Was the baby to supplant him in her affections? Was he even in her affections? He had just heard her tell Miss Berryman that she was lonely at nights. Would she start to devote her life to the child, as he saw some women do, and forget that he needed her, too? It was a sobering thought.
“Margaret, I want you to do what you think is best, but I don’t like to be away from you for any long period of time.” He smiled hesitantly. "I get ... restless when you’re in the country and I’m in town. On the other hand, Combe Lodge is not exactly a stimulating spot so far as entertainment is concerned. The riding is fine, but the company is sparse. I’m not saying you’re not excellent company! Don’t mistake me, I beg you. My disposition is such, however,” he admitted ruefully, “that I like to be surrounded by people. I seem to absorb their energy. Just as I absorb your tranquility from time to time, and I need that quite as much. Margaret, do you like me a little?”
The question surprised her and made her throat ache. The smile she attempted went slightly astray. “Yes.”
"More than a little?” he persisted anxiously.
“Yes.”
Adam caught her hand and lifted it to his lips, but retained his firm pressure when he lowered it. “I suppose I’ve been too corkbrained to tell you how much I like you, haven’t I? And I can’t think how you should know if I don’t tell you. I had no idea it would be so pleasant being married. I told Stephen—Captain Midford—just yesterday that he should think of getting hitched and he laughed. Said not everyone could find someone like you! Made me feel very proud, Margaret.”
The ache in her throat had grown to such proportions that Maggie found herself unable to speak. Her lips trembled and her eyes filled. She was forced to turn her head aside so he would not see, but he placed his hands on either side of her head and gently turned it back to face him. In a peculiarly gruff voice he said, "I want to make you happy, my dear, if it’s in my power. I know we aren’t as well suited as we might be, but that doesn’t seem to matter anymore, does it?”
Maggie bit her lip and shook her head.
“No, I didn’t think so. Would you like me to come into the country with you after the baby’s born?”
“Very much, but it will probably be before the season ends. Perhaps you could come after . . . and invite some friends to join us. I’ll be rested by then.”
He searched her face for any sign of hesitation but found none. Had she grown so used to compromising that it had become natural? Had he made any effort to accommodate her? When she had been at Combe Lodge, he had come regularly to visit, but that was because he found it impossible to stay away for long, not because he had particularly considered what she would want. Adam promised himself then and there that he would use his head a little more where his wife was concerned. After all, she had become his touchstone and his hearth: the standard by which he judged the worth of even the most trivial matter, the ever-present warmth of his home. There was no going back to those premarriage days . . . and he no longer wished to. He leaned over and kissed her gently.
“We’ll see how things go, my dear. I, at least, will be with you.”
Adam was not at all accustomed to being tactful, but he made a supreme effort. She must never learn that he had overheard their conversation. “Does the baby move much at night?”
“Oh, yes. More perhaps than during the day.”
"Well, then.” Adam cleared his throat. “Would you mind very much if I . . . ah . . . joined you at night? Not to . . . That is, just so that we could be together and I could feel the baby move now and then.”
Maggie swallowed painfully. “Please do. I've missed you."
“Have you? By Jove, I’ve missed you, too. " Despite the protrusion that was their growing child, he hugged her to him, murmuring, “I do treasure you, my love.”
Chapter Twenty
The buildings along Bond Street contained some of the most exclusive shops in London. Not every business, however, was patronized only by the wealthiest of the ton. There was a bow-windowed storefront between Clifford and Burlington that attracted quite an unusual assortment of ladies and gentlemen. On that particular Wednesday afternoon an observer might have witnessed the arrival (and eventual departure) of three very grand dames with their undistinguished companions, half a dozen cits, five respectably (perhaps, if the observer were not of a charitable disposition, they would have been described as dully) clad ladies ranging in age from their mid-twenties to their late sixties, and twenty or more individuals who could be classed only as gentlemen of the highest order—in their starched cravats and elegantly cut coats and pantaloons. The swish of tassels on Hessian boots would not have been noticed in the clamor of carriages passing back and forth, but the cat who sat lazily in the window eyed their motion with a fascination so profound that the owner of the shop, having no desire to be called to account for his pet’s destruction of such delicious baubles, soon relegated the poor animal to the office at the rear.
