by Mary Nichols
But when he had taken her in his arms on that picnic, she was aware of some new dimension. He did not confine his lips to her cheek or her hair, he demanded her mouth. And she had given it gladly, allowing the kiss to go on and on, while his hands roamed over her back and crept forward to her breasts. She could feel the heat of his fingers through the thin muslin of her gown and her own heightened response, could feel his thighs against hers as he lay alongside her.
To her eternal shame, she had done nothing to stop him, had even wriggled herself closer to him and put her hands about his neck. The love they bore each other carried them forward into transports of recklessness. He began undoing the little buttons on her bodice and sliding his hand inside to cup her breasts and run the ball of his thumb over her nipples. She held her breath, unsure of what was to happen next and a tiny feeling of apprehension found its way to that part of her mind which was still functioning.
She had pulled away, suddenly fearful and embarrassed. ‘No,’ she said, sitting up and hurriedly trying to fasten the buttons again. ‘I am sure we should not be doing this. It is wrong.’
‘Wrong? How can it be wrong? We love each other as much as two people can love, have we not already agreed to that? Have I not told you over and over that I cannot live without you?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you love me too?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Then what is troubling you?’
She did not know exactly. ‘I have been thinking. I know that it is not considered correct for two people such as we are to be alone together and the reason has now become clear to me.’
‘Oh, and what is that?’
‘It is to keep us from temptation, that we may not be pitched by our emotions into indiscretion. Such intimacies should be postponed until after the wedding.’
He had smiled and reached for her hand, speaking earnestly. ‘Nothing would please me more than there should be a wedding very soon, my love, but there are difficulties to be overcome…’
‘Difficulties?’ she had queried, a little frisson of alarm coursing through her. ‘You mean your parents do not consider me suitable?’
‘They know nothing of you, so how can they consider you at all? I have yet to tell them.’
‘But you will tell them?’
‘Of course I will. As soon as they come to London in two weeks’ time.’
‘Two weeks is not so very long to wait,’ she had said.
‘It is an eternity.’
‘For me too.’ She had leaned over to kiss his cheek, intending to soften the blow of her rejection, but he had pulled her to him again, renewing his kisses.
‘Dear sweet Fanny…’
‘No, you must not. Marcus, please.’ She pushed him away and reached for her bonnet which lay discarded on the grass. ‘You frighten me.’
‘Frighten you? Oh, my darling, that is the last thing I would wish for and I am truly, truly sorry. I do not know what came over me.’
‘Don’t you?’ Safely back on her feet and far enough away not to be seized again, she had recovered a little of her lost composure and was inclined to tease, for he had been a very serious young man. Or so she had thought.
He had laughed and snatched at her hand to put it to his lips. ‘Oh, I do. Love is what came over me. And love can be very demanding, but you know I would never do anything to upset or hurt you.’
‘I know.’ Never on that day had she considered him anything but sincere. Nor, young as she had been, did she realise that he, too, was very young and, though perhaps not as inexperienced as she was, was certainly out of his depth.
Two weeks later he had broken her heart.
She looked up from the picture to the view of the garden from the window and was surprised to find she could not see it. She was blinded by tears. She had not even realised she was crying. The mature woman of the world, the poised Society hostess, the portraitist whose reputation was one of cool competence, was weeping as if she were still seventeen and had only then learned of the perfidy of man. One man.
Impatiently she replaced the picture, scrubbed at her eyes with a handkerchief taken from the pocket of her petticoat and stood looking about her. Her easel and canvas, the paints and the sketch of Lady Lavinia, were still where she had left them, almost accusing her of gross self-indulgence. Determined to return to work, she sat down before the easel and picked up a brush. But it was impossible. She could not concentrate, not on this particular subject. She snatched up a new sketchbook and crayons and left the room.
Stopping only to slip on a pelisse and bonnet, she left the house and walked with determined step towards Covent Garden. Here was noise and bustle. Women porters were scurrying about, with tiers of baskets upon their heads, men were calling their wares or guiding huge draught horses pulling loaded wagons and hundreds of children ran among them, shouting and squabbling, some of them hardly old enough to toddle. None seemed to have shoes nor seemed to notice the want of them. Their clothes were little more than rags. Occasionally a carriage passed from which the occupants looked out on the scene with distaste.
Frances perched herself on the end of a cart which, judging by the smell, had once contained chickens, and began drawing, her charcoal crayon moving swiftly over the paper, a line here, a curve there, capturing the moment as it was. She made no concessions to nicety; she did not put shoes on the feet of the urchins or smiles on the faces of the men, nor beauty on the countenances of the women. She did not make them look clean and wholesome, for the truth was that they were indescribably filthy.
‘Here, what you doin’?’ one man demanded, coming to look over her shoulder. His tone was belligerent, but she turned with a disarming smile, which she had always found to serve her best, and held out the picture without speaking.
‘My, but that’s me missus to a T,’ he said, apparently pleased. ‘And that’s my Daisy and old Rob’s boy, Henry. And is that me?’
