by Rosie Wynter
Claire was surprised when she found her carefully planned artifices were not needed at all. She finally found the tip she was looking for at a reception for the Earl of Carrow.
She was standing by the punchbowl, with Mrs Mullins nearby, when she happened to hear two young girls giggling as they entered the room. The high-pitched laughter of the two grated on Claire and she tried to ignore them. Both girls seemed like debutants, immature and unused to the delights of London. Every season, one could overhear such a set of girls mooning over how “absolutely delightful and rapturous everything in London was”. Claire, and many of the other residents of the city, usually tuned such comments out. However, it was just as Claire picked up a glass of water and started to quit the room that one of the girls said something that gave her pause.
“My, that poet is an intriguing one. Did you see his hair? I have never seen hair so red in all my days.”
“Clearly, I need to bring you up to my cousin’s home on the Scottish borders,” the other girl laughed.
Claire’s eyes narrowed as she stood in the entryway of the room. They had mentioned a red-headed poet, and Claire could not believe many people in the world would fit that description. Her instinct told her that the two snickering young ladies had to be talking about Mr Hawkins. The realisation caused Claire to suck in a breath, her chest swelled in her bodice and excitement rushed through her being. She was not used to such feelings anymore. Since Mr Hawkins’ departure, she had felt her heart grow numb and cold to most emotions. The only things she had felt in the last few weeks were pain and regret, these feelings directed either towards Mr Hawkins or Lord Dalton. To feel hopefulness and excitement anew was quite alien to Claire.
“Excuse me, Miss Curtis, but are we stepping out into the main hall again?” The sound of Claire’s chaperone’s voice reminded her that she needed to act quickly. Feigning a cough, Claire was quick to make a show of rubbing her throat and sipping her water. She nodded absently to the woman clinging to her side.
“I am sorry. I am feeling somewhat dehydrated. I think I had best have a second refreshment before I step out again.” Claire trained her ears on the conversation taking place mere feet from where she stood.
“… I must say though, I am surprised such a man would be let into a party such as this. I was led to believe that the earl had chosen his guests with some care. It does not seem likely that he would invite some wordsmith without rank or circumstance to join him.”
“Someone told me that the man is enjoying the patronage of one of the duchesses – I forget which one. I think a few people were quite eager to see him, to evaluate his skill and talent. After all, it is not every day that a man of such humble background attracts the attention of a lord or lady.”
Claire took cautious steps towards the beverage table, pretending to take some time in choosing what she wanted. This gave her the opportunity to listen to the two girls uninterrupted. From what she had caught so far, she was quite certain that the pair were talking about Mr Hawkins – and was he here? She could feel her pulse racing and heat flooded her face.
“I do hope we might have a chance to talk to him over the course of the night,” one of the two excitable young ladies said. “It would be pleasing to hear some of his poetry, especially if it tends towards the romantic.”
“The man is young and handsome – a perfect rogue if ever I saw one. I guarantee all his poems are likely to be ballads and sonnets with which to woo young women. Miss Marjorie Rosingden, I believe, is already quite ensorcelled by the man and his words. She has clung to him shamelessly throughout the entire party and does not seem willing to leave his side for anything.”
“I’m surprised her family does not look to intervene and keep her in check.”
“I believe her mother was taken ill and returned home before the first dance was over. Miss Rosingden, the lucky thing, is now being watched over by her grandmother, and that old woman can hardly see two feet in front of her.”
Both girls began to laugh once more, and Claire felt she had learned all she needed to from them. If their words were to be believed, Mr Hawkins had by chance found his way to the very party that Claire was now attending! She could scarcely believe it and expected there to be some trick or mischief being played on her by her aunt. For, how could Mr Hawkins be back in London? Surely Lady Helen would be looking to keep him on a tight leash after all that had happened. While it was unlikely for the lady to know that her aunt or Claire would be attending, it did not seem likely that the dowager would entertain his speaking to more young women alone after the whole debacle at the assembly rooms near the Duke of Cromford’s home.
For the sake of appearances, Claire took a few sips from another glass of water and then quit the room. Her chaperone followed closely behind, never more than five steps back. Claire did not care. If Mr Hawkins was truly in attendance at the function, then she would see to it that she found him. The fates had given her a golden opportunity to make amends for the disastrous proposal that had been interrupted before. If she could find her poet, she resolved to answer his question properly now, and to accept him in front of the entire congregation. Such a move would earn the ire of her aunt and sister all over again, but they would hardly be able to deny her if she made her acceptance in so public a place.
The party was spread over several rooms, and Claire had a job in finding the man she was looking for. Now that she knew that Mr Hawkins was somewhere about the assembly, she wandered with eyes open, carefully taking in every face she saw around her. In this way, she felt certain the man would not slip away from her. She could not wait to see the look on his face, as she revealed herself to him. It would be like something out of the grandest of poems and stories. She imagined he would pull away from whomever he was talking to and perhaps run across the floor to greet her. He would wrap her in his arms and spin her in the air as they laughed and held one another.
