The Loving Seasons

by Laura Matthews

  “So I see. Well, perhaps I could take you driving the day after tomorrow. You’d have time to build up your resources.”

  “Thank you, no. That won’t be possible.” Emma rose abruptly. “I really must speak with Maggie before she leaves. Please don’t get up.”

  He did rise, though, wearing a puzzled frown, and reached over to place his plate on the table. “I think they’ve returned to one of the card rooms. I’ll help you find her.”

  “No, really. I’m capable of finding her by myself,” she said firmly. “I insist that you stay and finish your supper.”

  His bow was minimal, almost mocking, but she could not explain herself. She spent the rest of her time at the Fulbrooks’ avoiding him. When she and Amelia at last climbed into the carriage, she heaved a sigh of relief. But she did not rest well that night and Maggie remarked the next morning, when they came, that she looked peaked.

  “I’m fine,” Emma insisted. Their pleasure with Adam’s portrait did not noticeably lift her spirits, and an amusing review of her work in the paper did not make her smile. By the time Nicholas came to take her driving she felt absolutely cross.

  “I’ve taken the edge off them,” he told her as he handed her into the curricle, “so you may drive straightaway if you wish.”

  “Thank you, no. I had not progressed to the busier London streets as yet, and I’m unfamiliar with your pair. If you don’t mind, I’d rather wait until we get to the park.”

  “As you wish.” He placed a booted foot on the iron step and swung himself up beside her with all the grace of a man half his age. Emma had still not learned to think of thirty-nine as anything but “older” and she was admiring of his dexterity. Nicholas eyed her askance and muttered, “I’m not decrepit, you know, Emma.”

  “I never said you were—or thought it. You’re remarkably active.”

  “For a man my age.” His voice was laden with sarcasm. “You will find, my dear girl, that twenty years from now you will feel very nearly as young as you do today. Any signs of aging you will studiously ignore and press yourself the harder to do anything you could do in your youth. And frankly, there are very few things I can’t do now that I could do then. I come from a long-lived family, you know. My mother is still gadding about the Continent at sixty, showing not the least inclination to slow down. My father did not die of age, but of a riding accident. My grandmother is still alive at eighty-five and I have a great-uncle who boasts of ninety-two, though my mother swears he’s only ninety. I’m a comparative babe.”

  Emma restrained a chuckle as they swept into the park. Her mentor glared at her as he handed over the reins. “There are advantages to age, Emma, and one of them is that you command the respect of youth,” he reminded her loftily.

  “Oh, I have the greatest respect for you,” she retorted. “I venerate the very gray hairs of your head.”

  “Gray hairs! Doing it too brown, my girl. Keep your eyes on the road. My pair aren’t used to an unfamiliar hand on the reins. Did Dunn not teach you that you must be constantly alert?”

  “Of course he did.” Her voice was cool and she said nothing further until she had successfully negotiated a box that had fallen in the road. “He was an exacting teacher but he did seem to think that it was possible to carry on a conversation while driving.”

  “I see he has also directed you to the proper type of gauntlets for driving.”

  Emma flushed slightly. Although Dunn had told her on that first drive to purchase appropriate gloves, she had been surprised the next morning by a box in the hall that had contained the gauntlets she now wore. The accompanying note had explained his concern that she would not know where to shop for such an item and his hope that she would accept them in lieu of a posy.

  They were rather an expensive present to accept, and so she had protested when next he came, but he had shrugged off such niceness. “I could have sent you an out-of-season apricot tart that would have cost more”—he laughed—”or a bunch of lilies of the valley such as I saw in the hall on the way in.” She had thanked him and kept them.

  “The reins bite into your hands in riding gloves,” she answered Sir Nicholas as she slowed the pair to a sedate pace to cross the Serpentine. A pink-breasted linnet flashed in the bushes ahead and she heard the first notes of his song spill out over the spring greenery. “We’re having remarkably fine weather for this time of year, aren’t we?”

  He regarded her quizzingly. “Have we sunk to banalities, Emma?”

  “You wouldn’t want me to discuss something so engrossing that my attention to your pair was disturbed, would you?”

