by Mary Balogh
“Naturally,” murmured Rosamund, beginning to be diverted. A charming meeting in the park, chaperoned by Sammy. Most promising. Perhaps she would find Minna that perfect match after all. “What is this gentleman’s name?”
“Fairburn. And he’s so very handsome.” Again Minna sighed. She had a full bosom, and it rose and fell dramatically.
“Oh, how delightful.” Rosamund was satisfied. She was acquainted with Percy Fairburn, a sweet young man who could by a stretch of the imagination be called handsome, though Rosamund had never thought much of fair-haired men. He had a promising career with the East India Company. She remembered that Minna hadn’t been at home when the young Fairburn had called upon her earlier in the week, the day she had invited him to bring his “old uncle” along to the ball.
If Percy Fairburn started coming to the house to court Minna, it was to be hoped he would leave his uncle out of the project. The man had military duties, for heaven’s sake. Surely he couldn’t spend his days paying morning calls.
“Sammy thought he was wonderful,” Minna went on.
Rosamund recognized the irresistible urge to talk of the beloved object and admired the blush staining her young friend’s cheeks.
“A colonel, after all.”
“What?” Rosamund let out a gasp before she could stop herself. “You mean Colonel Fairburn is your new swain? Colonel John Fairburn?”
“I would hardly call him a swain,” Minna said shyly. “Would you? He saw us home and was most polite. He was telling me something about his family, I think. I don’t remember his exact words, but I thought it most promising that he should wish to talk to me about his family…”
Minna’s voice went on. And on. Rosamund had never before wanted to shake the girl, but now she was seized by just such an ill-tempered notion. She managed only with difficulty to listen to Minna’s effusions.
She told herself more than once during the recital that she would be glad if John’s attentions were directed elsewhere. Minna could be called a pretty girl, and John probably didn’t need money. Such a match wasn’t impossible, and a flirtation in that direction would be quite in his style. Rosamund could vouch for his effect upon naive vicars’ daughters.
———
“So, Uncle.” Percy Fairburn, at liberty yet again from Company business, swirled the brandy in his glass as he and John sat at their ease beneath the punkah fans at Fort William. Turbanned servants were energetically working the cords that made the fans swing and rendered the large room breezy. “I didn’t think you believed I should entangle myself with females until I made my fortune.”
John shrugged. The lad was sounding unexpectedly shrewd. “I don’t say you should entangle yourself by any means. You’re the one who’s been running about the town meeting every female you can. My dear nephew, anyone who would accompany Lady Tidbury on a visit to her physician because he heard the physician had a pretty daughter should not balk at being introduced to Lady Ashburnham’s house guest.”
“Use me if you will, sir,” Percy said cheerfully. “This girl ain’t old and ugly, I trust?”
“Not a bit of it,” the colonel nearly growled, not at all liking his nephew’s astuteness. He did mean to use the boy—and the girl—and was already feeling guilty. “Miss Peabody is a sweet young thing with the usual number of eyes, a shy manner, everything that makes a young lady desirable, I daresay. And according to my calculations, she could well be an heiress. But you’re right. Though I think you’ll like her, I have no reason to wish her on you except my own desire to have another excuse besides myself to visit Lady Ashburnham.”
“Why?”
John took a draft of his own brandy. “Call it the art of subtlety, my dear fellow.”
“I’ll be pleased to call it anything you wish, Uncle,”
Percy responded. “At your service in this as in all things.”
“Family loyalty,” muttered John, sensing an edge of satire in the boy’s words. “There’s nothing like it.”
———
The ladies of the Ashburnham household were having a quiet morning at their work; it was not Rosamund’s ordinary day for receiving, and they expected no callers.
As Minna struggled with some straight hems, Rosamund, whose artistic yearnings were partially filled by the intricate embroidery her young guest so admired, was poking her needle listlessly in and out of a piece of silk, wondering if she would go mad.