“Do let me hold him,” Anne urged when Mr. Wigginton made to set the cat on the floor beside her. As the animal folded up in a gray ball in her lap, she asked diffidently, “How does it seem to be going, Mr. Wigginton? Are they approving or disapproving?”
“Quite a varied response,” the young man informed her, taking the opportunity to sip from a cup of cold coffee left sitting on his desk. “The very number of people who have come attests to the novelty of the show, but I cannot in good conscience say there is unilateral appreciation of Miss Berryman’s work. The young gentlemen especially are prone to mock her efforts, though two of them have taken me aside to ask how one arranges for a sitting with her.”
His ironic gaze rested on her briefly before he glanced through the glass window into the shop. “Ah, here is Mr. Rogers now. I’m delighted he was able at last to convince his sister to put one work in the show, though I regret it wasn’t one of her delicate watercolors. 'The Fencer’ has power and elegance, but her special forte is landscapes and the intricacies of plants and birds. I grant you The Fencer is more appropriate to this particular exhibition, but I hope the two of you will continue to urge her to show more of her work. If you will excuse me."
With a slight bow he opened the door and stepped into the shop. Anne shifted in her chair so that she could just see the two of them meet in the center of the room, without herself being obvious to the other customers. The men held an earnest conversation and Mr. Rogers’s eyes traveled momentarily to the room where she sat, but he gave no sign of recognition.
Instead he wandered amongst the people standing in front of the various portraits and other works of art, obviously saying little but listening and storing what he heard. Anne stroked the cat absently and never took her eyes from Mr. Rogers, distinguishable in any gathering by his height. After a lengthy period of time he made his way deliberately to the office, closing the door after him with alarming firmness. He was frowning.
“You really shouldn’t be here alone, Lady Anne. Not that any harm is likely to come to you, but I cannot believe your mother would be pleased to learn that you spent the afternoon in the office of an art gallery.”
"I told Mama I was coming,” she protested, patting the cat so vigorously that it leaped from her lap. “A footman came with me and I’ve sent him off on an errand. He’ll be back shortly.”
“After scavenging the Arcade for a nonexistent brand of hand cream, no doubt,” he said, the frown continuing to crease his forehead.
“Really, I’m not that devious, Mr. Rogers.” A grin peeked out from her impish eyes. “It was a very long list I gave him.”
He shook his head sorrowfully but the frown disappeared. “Why did you want to be here so badly?"
“Because Emma and Helena really couldn’t. I walked around the paintings and listened to people, just as you have. Mr. Wigginton says the reaction is mixed, which was the conclusion I reached, but I might observe that those who were critical were also the ones to scoff at a woman painting portraits. I couldn’t stay out in the shop a
ll afternoon, so Mr. Wigginton suggested I wait here for the footman. This way I can at least watch their faces.”
Mr. Rogers seated himself casually in a chair opposite hers and thoughtfully stroked the cat when it descended on his lap from a shelf where it had perched. “Have Sir Nicholas and Lord Dunn been in?”
“Yes, both of them. Dunn hadn’t seen the other paintings and he was visibly impressed. He spoke to Mr. Wigginton for some time, but I couldn’t hear what they said.”
“You tried?” he asked, his eyes laughing.
“Of course I tried.” But Anne had the grace to flush. “Emma said Sir Nicholas has asked for first option to buy his, but that Dunn had said nothing. I was curious to see if he wanted it.”
“Hmm.” Mr. Rogers continued to rub a finger between the cat’s ears but his mind was obviously otherwise occupied. “Don’t expect Wigginton to tell you what was discussed. He’s a model of discretion.”
“I’m sure he is. He made me a cup of coffee earlier."