  “Heaven forbid! You needn’t say a word! I shall just tell you that you look remarkably fine with some color in your cheeks. And that I like the way you’re wearing your hair this season. The curls over your ears are decidedly provocative. Now as to your lips... I know how provocative they are, but you have barely smiled since I called for you. Not that I can’t appreciate the serious side of a woman, but I find it disconcerting to have it exhibited when I’m being my most charming. Or so I thought. Do you call that a Russian wrapping-cloak? How clever of you to choose one with a pelerine of such enormous size. It shows your long neck to admirable advantage.”

  “Really, Sir Nicholas,” she protested, flustered.

  “Nick, if you please. In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve been calling you Emma all day.”

  “I had noticed, and I don’t mind, so long as we’re alone, but it would look strange for you to do so in company.”

  Her concentration, such as it was, was on the pair ahead, but he had noticed a rider approaching them down the path to the right. He touched her cheek familiarly with a gloved finger, saying, “You’re quite as courageous as you are lovely, my dear Emma. And not a bad driver at that.”

  Her flush of pleasure was easily discerned by Dunn as he drew abreast of them. For a moment he could not believe his eyes. Miss Berryman handling the ribbons of Sir Nicholas’s curricle. Unheard of. He, Dunn, was supposed to be the one teaching her to drive. She had refused his offer last night so that she could drive with Nick.

  He repeated the self-evident fact to himself, with only slightly more credulity than the first time. Naturally she would find the victory of Nick’s allowing her to handle the ribbons something out of the ordinary, but did that excuse her from not mentioning it to him, allowing him to come upon them without warning? And why did she permit Nick to be so familiar with her, and look pleased by the gesture? Dunn was hardly conscious of how grim his countenance had become.

  After a glance at him Emma drew the team to a halt. "Good afternoon, Lord Dunn,” she said brightly. "As you see, Sir Nicholas has agreed to take over the responsibility of teaching me to drive. He’s as hard a taskmaster as you are! His pair are not as well-trained but that will only add to my experience, won’t it?”

  “No doubt. I didn’t mind teaching you to drive, Miss Berryman." Emma wanted nothing more than to erase the hurt and perplexity she read in his eyes, but she forced herself to choke down the words that would make everything right with him. She cast a helpless glance at Sir Nicholas, who immediately thrust himself into the breach.

  “Emma will progress a little faster with me, I think. For early lessons the park is all very well, but I plan to have her driving in London traffic on the way back to Bruton Street. Trial by fire, and all that. She’s a bit more adventurous than you gave her credit for, Dunn . . . in many ways.”

  Cringing at the flare of anger in Dunn’s eyes, Emma placed a pleading hand on Nicholas’s arm. Don’t go too far her eyes begged, and he put a hand possessively over hers as he remarked, “We are two of a kind, you know, Emma and I. Daring enough to seek more enjoyment than most; prudent enough to stay within society’s bounds. It’s not often one finds a kindred spirit, is it?”

  "No," Dunn replied through tight lips, “it isn’t.”

  Emma paled. “I ... I appreciate all the trouble you’ve taken with my driving lessons.”

  "Yes, s
o you said last night. I trust you will enjoy yourself.” Dunn gave a brusque nod to them both, set his heels to his horse, and rode off.

  Her hands clenching the reins, Emma sadly watched as he grew more distant. “Did you have to do that?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry but it was necessary. You will learn, my dear, that there’s never the least use in trying to extricate yourself gently from a delicate situation. The misunderstandings you save yourself by a good clean break are worth the momentary discomfort.”

  Momentary. Did he believe that? Emma looked up at him through moist lashes but could read nothing in his averted face. With a shaking breath she gathered up the reins and asked, “Did you really mean I could drive through the streets?”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The gallery on Bond Street was closed, as any right-minded shopkeeper would insist, on that Sunday afternoon. Nonetheless, there were several visitors, each of whom left with a large, flat parcel, wrapped in brown paper to protect it from the inclement weather. Dunn had agonized over the decision from the moment he had seen Miss Berryman with Sir Nicholas in the park. Her defection had not changed: she was not at home to him, politely refused to stand up with him at dances, avoided his company whenever possible. What distressed him most, perhaps, was that she had obviously lied to him. Only a green girl, she had said, would find any substance on which to attach her affection for Sir Nicholas.

