The Loving Seasons

by Laura Matthews

  “I remember.” Emma laughed, settling herself into a velvet-covered easy chair. “He took me driving at Combe Lodge and my heart was never in its proper place. If we weren’t running an inch from a ditch, there were the most hair-raising curves in the road. I shall never understand why road builders found it necessary, in perfectly flat countryside, to zigzag about in such a fashion.”

  “They follow old footpaths, I daresay, and folks were not necessarily headed in the most direct route, having to skirt fences or whatnot. In the country at least you can hope to land in grass on the verges if you take a spill. In town you haven’t that solace, so I’m grateful Greenwood is exceptionally careful.”

  “So am I.” Emma reached over to pat her hand. “He really does wish to take good care of you, Maggie.”

  “Yes, but..." Maggie bit her lip and shrugged. “Yes, he does.”

  “My dear, we spent months together and you were not so shy of speaking with me. You know nothing you tell me will go any farther. If it will help you to talk about a problem, please feel free. I came intending to bend your ear about a problem of my own."

  “Did you? Oh, dear; surely everyone could see how good the portraits were!”

  “Sometimes you put things in perspective with astonishing speed, my love. Yes, I have been fortunate enough to meet with approval of them. Mr. Rogers is arranging for them to be exhibited at a small gallery in Bond Street. He warns me, though, that I must expect a certain amount of derogatory comment. Not only is everyone’s taste different, but there may be some disinclination because of my sex.”

  “I see.” Maggie gave a gentle tug on the bell rope. “Have you . . . have you finished the portrait of Greenwood?”

  “I’m still working on it, from time to time.” Emma frowned. “I don’t know what it is, Maggie, but I can’t seem to quite get him. You would think with all the times I’ve been with him that it wouldn’t be so difficult, but I find him elusive. As a subject, that is.”

  A footman entered and was instructed to bring tea. When they were alone again, Maggie toyed with the satin ribbon at her wrist. “Do you suppose that’s because you have two different impressions of him— yours and mine? What I mean is, you want to see him in the best light for my sake, but you can’t force yourself to paint him that way because that’s not how he really is?”

  At first Emma intended to deny such a thought categorically. After pondering it for a moment, she sighed. “Possibly. He’s not a bad man, Maggie. It’s just . . . Well, he seems to shift about in my mind. There are times when I’m overwhelmed by his care for you, and others when I’m appalled at his ... carelessness. I know he means well, but the dichotomy makes it strangely unnerving to put him down on canvas."

  Maggie released a long, tremulous breath. “I have come to believe that he does care for me, after his fashion. The problem is that his fashion is so erratic. I have a very logical mind and a tendency to act with consistency toward people. Greenwood behaves as the spirit moves him. He may be whimsical, tender, preoccupied, abrupt, all within the course of a day At breakfast he may be solicitous of my condition, insisting that I drink a glass of milk or even buttering a muffin for me. But by mid-morning he may have forgotten that he suggested a drive and ask me to shop for a new table for his library. You know what those furniture warehouses are like, Emma.”

  “Exhausting.”

  Maggie nodded. "I do it, of course. Really, there is so little I can do for him.” Her eyes became suspiciously shiny and she turned aside as the tea tray was brought in and set down in front of her on a low mahogany table. The smell of freshly baked cakes permeated the room and she motioned Emma to help herself as she poured them cups of tea.

  Alone again, Emma said urgently, “But, Maggie, you are carrying his child.”

  “Oh, Emma, you can’t possibly understand, not being married yet. There are things I can’t discuss with you. Intimate things I’ve no right to tell anyone.”

  “He doesn’t mistreat you in bed, does he?” Emma asked bluntly.

  Aghast at having elicited such a shocking question, Maggie hastened to reassure her. “Oh, no! That’s not what I mean at all! He . . . he asks nothing unusual of me.” A tear slid down her cheek. “Oh, Emma, he doesn’t ask anything of me at all anymore!”

  “Well, for heaven’s sake, Maggie, you’re pregnant! He doesn’t want to take any chances of your losing the child or harming you. Surely it’s perfectly understandable if he doesn’t . . . ask anything of you right now."

