Lord Sidley's Last Season

by Sherry Lynn Ferguson

  Though Sidley willed Vaughn to look his way and take direction, the thought alone effected nothing.

  “My father’s family also is Kentish,” Delia was saying with a nod toward her father, involved in a discussion with Clara Poole, who, like Miss Ware, claimed the table’s center. “But his people live closer to the channel, near Dover. In fact, on one visit some years ago, we passed by Aldersham en route, and though Lady Adeline was away, took a tour.”

  “Did you? You must have met our housekeeper, Mrs. Combes”

  She nodded. “We were treated most kindly, my lord”

  “And how did the place show?”

  “To great advantage, I assure you, Lord Sidley, though it was autumn and your magnificent roses were not in bloom. I recall wishing I might return to see them in the proper season.”

  Sidley wondered whether he should suspect the girl of tailoring her prospects as carefully as Lady Katherine did her own. But he decided that Miss Delia’s gaze lacked guile. She had no thought other than to further the conversation in as pleasant a manner as possible.

  As he again heard Dicky Poole’s laughter, he gave Miss Delia a broad smile. “My aunt is exceedingly fond of her roses. She will give you slips of any you desire.”

  “I am no gardener, my lord.”

  “Oh, but I am,” Mrs. Harvey asserted. “Do you think Lady Adeline would be so kind as to favor me so, my lord?”

  “Lady Adeline is invariably hospitable, ma’am. ‘Twould be her pleasure, I’m sure” His aunt had always proved gracious, even when confronted by irritatingly forward guests. For the remainder of the meal he engaged the three ladies in a general conversation on the trimming of bonnets, the proper constitution of ices, and the merits of Scott’s various novels. He forced attention to the chatter and limited his glimpses of Miss Ware. Yet he was still relieved when Vaughn claimed both her attention and Clara Poole’s.

  As Sidley at last caught his aunt’s gaze, he signaled a preference for ending dinner, and the ladies abandoned the gentlemen in removing to the drawing room.

  His aunt captured him for a few seconds before her own departure. “Do stop scowling, Sidley,” she said very low.

  “I am not scowling.”

  “You certainly appear to be so”

  “That I cannot help,” he claimed. But she was already out of hearing.

  Vaughn settled in on his left. “You must rally, Sidley,” he said as the gentlemen sipped their port. “You are looking as lovesick as any fresh-cheeked pup, and green with jealousy too”

  “I am supposed to be sickening for something, Vaughn. I might as soon look it.”

  “Poor Dicky Poole does not deserve such glowers.”

  “Poor Dicky Poole,” Sidley countered, “does not appear in the least tormented”

  “I know you are newly afflicted, but I shouldn’t have expected you to act as juvenile as Benny and Lord Formsby. You might need as strict a hand”

  “I’d have welcomed your intervention-had it led you to turn to her more frequently.”

  Vaughn shook his head. “You’ve forgotten, my friend, that your impediment is not Dicky but Lieutenant Reeves”

  “You must tell me then, Vaughn, how you manage such complexities.”

  At which Vaughn glared at him and removed himself to the other side of the room.

  The reminder, however, did compel Sidley to rise to his duties as a host, to discuss affably the latest mill at Fives Court and the peace terms out of Paris. By the time the gentlemen rejoined the ladies, Sidley had recovered his humor. But he was irritated anew to find Marian Ware engaged in cutting silhouettes for the others, while her cousin hovered near, like any hawker with a popular commodity.

  “Is Marian not excellent at catching these profiles, my lord?” Lady Katherine asked.

  “She is indeed. But, Miss Ware”-and the girl paused long enough in “catching” Mrs. Harvey to look up at him-“do leave off. We cannot have you taxing yourself so on your very first evening.”

  “I do not mind it, my lord.”

  “‘Tis not sufficient that you should not `mind.’ Whatever you do here should elicit greater enthusiasm than that. Do abandon this. As you have so eagerly volunteered to start my portrait, I must take you to see the gallery.”