“Which you haven’t touched,” he pointed out.
“I don’t like coffee.”
“You should have told him.”
“I didn’t see a tea caddy, so when he asked I accepted politely.”
Mr. Rogers sighed. “Let me see you home now. Wigginton can send your footman after us.”
Without the slightest demur Anne rose. “Thank you. I’m afraid I’m a great bother."
"You know you aren’t.” But there was no smile to accompany his words.
There were perhaps half a dozen people in the gallery as they came out of the office, and all of them were congregated around Helena’s picture, “The Fencer.” Despite the numerous voices chattering at once, one voice could be heard above them all. A gentleman with his back to Anne was demanding of Mr. Wigginton, “I wish to know who painted this picture of me, my good fellow. Surely that is not asking too much.”
“I’m afraid it is,” Mr. Wigginton said apologetically. “The artist agreed to have the work exhibited only if done anonymously. As I am sure you can tell, it was not done by Miss Berryman or Mr. Hopethorn, the other two exhibiters.”
“But I never posed for it! How the devil did anyone see me at Persigny’s?”
Anne had stopped to listen to the confrontation and now turned to glance at Mr. Rogers with questioning eyes.
“What did Miss Berryman say his name was?” he asked.
“Um ... Hatton.”
“Wait here a moment, please.” Mr. Rogers joined the party in front of “The Fencer” and introduced himself to the puzzled man with the utmost ease, mentioning Mr. Hatton’s name and that they had mutual friends. “If you would care to come with me, I believe I can explain the painting to your satisfaction. Lady Anne Parsons and I are walking toward Grosvenor Square.” When the man nodded agreement, Mr. Rogers passed on a message for the footman, took Anne’s arm, and led the way out into Bond Street.
Up close, Anne decided, he did not look nearly so much like Dunn, though there was nothing inaccurate about the painting. He bowed politely to her when he was introduced and paid her no further attention. His curiosity was almost palpable, or perhaps it was annoyance. Anne couldn’t tell.
“Now then,” he began, directing his question at Mr. Rogers. “Would you be so good as to tell me who painted the picture, and how I came to be the subject?”
“My sister and I live in Argyll Sheet, directly opposite M. Persigny’s fencing studio. On duller days,” he said with a rueful smile, “we are given to watching the performance across the street, and my sister especially admired your skill. She ordinarily does only watercolors—landscapes, flowers, birds—but I had urged her to try oils, and she told me that if she were going to use such expensive ingredients she needed a subject worthy of the endeavor. She chose you.
Mr. Hatton paused at the corner of Conduit Street to stare at him, patently unsure whether he was being ridiculed or not. His gaze traveled to Lady Anne, who could not resist the urge to add her own contribution to the discussion. “I beg you won’t be offended, Mr. Hatton. Miss Rogers meant not the least harm. I don’t suppose any of us thought for a moment that you would ever see it, or that you would recognize yourself as the subject. She might as easily have painted a stagecoachman at work, you see. Her fascination is with the skill involved, as Mr. Rogers said. No one else at M. Persigny’s studio is nearly as talented as you are.”
“Have you seen me, too?" he asked incredulously.
“Well, yes,” she admitted, sneaking a glance at Mr. Rogers for encouragement. “Miss Rogers has a pair of opera glasses which we use on occasion.”
"I don’t believe this! For God’s sake, we’re not putting on a show for the amusement of the public! My fencing lessons are a private endeavor and not to be gawked at by a pair of schoolgirls.”
Mr. Rogers was as imperturbably calm as ever. “Might I suggest that you mention to M. Persigny the possibility of curtains? On a gray day the attraction of the activity across the street is as appealing as attending a magic lantern show. Just as you might delight in watching a bout of fisticuffs for the skill and grace involved, so we, who rarely have a chance to see an exhibition of fencing, delight in watching M. Persigny’s pupils. If you are indeed disturbed by having the painting exhibited, I will have it withdrawn from the show.”