  Maggie dabbed at her eyes with a fine lawn handkerchief. “I know. Oh, I do understand that he’s being considerate, cautious, but... Emma . . . No, I mustn’t . . It would be improper for me to speak of it to an unmarried woman.”

  “Improper my eye!” Emma retorted, impatient. “You forget that I live with my aunt, who hasn’t your sensibility about such topics, Maggie. I intend to be married one day, so I can see no purpose in beating about the bush. Is it that you miss . . . going to bed with him?”

  Wide-eyed, Maggie stared at her. “You can really talk about it as easily as that? I haven’t ever talked about it with anyone at all . . except Greenwood once. It’s such a private matter.”

  “I don’t intend you should go into specifics, my dear," Emma agreed with a comforting smile. “It’s just that I don’t as yet understand your problem.”

  “Greenwood is very ... That is, he seems to need to go to bed with a woman. And if he’s not . . . going to bed with me, then he must be going to bed with someone else. I keep thinking of what my father told me about the mistress he had, and I have to assume that he’s seeing her again, or someone else. It doesn’t seem fair, Emma. Being available to him was the only thing I had to offer and now, because of the baby, or perhaps because I am so bloated and misshapen, I am not even called upon for that.”

  “The only thing you had to offer!” spluttered Emma, irate. “Where in heaven’s name did you come by that? Surely you have more self-esteem than to say such a thing!”

  “I shouldn’t have phrased it quite that way. Believe me, I’m quite proud of myself for the way I’ve run the household and managed my finances. I’ve even been surprised at overcoming my shyness somewhat in society. I’ve improved my performance on the pianoforte and read a great deal. Really, I simply meant that that—the giving of my body—is the only thing Greenwood appreciates.”

  “You’re wrong, you know.” Emma was emphatic. “He appreciates your gentleness and your competence and the effort you’ve made to make him comfortable. He likes you, Maggie.”

  “Yes, I think he does—now. But he takes so much for granted. He expects me to be competent and make him comfortable, and never says a word about it. For some reason—I can’t think why!—he sometimes thanks me when we . . ."

  Emma giggled. “Does he? How sweet! Perhaps I shall be able to finish his portrait after all.”

  “When you do, I should like to purchase it, Emma. You gave Greenwood mine as a gift, which was very kind of you, but when you’re satisfied with his, have Mr. Rogers appraise it and I shall buy it.”

  "I can see that it won't do at all to paint people's portraits," Emma grumbled. “Everyone thinks they must buy them when they’re done.”

  “I never told anyone this, but right after we were married my father insisted that Greenwood and I have our portraits painted. I knew Greenwood would just hate the idea, so I put my father off. Imagine my doing that! I told him I would be the judge of when it was time to have them done and thanked him for his interest. He sputtered and stomped, but finally agreed. And I’m so pleased you were the one to do them in the end.”

  Emma regarded her wonderingly. “You really have developed the most amazing strength, my love. Probably you always had it. If Greenwood is seeing his mistress again, you’ll be able to handle that. Things will change again once the baby is born.”

  "But it’s so lonely in bed at night!” Maggie blurted. "He used to come every night and stay until morning. At first I resented it, having no privacy,
depending on his whim for enough . . . attention to give me pleasure, having to tug the covers back from him when he wrapped them around himself in his sleep. But I’ve gotten used to having him there. Now I don’t know whether he’s even at home at night or not. I lie in bed and wonder if he’s with her and it hurts, Emma. All very well to believe that he cares for me, in a way, but that doesn’t seem to help at night when he’s not there beside me, quizzing me and holding me. I’ve rather come to depend on the affection he shows me."

  "Have you asked him to come?”

  “Heavens, no! I couldn’t do that. I don’t want to interfere with his freedom. It’s only because I have allowed him to do just as he wishes that he has finally accepted me as his wife.”

  “Maggie, dear, don’t you think he has some responsibility to you, too? Don’t you think he’d want to know that you’re lonely? I’m afraid Greenwood is not so sensitive to people’s feelings as to be aware without being told. Ask him to stay with you, Maggie. Not every night, but now and again. I’m sure he won’t resent it.”