  “But I haven’t-”

  He deftly removed the small shears from her hand, then took her elbow and drew her to her feet. “You see how easily ‘tis done,” he said softly. “You are above such parlor tricks.” Her gaze held his, surprise and a desire to dispute with him warring in the changeable dark depths of her eyes.

  “I should very much prefer to see the gallery anyway, Lord Sidley,” Mrs. Harvey claimed, rising as well.

  Sidley felt the insult to Miss Ware; he was tempted to tell the woman that anything bespoke from Miss Ware’s hand must always claim preference. But he refrained and turned to his guests, and soon the chattering entourage was making its way along the gallery commemorating all the former earls of Sidley and their relations.

  Sidley wished to know what Miss Ware thought of each of the paintings, whether drawn by Van Dyck, Kneller, Gainsborough, Reynolds, Ramsay, or many others. He had grown familiar with them as a boy and had his own particular favorites for style and expression. But she eluded him as he led first Lady Katherine, then Miss Delia, then Clara Poole past the portraits. Miss Becca Harvey he left to Benny and Lord Formsby.

  “I think, Lee,” Clara said in some amusement, glancing behind them at the Harvey heiress, “that you face an easier choice than your aunt might have imagined.”

  He followed her gaze to Miss Rebecca. “Never an option, Clara. She is far too young.”

  “But Lady Katherine is not”

  “Lady Katherine is also too young.”

  Clara’s eyebrows rose. “You have decided, then?”

  He looked away from her. “I near a conclusion, Clara. But it is hardly a decision. More a necessity.”

  “That is a shame, Lee. You deserve better.”

  “As do you” He smiled as he lightly squeezed her arm. “Now tell me, what do you think of Great-grandfather Exbridge?”

  “He looks a tartar, as we’ve always known him to have been! I remember Simon as a boy making faces at him.”

  As her eyes glistened, Sidley slid an arm about her shoulders. “Simon would have wanted you happy, Clara.”

  “And you as well, Lee.”

  “Perhaps the two of us, then … Perhaps …” But she was firmly shaking her head. And he knew that the suggestion was one he should air only the once. They were friends; they shared grief. But that was not enough. Clara Poole would only ever be a sister.

  “Dicky seems most taken with Miss Ware,” she commented. “‘Twas not what I thought at first, but he is laughing a great deal.”

  Sidley no longer heard her. The observation disturbed him. That Clara should notice what he thought apparent only to himself annoyed him beyond measure. He thought the attachment troubling enough that, when the party broke up later that evening, he was unduly abrupt as he informed Marian Ware that he would appreciate her appearance, with her paints, in his library the following morning.

  Sidley had not stipulated the hour. Marian fretted over that as she collected her painting supplies from the sitting room she and Katie shared. When she stepped quietly downstairs, she suspected she was much too early; she was an early riser in any event. Katie, by contrast, was likely to sleep past noon. But if Lord Sidley was not on hand, Marian would take a walk and have one of the servants summon her.

  She had only glimpsed the library the previous evening. Now, in the clear morning light, she admired its airiness, the soaring shelves of books, the tasteful, muted appointments in gold and deep red. Her eyes found the magnificent marine scene over the hearth.

  “‘Tis van de Cappelle,” Sidley said behind her. As she turned to him, he smiled. “My father had a taste for the Dutch. My grandfather-Well, I saw that you admired the Claude in the dining room last night.” When Marian nodded,
he added, “Great-grandfather favored the Italian masters: Caracci, Giotto, Correggio, Titian…. You must examine them here at your leisure.”

  Marian watched as two footmen, bearing between them an easel and several canvases of differing dimension, followed him into the room. A young maid curtsied to Marian before slipping quietly into a seat at the already blazing hearth.