  And yet, since that day, she was to be found more and more frequently in the baronet’s company, always vivacious, occasionally almost flirtatious. Her animation, which appeared to vanish entirely in Dunn’s presence, peaked in Sir Nicholas’s. At first Dunn had thought she meant to make him jealous and he scorned such an obvious gambit, but it became more and more clear that she really wished no part of him at all.

  Through the weeks of the exhibit he continued to champion Emma’s portraiture, though he refused to comment on whether he intended to have the one of himself. In the end, unable to do otherwise, he had arranged with Mr. Wigginton to purchase it anonymously. Having no desire to be seen at the gallery, he had picked it up himself Sunday morning while most people were in church, climbing into his closed carriage afterward with a sigh of relief at not having encountered anyone he knew.

  Mr. Wigginton had been sympathetic to Lord Dunn’s request, despite the fact that he had agreed with the other purchasers to be in the shop on Sunday afternoon, some time after the hour Dunn wished to call. There was a new exhibit to be planned for a Tuesday opening and he found plenty to busy himself in his office. If he was amused, or surprised, by the sour look Dunn bestowed on the portrait of Sir Nicholas, he didn’t show it. When Dunn had reminded him abruptly that no one was to be informed of his purchase, Mr. Wigginton had merely replied, “Of course, my lord.”

  Sir Nicholas had made no such clandestine appointment. He had arrived slightly later than he had promised, laughed at his tardiness, cheerfully wrote out a bank draft for the painting, tucked it under his arm, and accosted a friend in the street to describe his pleasant mission. “I shall hang it in my drawing room so that any visitors who have to await me will have my likeness to keep them company.” He laughed.

  There had been buyers, even, for the portraits of Mr. Hill and Mr. Hampton, and they came soon after Sir Nicholas to walk off with their prizes. The last gentleman to arrive at the Bond Street shop was Mr. Hatton, subject of “The Fencer.” He was neither circumspect nor ostentatious about his purchase, and because he lived in Albemarle Street, he merely carried the painting to his lodgings, where he instantly had a servant hang it in his breakfast parlor and stood back to admire it. “She’s flattered me,” he said aloud to the empty room, but he was nonetheless delighted with the painting. “I must invite Persigny around to see it."

  And the thought of his fencing master induced an almost irresistible urge to have a go with the foils. Persigny was used to his aberrations and would not, if he weren’t otherwise occupied, take it amiss if Mr. Hatton arrived on his stoop for a bit of sport. Their acquaintance went back over a period of ten years, all told, and their skills were now so well matched that the teacher-pupil relationship had broken down into one of sporting associates, a social leveler if ever there was one. Mr. Hatton grabbed up the curly-brimmed beaver he had tossed on a chair, disposed it casually on his head, and departed for Argyll Street.

  The porter who answered M. Persigny’s door announced that his master was out and not expected back until late. This was a setback, of course, but Mr. Hatton was of an even disposition and was seldom cast down by any circumstance over which he had no control. When he turned from the door his eye was caught by the house across the street, and he remembered Mr. Rogers saying that his sister had painted him while sitting in their drawing room on the first floor. With opera glasses at the ready, he thought ruefully. He could see no movement in the first floor window, but his curiosity was aroused and before the thought had barely had time to take root, he crossed and beat a tattoo with the brass knocker.

  “If I might just have a word with Miss Rogers,” he said to the aged retainer who opened the door. Handing the man his card he added, "She might not recognize my name. You may tell her it is the Fencer.” Skeptical but polite, the servant ushered him into the hall, opening the first door on the right.

  “If you will wait here, sir, I will ascertain whether Miss Rogers is available.”