Her night had been an unproductive and wakeful march of hours. She would give anything not to have seen John again.
Had she already been disloyal to Samuel’s memory? The thought made her uneasy. She had kissed John deliberately that night at the ball; worse, she had enjoyed it. Worse yet, she wished that his visit of yesterday had ended in another embrace.
One was only human, after all, Rosamund excused herself, trying for philosophy. Lust was a human failing. She had succumbed to it once, though she had believed it to be love, and it was no great surprise that the same man could provoke such feelings in her again. At least she was not promiscuous in her ill-bred longings.
She was just beginning to meditate, for the hundredth time, on John’s story of searching for her, that long-ago St. Valentine’s Day, when her banyan Hari entered.
Minna jumped and emitted a small “Oh!” She had not yet got used to the large and burly Indian, made even taller by the massive turban in the Ashburnham colors.
Hari ignored the young lady’s jitters and, speaking only to his mistress, announced that the Fairburns, uncle and nephew, were waiting to be admitted.
Rosamund pulled herself resolutely back from her unproductive dreaming and managed a nod of acquiescence.
Hari disappeared on soft feet; soon he was back to fling the doors wide, and John entered the room.
Rosamund watched Minna stab herself with a needle and blush to a fiery hue. What a blessing indeed to be beyond that terrible age.
She herself, with ten more years than Minna’s to her credit, greeted her old love with what she hoped was a serene air. Minna stammered and blushed even redder.
Then the ladies turned their attention to the colonel’s nephew, who had come in on his heels. One had to admit that Percy Fairburn did not look like much next to his uncle. There was a sort of vapid lightness about the boy, who couldn’t be much more than twenty. Yet Rosamund would be willing to swear that looks were deceiving and that he was solid, that he possessed what her mother used to call “bottom.”
Absurd, though, to believe that Minna would look twice at such a youth when John Fairburn was in the world. Nor should she. Percy Fairburn had no establishment as yet, nothing but his cheery manner to recommend him to any young lady.
Nevertheless, Rosamund performed the necessary introduction, wishing against all logic that Minna would develop a tendre for Percy; it would make life so much easier.
“Miss Peabody!” Percy was his typical enthusiastic self and sat down right next to Minna, perhaps thinking the place she quickly made by her side was on his account. “Didn’t I see you at the ball the other night? You were in white, I believe. Couldn’t get next or nigh you to beg a dance.”
Rosamund hid a smile. She suspected Percy was indulging in a polite fiction. He probably hadn’t seen Minna. Since all young misses were likely to wear white, his statement was safe enough. Minna had spent most of her time at the ball in hiding from the gentlemen. Perhaps he meant he hadn’t been able to get near her because she was so often in the ladies’ retiring room.
Minna was directing a pleading look at John, as though to beg his pardon for conversing with another. Colonel Fairburn did not have his attention on the young lady, nor did his eyes rest on his hostess. He had not yet taken a seat, and he seemed to be enthralled by Babur, the parrot, who was perched as usual on his stand in one corner of the room.
The late Sir Samuel had doted upon Babur, as did his son. Rosamund had never been able to see much personality in the brightly hued bird, named for a Moghul emperor; yet, while less th
an demonstrative in her affection, she valued Babur for her husband’s sake and Sammy’s.
“He doesn’t talk,” she informed John.
“Doesn’t he? Unusual. But then, everything about you is most unusual, Lady Ashburnham.” His manner was all politeness, as though he hadn’t found her crying the last time he had visited this house; as though angry words hadn’t passed between them. Rosamund had to admire his poise—and her own.
John crossed to her side. “Will you take a turn around the room with me, ma’am?” He held out his arm. “Let us examine this recalcitrant bird more closely.”
Rosamund rose and took his arm, wondering what he planned to say to her that couldn’t be spoken before the young people. As she and John walked away, she could feel Minna’s eyes boring into their backs. Percy’s bright chatter continued.