  “I would not have you here without a chaperone, Miss Ware,” Sidley said as Marian eyed the girl. “‘Tis best to observe the proprieties,” he continued, strolling on into the room. “We are like to have spectators enough-I hope you do not mind-though the library is, in the usual course of such a weekend, unfrequented. Literary pursuits seem to coincide with rain.” He smiled. “I took the liberty of having some canvas stretched and sized. Mostly half-length . . ” He indicated the supplies that had accompanied him. “But should you prefer your own .. “

  Marian shook her head. “This is more than enough, my lord.”

  “I knew you would not be traveling with such. And suspected as well that you might have forgotten.”

  “Forgotten?”

  “That you had agreed to paint me”

  She thought he was laughing at her. His gaze held something of amusement. He certainly knew that she had never agreed to anything of the sort.

  “You have not indicated your own preference in art, my lord.”

  “Oh, but I have. ‘Tis English, and distinctly contemporary.”

  She looked away from him then, and from his smile, convinced that this exercise in portraiture was part of some elaborate game. “You might have anyone paint you,” she said shortly.

  “Perhaps. But I am just traditional enough to choose a woman as portraitist when one is available. You must have noticed that Angelica Kauffman painted my grandfather, and Madame Vigee Le Brun, my father” When she nodded, he said pleasantly, “Shall we begin?”

  Marian moved toward the windows, sparing only the briefest glance at the view of the park in front with its extensive beds of flowers. When she reached to position a chair to one side of the windows, a footman was there before her to fulfill the task.

  “You wish me to sit, then?” Sidley asked.

  “To start, my lord. Unless you have something particular in mind?”

  “What would you have me tell you, Miss Ware? That I must be posed astride a thundering steed, or strutting with sword aloft?” He laughed at her impatient expression. “I have no preference”

  “Then I shall make a few sketches first. I might ask you to stand later.”

  He nodded. Marian surveyed his elegant but dark attire, noting once more the black ribbon about one sleeve. “You wish to be painted in mourning?”

  “‘Twould seem appropriate.”

  “I thought perhaps your regimentals..:’

  “No” The single word was emphatic.

  Marian thought with regret that he must have looked magnificent in uniform.

  “May I state a preference, though,” she said, “for a coat that is a bit brighter? ‘Twould make for a more vibrant painting.”

  “What color would you like then, Miss Ware?” He was signaling a footman.

  “I-one of blue, I think, my lord.”

  As the footman listened to the order and departed, Sidley looked down at her. “You are fond of blue, Miss Ware?”

  “Not overmuch,” she assured him. The wretch was too pointedly holding her gaze with the cobalt depth of his own. Opening her sketchbook, she gestured to the chair. “If you would, my lord.”

  For some minutes she drew in silence as he faced the window. He did not move even when the footman returned with a valet, who carried three coats. In some distraction Marian, who had become absorbed in her work, looked to the servants as the valet cleared his throat.

  “You must tell me whether I am permitted to move or speak, Miss Ware,” Sidley said, maintaining his pose.

  “Oh! Of course, my lord.”

  He turned to the proffered wardrobe. Marian was not surprised at his choice. She suspected it was the same coat he had worn in Hatchards’s two weeks before, when they had been introduced. When he sought her approval, she quickly gave it.

  “I shall wear it tomorrow, then,” he said to her relief.

  For a moment she had wondered if he intended to change right there before her. As she felt her cheeks grow warm, she concentrated on the paper in front of her and asked him once again to look away.

  “Are we not to have any conversation then, Miss Ware?” he asked after some time. “I confess I had not planned on so much reflection. If you must know, ‘tis a form of penance”

  “You might talk if you wish, my lord.”

  “And you shall dutifully listen?” His lips did not smile, though his voice did. “Can you not work and speak at once?”

  “Of course I can.” Though she thought her own claim too brave. At that moment she was contemplating the firm lines to his mouth and chin, the way in which the morning light played across his even features. “This is … this is a very beautiful room,” she said.

  “It is perhaps my favorite at Aldersham,” he said. “And not only because it is, in general, private. I find it particularly appealing in the morning, and I am by nature an early riser-which will, no doubt, surprise you, Miss Ware”

  “Why should that surprise me?”