  The room he entered was a small breakfast parlor done in shades of green and beige. On the walls were numerous watercolors so exquisite that he wandered bemused from one to the other. They bore not the slightest resemblance to the painting she had done of him, being nature studies and landscapes, but he was the more enchanted not to have to fight his own vanity in order to appreciate them.

  A movement in the doorway made him swing about guiltily. “Miss Rogers?” he asked uncertainly, faced with a white-haired lady of what age—twenty? thirty? It was impossible for him to tell.

  “Yes.” She stepped into the room, leaving the door open behind her, and extended her hand. "Mr. Hatton. How nice of you to call. My brother told me that you had offered for my painting of you.”

  He gripped her hand firmly, forgetting for a moment, until he saw her wince, that his handshake was notoriously strong. He had been cautioned by more than one gentleman of his acquaintance that he should bear in mind he was pressing human flesh and not taking a life-or-death grip on a fencing foil. “I beg your pardon! Have I hurt you? Lord, I’m frightfully sorry.” He could see, close up, that she was young, not much above twenty, he would guess, but the hair was stark white, naturally. No powder could have given it that clean radiance.

  Helena laughed. “No, you merely startled me, Mr. Hatton. Won’t you sit down?”

  There were two chairs near the front window placed there for just such visitors. The house in Argyll Street was not large enough to have a special waiting room for guests, and the breakfast parlor cozy and comfortable as it was, served a dual purpose. Harold was out and Helena didn’t like to have strangers brought to the drawing room, especially if their calls were likely to be brief. She seated herself and expected Mr. Hatton to do likewise, but at the last moment his eye was caught by the watercolor that flanked the window and he stood before it, shaking his head.

  "These are yours, too, aren’t they?”

  "Yes," she admitted. “I’m afraid I doodle in my spare time.”

  “Doodle?” He turned on her with a fierce frown. "How dare you call such delicate work doodling? Why wasn’t it shown at the gallery along with 'The Fencer’?”

  “Mr. Hatton,” she said, a trifle nervous, "I haven’t the courage to face criticism the way Miss Berryman has. And you may be sure they would be criticized! If not for the technique, then for the subject matter. Have you ever known a member of the ton to go into ecstasies over a watercolor of a leaf? The very medium is a schoolgirl’s. I happen to like it, but it does not make for works of distinguished art.”

  “How old are you?” he asked suddenly.

  “I
can’t see what my age has to say to anything. Did you have some purpose in calling, Mr. Hatton?”

  “Of course I did.” He sat down beside her and grinned. “I didn’t mean to set up your back, Miss Rogers. Your brother may have told you that I was a bit annoyed when I learned how you came to paint me fencing. It was just the original shock. Really, I’m out of reason delighted. I bought the painting; took it home today, and had it hung in my breakfast parlor—like you do. But seeing these,” he said with a grandiose gesture about the room, “I find that the room lacks quite a bit. I really am enchanted by them. Have you others? May I see them? Would you be willing to sell some?”

  Helena held up a protesting hand. "You are going too fast, Mr. Hatton. No one has ever offered to buy one of my watercolors before, and I promise you any number of people have seen them. My brother has several hanging in the drawing room, so it is impossible for visitors to miss them. Not that he calls attention to them,” she assured him earnestly. "I couldn’t bear that. What I mean to say is that, although a few have been so kind as to praise them, no one has ever shown the least inclination to have them decorate the walls of their homes. You would be considered . . . eccentric if you were to do so.”

  “Nonsense. And even if I were, what difference would it make?” Mr. Hatton eyed her quizzically. “Do people consider you eccentric because you have white hair?”

  Helena bit her lip. "Yes," she said coldly.

  “Exactly. It’s out of the ordinary. You could have it dyed, but you prefer to leave it untouched because it’s yours, it’s natural, it’s the way you like it.”

  “Possibly.”

  “You’re angry with me for mentioning it.” He stood up and paced about the table, stopping before one of the watercolors of a garden in spring. “Have you a series of this garden? You know—spring, summer, autumn, winter?”

  Surprised, she nodded.

  “They shouldn’t be separated,” he informed her flatly before walking to the next one. “And this landscape. Have you done it at different times of the day—morning, noon, evening, night?”