“Tell me,” John said in a lowered voice, reaching out his hand to stroke the parrot’s feathers, “can you give me some information on Miss Peabody? Your ward, I understand?”
“No, she is not exactly a ward.” Rosamund hesitated, uncomfortable with the flare of feeling that rose up in her. Was it jealousy? Absurd! Could he really be interested in Minna? And why, if so, should she gratify such an interest?
She could not think why not. She looked full at John and was disconcerted to find his eyes as blue as ever, and as keen. “Miss Peabody is a friend of mine. Her father died leaving nothing, and so she was sent to Bengal by her relations to make a match. Any match. And the girl was repelled by such a necessity.” She paused. “Minna is in worse case than many young ladies who find themselves in her situation. Can you feature it, her people were so clutch-fisted they didn’t even outfit her for the journey. She came out in nothing but her Yorkshire wardrobe, which you may imagine is of little use to her here.”
“Indeed,” John was nodding seriously and motioned her to continue.
There was little more to tell. “We met not long ago—I try to meet all the girls who come here—and I took a fancy to her. And so I got permission from her guardians for Minna to stay with me for a time. To look about her without being forced into the first objectionable match that comes along.”
“She told me she is not looking to marry. And now I find she’s not an heiress, either. What future is left for her, Rosamund?”
“Perhaps she is the best judge of that,” she returned. “I’ve told her my home is hers for as long as she desires it. But I believe better times may be coming to her. She has met someone.”
“Ah! The perfect man?” John glanced across the room to where Minna and Percy were making conversation—animated on the boy’s side, monosyllabic on the girl’s.
“A man, at any rate.”
“You don’t approve of this gentleman?” he asked.
“If she is to be fascinated by him, I can only hope she has better luck than I had in a similar situation,” Rosamund said evenly. She was almost enjoying this. She had always admired people who could speak well. So she too could say what was on her mind, yet pepper her speech with double meanings. Perhaps this only meant she was growing old; Lady Tidbury was a great one for speaking her mind.
Rosamund fought down the unaccountable urge to laugh as another thought came to her, a thought she did not voice. The ladies of her household were certainly practicing economy: they had hit upon the same gentleman to figure in their adolescent dreams.
“I do wish Miss Peabody luck,” John said.
Rosamund wondered if he were so blind he did not know that Minna was smitten with him.
“Love at first sight is a difficult course,” he continued. He looked long at Rosamund.
She studied her hands in embarrassment, remembering too well his youthful declaration of love so long ago. Did he remember hers?
He spoke again just as the silence was growing unbearable. “I admire you, Rosamund, for your kindness.”
She looked up. “My kindness? Have I missed something? What are you talking about?”
Fairburn smiled. “I’ve been asking others in Calcutta about you and your activities, you see. I happen to know, ma’am, that Miss Peabody is not the first girl you’ve taken under your wing. In fact, ever since your marriage your house has been constantly open to at least one poor Bengal Bride. You shelter them, befriend them, see that they marry or find employment as governesses or companions. You even give them dowries. And then you find others to take their places in your home.”
“That is nothing,” she protested. “The very least I can do is be a sort of substitute aunt to these girls. I, who was so lucky. I do remember the fear, the absolute disgust I felt at the indelicacy of the whole project. Being sent out to marry the first corner, in effect! How lowering to a female of pride, and many of these girls are strong-minded, of independent spirits. They are crushed by this fate. Even for a female of no pride at all, it was harrowing.”
“Had you no pride?”
“None at all,” she said, looking him in the face. “You must know that better than anyone. By the time I arrived in India I was thoroughly broken in spirit.”
He appeared to be struck by her words. “My dear…” he began softly.