  Her cup tinkled faintly as Maggie set it on the table and offered a rueful smile. “You may be right, but I’m not sure I dare take the chance. If he has . . . made other plans, he’ll be in an awkward position, and Greenwood doesn’t handle that very well. I told you about the canaries."

  “Maggie, why don’t you call him Adam?”

  Unprepared for the question, Maggie made an expressive gesture with her hands. “He’s never asked me to. He calls me Margaret.”

  They sat in silence for a time, contemplating the complexities of relationships between men and women. Eventually, because it seemed pertinent, Maggie said, “You haven’t told me about your problem.”

  “It’s not a problem, exactly. It’s more of a ... a dilemma, I suppose. You see, I once let Sir Nicholas kiss me and he has a tendency to tease me about it, in a roundabout way, when I’m with Lord Dunn. He does it out of pure devilry, Maggie!”

  “Are you with Lord Dunn much?” Maggie asked, surprised. “I thought the two of you were at daggers drawn.”

  “For a long time we were, but he’s been kinder to me recently. He’s teaching me to drive his curricle.”

  “And you want Sir Nicholas to cease embarrassing you in front of him?”

  “With anyone else I wouldn’t mind so much, but Lord Dunn..." Emma ran her finger around the rim of her teacup, considering how best to phrase her objection without exposing the attachment she was beginning to feel. As Anne had said, one is often silent in matters of the heart. “Lord Dunn realizes that Sir Nicholas is merely baiting me, of course, but I am loath to lose his better opinion of me, and I cannot help but fear I will if this continues. Or . . . or it will lead Lord Dunn to think that Sir Nicholas has a special interest in me— which he hasn’t! At the very least, it must lead his lordship to surmise something untoward has happened. It was only a kiss, Maggie, but Lord Dunn is so very proper, and so easily persuaded that I’ve misbehaved.”

  “Hmm. It sounds very much to me like a small boy pulling the pigtails of the girl in front of him in school. Sir Nicholas’s behavior, I mean. Are you sure he doesn’t have a special interest in you?”

  Emma stared at the silver tea tray, trying to evaluate more precisely how Sir Nicholas did feel about her. “Well, he’s not interested in marrying me. He’s not interested in marrying anyone, actually. And he is fully aware that I am not appropriate material for a mistress. Still, he may be attracted to me, a little, or he may simply be teaching me a lesson. He only does it with Lord Dunn, though, as if to prove to him that I’m not the sort of lady he might think me. Oh, I don’t know, Maggie. It’s very confusing. And it makes me feel awkward and nervous, because I really want Lord Dunn’s good opinion. He’s the sort of gentleman you don’t want to think ill of you."

  “I quite agree. I don’t think I’ve met any gentleman I admire more than Lord Dunn, except possibly for Anne’s father. And both have been so very kind to me. Let me think on it a while, Emma. There must be some way to persuade Sir Nicholas into silence, or if not persuade him, trick him.”

  Emma laughed as she rose. “I like the way your mind works, Maggie. I must be off. Please give my best to your husband.”

  “He told me he would join me for tea after our drive but I suppose he forgot,” her friend said matter-of-factly. “Do come again soon. I don’t visit much, in my condition, but I love company.”

  “I will.”

  * * * *

  Adam had not forgotten that he had promised his wife to join her for tea. He had, in fact, been coming down the stairs to do so when the footman carried the laden tea tray into the drawing room, the aroma of freshly baked cakes wafting up to him. As the door was open for a moment, he clearly caught the sound of Miss Berryman’s voice and was reminded that he had set out an art book he planned to lend her. So instead of going directly into the drawing room, he wandered into the green room, vaguely recalling that he had set the book on a shelf there. The green room connected with the drawing room through sliding doors that were for some reason slightly ajar. (The downstairs maid was in a bit of a hurry that morning because she had been given the afternoon off to consult an apothecary on the rash that persistently reappeared on her hands.)

