably. I’ll suggest that Father speak with him.”

  Anne grinned at Miss Rogers. “Trust the men to be more interested in horseflesh!”

  But both Jack and Mr. Rogers were perfectly content to turn their attention to artworks when the party reached Ackermann’s. Several men and women wandered about the gaslit room, where books lined the lower walls and paintings, busts, and statues hung or rested above them. Seated at the tables were further visitors pouring over open volumes, quietly remarking on the shading or detail of a beloved work. Anne found herself partnering Mr. Rogers while his sister explained to Jack that several of the paintings had been done by one of her drawing instructors.

  Pausing before a statue of a Grecian lady holding a cup, Mr. Rogers studied her apparel with interest. “She might as easily be dressed for a ball in London in the spring of 1819, might she not? The problem is, I suppose, that the climate of Greece is a great deal milder than that of England.”

  For Anne it was exhilarating to find herself more or less alone with Mr. Rogers. She wanted to say something startlingly brilliant but found her mind blank of witticisms. "Oh, it’s preposterous of us to disport ourselves in flimsy cotton gowns on windy spring days.” Anne was grateful that she wore a pale-green wool round dress more in keeping with the weather.

  Mr. Rogers cocked his head to one side. “You mustn’t think I don’t approve of the current styles, Lady Anne. On many women they are most becoming.”

  He would not, apparently, go so far as to say they were so on her, she noted, disappointed. But there was a politely admiring light in his eyes. Anne wandered on to a Grecian urn and studied the frieze intently. At her elbow Mr. Rogers asked if she knew the myth it portrayed. “Why, no. Should I?”

  “Of course. Everyone should,” he mocked her; his eyes dancing. “This is Selene, who drove her milk-white horses across the night skies, allowing her moonbeams to fall on the earth below. The nymphs and satyrs dance to Pan’s music, but Selene merely observes from her position above, making the enchantment possible and yet not really a part of it all.”

  “Oh, a goddess of the moon.”

  “Yes. She fell in love with Endymion, a handsome young shepherd asleep by his flock, and asked Zeus to give him eternal sleep. Her wish was granted and he smiled perpetually in his sleep, dreaming that he held the moon in his arms. Selene gave him fifty daughters.”

  “Fifty? Good heavens!” Anne met his quizzing gaze with sham astonishment. “Did poor Endymion despair for never getting a son?”

  “Not that I’ve heard. After all, there were no estates to pass on.” Anne had always recognized the humorous light in his eyes, despite the apparent austerity of his face. Now she could see that the lines about his month were not those of asceticism but of frequent amusement. His grin was slightly crooked, to be sure, but absolutely captivating. She had to resist an impulse to move closer to him.

  With an effort she pulled her attention back to his story. “Why did she ask for Endymion to be granted eternal sleep rather than eternal life?”

  “Eternal life hadn’t worked out so well for another such couple. Would you like me to lend you a book of Greek mythology? I have a very good one.”

  “I’d be fascinated, Mr. Rogers. Thank you.” She determined to read every word of it so that she would have something intelligent to say to him. “I may not have a chance to read all of it just now, however. Lady Greenwood is a very dear friend of mine and Miss Berryman and I are helping her to organize for their ball. Will you and Miss Rogers be at
tending?” Anne knew they had received an invitation because Maggie had included them on her list after meeting them at Anne’s ball. Anne had, in fact, been the one actually to pen the invitation when she and Emma spent a long afternoon with Maggie assisting in the wearisome task.

  Mr. Rogers turned his gaze thoughtfully to his sister, where she stood in animated conversation with Jack. “I believe we were previously engaged and were forced to send regrets. The ball is Friday, is it not?”

  Experiencing an almost painful disappointment, Anne nodded. “How unfortunate. I know Lady Greenwood hoped to see your sister again…and you, of course. During the season there are so many entertainments, it’s impossible to attend them all. Sometimes we go to several in an evening, but it’s exhausting.”

  If she had meant to hint that he and his sister might squeeze in the Greenwood ball after some other occasion, Mr. Rogers gave no indication of comprehending. After all, he could not very well leave his own dinner party, though others might. It had been planned for some time with a group of friends who met regularly on the third Friday of the month for a relatively quiet evening of music and discussion, an oasis in the desert of formal entertainments consisting of frothy exchanges and fashion displays.

  When Anne turned aside to contemplate a miniature on the leather-topped table, Mr. Rogers studied her unobserved. She dressed fashionably, conversed sensibly, listened with flattering attention—most of the time. Which made her the usual debutante, did it not? And were not her amiable disposition, her sweetness of manners, and her easy politeness precisely what one would expect of a girl of her birth? Wherein lay the difference he found in her?

  For he did find her different. Perhaps it was her admiration of his sister, who was eccentric by any standards London society might set. Or again it might be that for all she was being spoiled and petted by the ton, she seemed genuinely unaffected by the attention. There was a laughing gleam in her eyes when she observed the pomposity of an aging dandy, a patient set to her face when she was forced to listen to the inanities of matronly gossip. Mr. Rogers had observed her closely at her ball—because she was Jack’s sister of course.