She couldn’t let him comfort her; not now, when she was recalling her first days in Calcutta, when she had been so miserable, and all on his account. Shuddering, she remembered that first trip to the major showcase for young ladies, St. John’s Church; the two elderly men who had offered their arms to escort her to the pew, and her disbelief at the naked lust in their eyes. What if she hadn’t chanced to meet Sam soon after? Yes, she would keep thinking of Sam. “I had nothing fine and noble to offer a husband, and yet I was chosen by the best man in Bengal. I found that marriage could be a beautiful thing, not simply an embarrassment.”
“I’m glad for you, Rosamund,” John said, still speaking low, with a glance across the room at the other two.
“Are you?” He didn’t look glad. His expression was strongly reminiscent of jealousy, in fact; she wondered if he could really be jealous of her memory of Sam, and felt an unworthy stab of gratification.
“I knew every girl couldn’t be so fortunate,” she went on, “and so I decided to help others like me. I have great wealth, you know, and it has never set easily on my shoulders. And I don’t do so very much, at that.”
“You do more than you know. All Calcutta sings your praises,” John declared, smiling a kinder smile than she had yet seen from him.
“And is Calcutta so very large a place?” She tried for a bantering tone, annoyed to find her voice on the verge of trembling.
“For us, my lady, Calcutta is the world.” Suddenly John reached out and grasped her hand, carrying it to his lips, then turning it over to kiss the palm with such easy intimacy that Rosamund gasped.
He had done it to her on purpose, turned her into young Elizabeth with a mere touch of skin on skin. Rosamund had no happy memories of young Elizabeth; she was accordingly annoyed that he had been so heartless as to bring her back in all her contemptible weakness.
Her sentiments must have shown in her face. “Ah, my lady,” John said, squeezing her hand, “I believe my nephew and I have outlasted the proper time for a morning call. We must leave you to your thoughts.”
“I have no intention of being left to anything as unproductive as my thoughts,” she said in an angry undertone.
She was most disconcerted when he laughed at her. And surprisingly sad to see him go away, he and his nephew, in the wake of Minna’s unusually eloquent protests that they must stay to take tea.
“What did the colonel say to you, ma’am?” Minna asked in breathless accents once the gentlemen had gone.
Rosamund hesitated, then spoke a version of the truth. “We were talking of young ladies sent out to India.”
“Oh!” Minna turned a most becoming shade of scarlet.
Rosamund wished she could administer a swift kick to her own backside for raising the girl’s hopes.
While Minna tangled her thread, Rosamund returned to her embroide
ry with a ferocity not often brought to such a peaceful project.
———
A few more calls from Colonel Fairburn and his pleasant nephew, a few not-quite-accidental meetings in parade ground and park, sorted out to Rosamund’s satisfaction the players in this new comedy.
Percy Fairburn, if not in love with Minna, was disposed to think of her as a good-natured girl and to flirt with her when he should have been putting his mind to his business with the Company. Rosamund had the instinctive feeling that Percy singled Minna out only so his uncle might have reason to cajl at the Ashburnham house.
Minna betrayed no inkling of this. Her attention was for no one but Colonel Fairburn. Rosamund would swear that, if asked to describe Percy’s hair and eyes, Minna would not only have been inaccurate but unable to remember if the young man possessed those features. She seemed to take Percy’s admiration as her due; take it, and leave it without a thought.
As for John Fairburn, he parried Minna’s shy advances and did his best to push her into his nephew’s arms. He looked at Rosamund with undisguised longing but did not bring up the subject of their past. Significantly, he made no further attempts to touch her except in the most formal of situations. That unnerving kiss on her bare palm was not repeated.
And Rosamund could only hope that she herself was behaving with the dignity and impersonality the world demanded of a woman in her position. She knew nothing beyond the most animal of admiration for John’s looks, his manner, his astuteness on all points. Sometimes she was certain he was avoiding any renewal of intimacy on purpose to drive her mad.
But she couldn’t let him know that she returned his evident desires. It would be folly to plunge into an affaire with her former love, and she was not prepared to admit the possibility of anything else.