  With not the slightest intention of eavesdropping, he heard Miss Berryman ask, “He doesn’t mistreat you in bed, does he?” and stood rigid, straining to hear his wife’s reply. He gave a snort of satisfaction (not loud enough to be heard in the drawing room) at her answer, but soon found himself feeling very uncomfortable as the discussion progressed. He had been seeing the Jewel again, regularly, when he was in town. It had never occurred to him that his wife might be lonely, and he had no reason to suspect that she knew about Julia. What the devil had her father meant by telling her? And the canaries! Who had told her about the canaries? Probably no one, he realized after a moment. Margaret was quite astute enough to have guessed what happened that night—their wedding night.

  When the discussion ranged to Miss Berryman’s problems with Sir Nicholas and Lord Dunn, Adam was not particularly interested— except for grinning when he heard that Miss Berryman had allowed Sir Nicholas to kiss her. What did catch his attention—in fact, stung him surprisingly—was his wife’s comment: “I don’t think I’ve met any gentleman I admire more than Lord Dunn, except possibly for Anne’s father." It was conceivable that she meant to the exclusion of himself, but he really didn’t think so. The possibility that his own wife, that poor little mouse he’d married, accorded him a lesser position in her estimation than Lord Dunn was a lowering thought. In truth, that “poor little mouse” he’d married had turned out to be nothing of the kind. Somehow she had become pretty and gracious and the central focus of his admittedly ramshackle life. When he was with Julia he thought of her, rather than the other way about. For God’s sake, he was only trying to be considerate—and it was difficult for him. Didn’t she realize that? He didn’t mean to hurt her. Quite the opposite.

  There was silence now in the drawing room and Adam replaced the book he had stood immobile holding. Not for the world did he wish his wife to know that he had overheard her conversation, and he quietly let himself out into the hall. The drawing room door was closed and he could easily have sneaked past it and out of the house, but he had indeed promised to join his wife for tea and though he knew she’d already had hers, he was not averse to having some, so long as she applied for more hot water for him. He knew she would; she always did when he was late.

  Guiltily, he stepped into the room to find her thoughtfully gazing out the window into the street, her teacup empty and returned to the tray. The pale sunlight shone on her face, which was fuller now, softening the once-sharp features. Her hands rested on the mound that was their child, and she smiled gently at a movement there that he could see from across the room.

  “The baby moved,” he gasped, awestruck.

  Maggie turned to smile at him. “Yes, all the time now. Would you like to feel it?”

&nb
sp; “Could I?” It had not occurred to him that she would want him to touch her body at all, if he weren’t going to make love to her.

  “Certainly. You may have to wait for a few minutes. I’ll ring for more hot water.”

  “No, let me.” Adam hastened to tug the pull. “I’m sorry I’m late. You’ve already had yours.”

  “Emma came and I thought you wouldn’t mind if we didn’t wait for you."

  No trace of reproach colored her voice, which did not prevent Adam from feeling something of a fool. “I was looking out a book,” he explained as he seated himself. “One for Miss Berryman on art.”

  “That was thoughtful of you. I’m sure she’ll appreciate it.” She gave instructions to the footman to bring hot water and another cup. “Mr. Rogers is arranging to have her paintings shown. She’s still working on yours; she’s not satisfied with it as yet. If you like it when it’s finished, I thought we might purchase it from her.”

  How cautious she sounded—as though she had to tread carefully to avoid upsetting him. “Well, of course we shall purchase it! Even if it’s not quite right. I daresay she’s worked very hard on it, and she certainly did a wonderful job with yours. Margaret, I—”

  “Quick. Put your hand here. The baby’s moving again.”

  Adam did as he was instructed, a huge grin stretching across his face. “My word, how astonishing! We have a very active little fellow there!”

  “Will you be disappointed if it’s a girl?”

  “Of course not,” he declared stoutly. “Sometimes it’s just the thing for a fellow to have an older sister.”

  Maggie nodded as the footman entered and Adam resettled himself in his chair. “You certainly are fortunate in your older sister. Cynthia has given me a complete list of the items we’ll need for the baby and offered to lend us anything we wish.” When the footman had departed she said earnestly, “Greenwood, I would prefer not to stay in town too long after the baby is born, if you don’t mind. The air in the country seems so much healthier. And everything is quiet there, not the continual racket of London streets. I won’t mind being alone there with the baby,” she hastened to assure him.