  His lips twitched. “I was under the impression that you believed my nocturnal entertainments must leave me desperate for sleep, as most of our friends seem to be this morning.”

  “You might be desperate for sleep, my lord, and still rise early.” She suspected that was indeed the case, as she thought again that he looked peaked, much too pale. She heard him mutter “impertinent creature,” but the comment sounded cordial enough, and when she asked him to turn to face her, his gaze was steady and open.

  “I was used to riding every morning,” he told her. “Do you ride, Miss Ware?”

  “I have ridden, my lord, but never regularly. For want of a horse.”

  “You must ride here.”

  “I shall probably be too busy-with your portrait, my lord.”

  He smiled. “You needn’t work so assiduously. I do not demand too close a likeness.”

  “I do not see the purpose of a portrait that is not a likeness.”

  “Which explains why this might be your sole commission, my dear Miss Ware. Few are satisfied with a likeness.”

  “Is this a commission then, my lord? I had thought perhaps ‘twas a favor.”

  One well-shaped eyebrow rose. “A favor to me, certainly. But no, you will be paid for your time and talent. I am not that mean”

  She asked him to stand and face the window.

  “What do you think of our company, Miss Ware?”

  “It seems a very jolly group.”

  “`Jolly’?” The set line to his lips disputed that rather impatiently. “I fear you do not look below the surface. Or perhaps you have not observed much beyond Mr. Richard Poole’s smiles?”

  Marian frowned. “If you cannot look happy, my lord, I would wish you might at least relax. Your face reflects your thoughts”

  “Does it?” He turned to look directly at her. “If so, you must read my mind. You must know what I am thinking this minute.”

  She thought at first that he was angry; the intensity of his expression made her think so. But there was something else there, something she would most closely liken to hunger.

  “You are thinking of your breakfast,” she said.

  His features relaxed. “Close enough, I suppose, that I must credit you with knowing what you are about.” A small smile stayed with him as he again faced the window.

  “‘Twas an expression you might not want so accurately portrayed,” Marian suggested.

  For a moment he was silent. “That would depend, Miss Ware,” he told her lightly, “on where the thing is to be displayed.”

  Again she worked silently, until she asked him to face her while standing.

  “What do you think of the la
dies, then?” he asked.

  “I like them all.”

  “As do I. But you draw no distinctions?”

  “Were I to do so, even with my host,” she said with some heat, “I should be thought rude.”

  He smiled briefly. “Can you picture any of them as mistress of Aldersham?”

  “Your aunt, Lady Adeline, certainly.”

  He laughed. “Touche, Miss Ware.”

  Marian had to look away from his gaze. She concentrated on his brow and the sculpted line of his cheek.

  “You remind me of my old nurse,” he said, once again demanding her attention.

  “Am I to be complimented, my lord?”

  “Never more so! She was the most disciplined person I have ever known. I thought of her often on the Peninsula-to my enduring benefit, I assure you. Discipline saves lives.”

  Marian, not knowing how to respond, applied herself to her work. When he stood even five feet away, he seemed to loom over her; she thought she must paint him seated, if only for her own peace of mind. She frowned as she considered that-and the idea that he compared her to a martinet of a nurse.

  “You are, of course, much younger and prettier.”

  “My lord, I-”

  “And you do not squint.”

  She choked back a laugh.

  “My old nurse, Miss Philomela Philpott-”

  “That was not her name!” Marian objected.

  “Oh, do you know her, then?”

  “Of course not,” she protested. “But, my lord, you are absurd!”

  He smiled. “Sadly, I never did know Miss Philpott’s Christian name. She was above all things proper, and moved on to a worthier youngster almost a score of years ago. At all times I called her merely `Nurse.’ But the point, Miss Ware, is that I shall never forget the last words she said to me. `Master Leland,’ she said-for I was not always Sidley, you understand-‘Master Leland, you must keep your affairs in order.’ And that is what I have attempted ever since.”

  Marian drew a rather emphatic line about his collar. “This is true?” she asked.