“Oh, no!” Anne protested, laying a hand urgently on his sleeve. “Please don’t do that! Helena could change the features so that it was not recognizable as Mr. Hatton, but please don’t have it removed. It is the first time she’s agreed to have a work shown.”
Mr. Hatton seemed quite as offended to think that his face would be wiped from his body as he had been at being the subject of prying eyes. He stared fiercely at Anne for a moment and then shifted his glowering eyes to Mr. Rogers. Mr. Rogers’s lips were twitching and his shoulders shook slightly, though he managed otherwise to maintain a rigidly polite expression.
The longer Mr. Hatton stared at Mr. Rogers, the harder it was for him to sustain his own offended dignity. Despite his efforts, he ended by shaking his head and grinning. “Oh, what the devil! Begging your pardon, Lady Anne. Let her show the painting. No one is likely to recognize me, though I’m not saying it isn’t good. In fact, I’ve a mind to go back and have another look at it. When you only have one achievement, which is almost as antiquated as jousting, it’s rather flattering to be immortalized at it. Lady Anne, Mr. Rogers, your obedient servant.”
And he strolled off with a cheerful wave, his walking stick swinging briskly from his fingers, much as Anne had seen him the first day Helena pointed him out. Astonished, Anne looked at Mr. Rogers suspiciously and asked, “How did you do that?”
"I did nothing, my dear Lady Anne. It was you who suggested his face might be so easily replaced. You could be rather hard on a man’s self-esteem.”
“Nonsense.” They had crossed to the other side of the street and she felt him shorten his stride to match hers. “How could you tell that he had an ounce of humor in him when he was acting like the avenging furies?”
“Quite simply because I have observed him. Granted we didn’t know his name until Miss Berryman informed us, but we’ve seen him fence, and we’ve seen him laugh with Persigny, and we’ve seen him walk down Argyll Street in charity with all the world. No man who behaves that way is as rigid as Mr. Hatton gave us to believe. He had only to have the humor of the situation...ah...pointed out to him.”
“Can you really read people as simply as that?” Anne asked uneasily.
Mr. Rogers studied her averted face for a moment. “Not always. There are numerous indications of a man’s—.or a woman’s— personality in every encounter. Does he perpetually frown? Does she blush for no apparent reason? If you’re interested, you study people. Some are more fascinating than others.”
He held her eyes with a steady gaze until she turned away to straighten her already-straight bonnet.
“There is some truth to what Mr. Hatton said about privacy, however. We put a public face o
n when we expect to be observed. There is something unnerving about learning that you have been watched without your defenses in place. You, for instance, would not be best pleased, I imagine, if you went out for a solitary walk at Parkhurst, singing to yourself, poking into birds nests, hopping over stiles, generally reveling in your freedom, and found later that someone had observed you the entire while.”
Her eyes darted to his face, remembering a day only a few weeks ago... Did you?” she whispered.
“Yes.” He shrugged. “At first I intended to join you because Helena had decided not to drive with me to the village after all, but sit with your mother. You were some distance away when I spotted you, and seemed so . . . carefree, that after a moment I decided you would prefer to be alone. I sat on the hillock overlooking the lake and watched your progress. You needn’t tell me I shouldn’t have; I couldn’t pass up the chance. It was the day before I brought Helena back to town with me.”
Anne remembered the afternoon he spoke of quite vividly, because of what had happened in the morning. He had only stayed four days, and those at the urging of her brother Jack. Originally he had merely planned to stop overnight before bearing Helena off with him. And Anne knew he did not speak the entire truth when he said he had not joined her because he thought she preferred to be alone. The real reason was that he did not trust himself to join her; to take the chance of a repetition of the morning.
How she had hoped he would be by the lake before breakfast, as he had been the previous day, with the mist clinging to the water and eddying out into the stand of trees. And he was there, staring out over the ghostly scene, his hands in his pockets, his booted feet sinking slightly into the marshy ground.
The Loving Seasons Page 27