‘Yes. Do you not recognise yourself?’
‘But what you want to make a picture of us for?’
‘Because I find you interesting. If I could prevail upon you to continue with what you were doing, I could finish it.’
‘I don’t know about that. I reckon you ain’t up to no good. Taking the likeness to the Runners, I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘No, why should I do that?’
‘Get us off the street. Not that we ha’ done anything wrong. A man has to mek a livin’ where ’e can.’
‘Yes, that is what I must do too. I paint for a living.’
The man stopped staring at the picture and turned towards her, openly appraising her. ‘And a fine living it must be by the looks of you, lady, and all on account of poor folks like us.’
She had taken the precaution of bringing a purse with her and now she opened it and extracted a guinea. ‘Here, sir, this is yours if you will be so kind as to allow me to continue…’
He grabbed it and shouted to his wife and daughter to come and look and they crowded round Frances, overwhelming her with the unwashed smell of them and she was tempted to tell them to buy soap with some of the money. In moments she had attracted an even bigger crowd and became aware that there was some dispute going on between the first man and another.
The second man, in a greasy leather jerkin and trousers stiff with grime, pushed his way towards her. ‘What d’you mean by giving that hog grubber a yellow boy?’
‘I only wished to recompense him for his trouble. If he lost business because he was posing for me…’
‘Business! He ain’t got no business ’ere. Got no licence to trade, yer see. Now, if you was to tell the watchmen about him, you’d oblige yours truly, that you would. He’d see ’im in chokey.’
‘And have me wife starve!’ the first man shouted. ‘I ain’t done you no ’arm.’
‘Takin’ the bread out of me nippers’ mouths, that’s what you a-doin’. Chickens at sixpence apiece and ten cabbages for tuppence ain’t fair tradin’.’
Frances felt th
e situation slipping from her and stood up to leave, but she was not going to be allowed to escape so easily. They crowded round her, demanding that she draw them all and give them all guineas in payment. She opened her purse, which was knocked from her hand and its contents spilled on the greasy cobbles. They fell upon the coins, pushing her to one side to get at them.
She was suddenly aware of a different commotion and saw a tall figure in a beaver hat push his way through the crowd as if they were so many puppets and not big strong men with volatile tempers. They fell back before him, leaving a path clear by which he strode towards her. ‘Fanny, are you hurt?’
She was so unaccountably relieved to see him that she hardly noticed his use of her given name, though she could not be certain of his mood. His dark eyes were certainly sombre, but that might be to intimidate the people who crowded round her. ‘No, your Grace.’
He grabbed her arm and propelled her forward, pushing his way back through the crowd who were looking decidedly hostile. He flung them another handful of coins and, in the ensuing scramble, extricated them both. ‘What on earth did you think you were at?’ he demanded angrily.
She could see his phaeton standing on the corner and supposed it was from the high seat of that he had been able to see over the heads of the crowd and perceive the coil she was in. She ought to be grateful for her deliverance, but the anger in his voice generated anger in her own. ‘Drawing them.’
‘Are you run mad? They could have trampled you underfoot and not even felt it.’
‘I was in no danger. I have done it before and your interference will not have stood me in good stead for their good offices in the future.’
‘In the future,’ he repeated through gritted teeth, ‘there will be no future outings of this nature.’
She stopped in her tracks and turned towards him, eyes blazing. ‘I am not your wife, nor yet your daughter or servant, that you may give me orders, my lord.’
‘No, but while you have any hand in the instruction of my daughter, you will take instruction from me as to your conduct.’
‘My conduct!’ She was almost beside herself with fury. ‘And I suppose you think your own conduct so blameless that it gives you the right to dictate. But let me tell you, I have been too long independent to welcome orders from anyone, least of all you. Look to your own conduct.’
They had arrived at the phaeton and he put his hands about her waist to help her up, giving no indication that her barb had gone home. She shrugged him off. ‘Let go of me, sir! I will not be handled in so familiar a fashion. I will take a cab or a chair.’
He looked around and stepped aside. ‘Then do so, Countess.’
She had taken two steps from him when she realised that not only was there no such thing as a cab or a chair in that part of the city, but she had no money to hire one if there were. Her purse lay on the cobbles some distance away and she was not inclined to go and retrieve it. Besides, it was empty. She turned, retraced her steps and climbed onto the seat unaided. Without speaking, he jumped up beside her and picked up the reins.
They were silent for some minutes. The steady clop of the two perfectly matched greys was a muted accompaniment to treacherous thoughts on both sides. She was furious at his assumption that she needed rescuing and that he had only to say the word and she would never go again. His agitation derived not from anger that she was making a spectacle of herself, but from fear for her safety.
When he had glimpsed her in that evil throng, he had imagined himself too late to save her, that before he could descend from his carriage and reach her she would be dead or so badly injured that recovery would be impossible. The thought of his lovely Fanny being injured, mutilated, even dead, had stopped his heart and when, seeing her alive and well had set it beating again, he had nothing to say but harsh words. His anger covered more than his relief, it disguised his true feelings. And even as they sat side by side on the high seat of the phaeton, his wrath was still in the ascendancy.
‘Countess, I must insist you do not repeat this indiscretion,’ he said, trying to soften his voice. ‘If I had not come along…’
‘If you had not come along, I should have walked home in perfect comfort, your Grace,’ she said, not thinking to question why he should be in that particular district. ‘I have been among the poor on many occasions and made drawings of them. They are perfectly amenable when I pay them. It is a way of earning money not previously open to them.’
‘It is too dangerous and unseemly. You will earn the reputation of being eccentric.’
She laughed. ‘I am no more bothered by that than you are about the tattlers who will have you married to Miss Willoughby.’
For a moment he forgot their quarrel. ‘Good God! Is that what they are saying?’
‘Well, either Felicity Willoughby or Constance Graham,’ she said, glad of the distraction. ‘I have heard there are wagers being taken on the outcome.’
‘You do not say. And who is favourite?’
‘I believe it is Felicity by a whisker, simply because you went to Lady Willoughby’s tea party and you have not yet been seen in Lady Graham’s drawing room.’
‘Then I had better remedy the situation as soon as maybe. I think I will give them a run for their money.’
‘I wish you would not—the poor girls are hardly out of the schoolroom and do not understand the ways of gentlemen such as yourself. They will take seriously something you only intend as a hum. And that would be cruel in you.’
Her inference was not lost on him; she still bore a grudge. ‘I should have thought that with the onset of maturity and proper reflection, you would have come to look on me in a less pugnacious light, my lady. Have you, in seventeen years, not grown up at all?’
‘I do not know about me, my lord, but it seems to me you certainly have not.’
He sighed heavily. ‘How are we to deal together, if you cannot converse in anything but rage, I cannot conceive.’
‘We do not need to deal together at all. It will be simple enough for you to find someone else to teach your daughter.’
‘And have the tabbies speculate on why the arrangement came to such an abrupt end? I think not, my dear.’
‘I am not your dear anything.’
‘No, of course not, my lady. I apologise for what was only a friendly form of address, but if you find it offensive, then I will not repeat my mistake.’
‘Good.’
They were drawing up at Corringham House and she hardly waited for the enormous wheels to stop turning before scrambling down and making for the door.
‘Tomorrow at two,’ he called after her. ‘I shall be punctual.’
The footman who had been watching out for her opened the door. She brushed past him and started up the stairs, too upset and confused to speak. She stopped when she reached her bedroom and looked about her. The room was beautifully furnished, its carpet and the matching curtains on the two large windows in pale blue, the bedspread and tablecloth a subtle rose pink. Her maid had been in since she left it, for there was not a thing out of place. The orderliness of the room contrasted oddly with the tumult inside her. What a mull she had landed herself in!
She looked down at her bedraggled gown and was surprised to discover she was still holding the sketch she had done. It calmed her more than anything else could have done. It conveyed very simply the poverty of those poor people’s lives, their struggle to scratch a living and she wished she could do more for them. But perhaps she was being impossibly condescending; from the height of the luxury she enjoyed, how could she understand their problems? She ought to concentrate on helping the war orphans and not indulge herself with misery on her own behalf. She had nothing to be miserable about.
She heard the front door knocker and, going to look over the banister, perceived Creeley admitting Mrs Butterworth, Lady Graham and Mrs Harcourt. Smiling, she made her way down to greet them.
A light nuncheon was served and they spent the afternoon on a post mortem of the previous evening�
��s entertainment, counting the money and discussing the prospects of finding a house suitable for a new home for the children. Their requirements were so particular that finding such a property at the price they had fixed on was turning out to be more difficult than they had imagined.
‘We need more events like last night’s,’ Mrs Butterworth said, ‘particularly if we can persuade patrons like the Duke of Loscoe to stand buff for the outlay.’
‘Yes, a very generous man,’ Mrs Harcourt said, ‘though I can but wonder at his interest in other people’s children, when by all accounts he has never taken notice of his own.’
‘How can you say that?’ Lady Graham put in. ‘He has brought his daughter to London, you met her at Lady Willoughby’s only last week, and he was most particular towards her.’
‘So he may be, when it is too late. I have been at Loscoe Court at the Duchess’s invitation and she intimated that his Grace hardly saw his children and would not recognise them as his if he met them in the street…’
‘Well, I find it difficult to believe he would not know them,’ Lady Graham said, quite missing the point. ‘They all have that widow’s peak on their foreheads and brows that always seem to convey a look of astonishment.’
‘Astonishment?’
‘Yes, you know what I mean, sharply raised and very clean cut.’
‘So what is that to the point?’
‘Why, that he must know his own children.’ She laughed suddenly. ‘It is to be hoped he has not strayed, for any child of his would be instantly recognised.’