“Miss Rosingden, I would be delighted to share with you some of my most recent writings. Why I believe that you would be a perfect critique of my work, with your sharp mind and deep understanding of romantic sensibilities.”
Claire froze as she heard a familiar voice from nearby. Turning about, she found herself staring directly at Mr Hawkins with wide eyes. His back was turned to her, but she recognised his mess of red hair instantly. She had thought that her first instinct on seeing him, would be to announce herself, however something in the words she had just overheard gave her pause. The way he asked Miss Rosingden to look over his work sounded rather too familiar, the words seeming to echo the very ones he had spoken to her at Holdenwood Manor when asking for Claire’s opinion.
“Do you really think so, Sir?” Miss Rosingden asked. She sounded excitable, and more than eager to acquiesce to the man. “I admit I do love reading the latest novels, and find that words, rather than pictures or even music, are most stirring to the heart.”
“Then, permit me to furnish you with a few pieces I have been working on. I always keep a few papers about me as one never knows when or where inspiration will strike.” Mr Hawkins began to fumble in his pocket before drawing out some crumpled papers.
There was a short silence. Claire used the opportunity to move behind a nearby pillar, hoping that she would not be noticed by Mr Hawkins or the young lady. She felt certain she needed to hear all that the man would say to Miss Rosingden. Her stomach churned unpleasantly as a seed of suspicion began to take hold.
Although she could not see much of the scene unfolding, Claire was able to deduce that Mr Hawkins had brought Miss Rosingden over to one of the chairs set out on the side of the room. This put the pair even closer to the pillar behind which Claire was standing, but it seemed the poet was paying little attention to the goings-on around him. Claire took several deep breaths, trying to keep her mind present and collected.
“Oh Mr Hawkins, the way you have portrayed the wine-presser, and described the heat of the vineyard, emphasising the heat of romantic desire, is quite breathtaking.�
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“Do you think so, Miss Rosingden? Others have described my work as rather clumsy and not genuine. Perhaps they took offence that the protagonist of the poem chose to wait for his lost love, ever in the hope that the lady would return to him. I try to ignore such criticism, personally. Anyone who denounces the wine-presser as being too lenient or devoted to his paramour has clearly not had the joy of knowing what true love is and feels like.”
“I know precisely what you mean,” Miss Rosingden agreed, with an enthusiasm that Claire found painful to hear. “So often I find others in my circle do not pay proper attention to the heart, always preoccupying themselves with money or social standing when choosing a partner. I am pleased to find you hold a more optimistic and modern view of what love could be.”
“Indeed, this almost feels like a fated meeting. Recently, I have been forced to question my direction as a writer. A few souls have criticised my work harshly. It is most gratifying to know my words might still touch someone.” Mr Hawkins said, with not a hint of irony or falsehood detectable in his voice.
Claire could hardly believe what she was hearing. These were the same sentiments she had heard expressed at Holdenwood Manor. Mr Hawkins was using the exact same poems to entrance the young lady as he had used with her! Taking her courage in her hands, she chanced a peek around the pillar and saw the young woman holding the crumpled poem tenderly in her hands. Miss Marjorie Rosingden was a pretty young woman, perhaps younger than Claire, with eyes that drank in every word that Mr Hawkins offered.
“Oh, it is too cruel when others do not have the sensibility to recognise true art in poetry.” Miss Rosingden answered. “But your words speak to the heart, and that is the real purpose of all art – not to speak to the mind, but the heart.”
Claire quickly returned to her hiding place behind the pillar. Miss Rosingden was almost an exact copy of herself, her love of literature, her blind admiration for Mr Hawkins, and the same effervescent praise of his work. The sight made her feel a little sick. Seeing how easily she had been replaced in Mr Hawkins’ mind – supplanted by another girl eager to give praise and adoration on cue – galled her. More than that, however, it left her feeling foolish.
“It is so good of you to say so, Miss Rosingden. Art, of any persuasion, always needs its muse, that undefinable spark that ignites the creative humour. If you will allow me, Miss Rosingden, I do believe that you are such an inspiration. If you are able, I would love to talk more with you in the future.”
“Oh, yes indeed. I would love for you to visit and show me even more of these treasures you have written.”
Claire took a deep breath. Mr Hawkins did not love her… or else he had already moved on to pastures new. At the end of the day, weren’t these facts both the same thing? Claire didn’t know what to think. The man for whom she had endured so much and sacrificed so much, had not even been away from her side for less than a full month, before finding a new ‘muse’ to sing his praises. Was that all he wanted and needed in love? Someone who would stroke his ego and tell him how perfect he was? Had Claire been nothing more than a fleeting muse for his creative ambitions?
Claire let out a quiet sigh. She waited until she was sure that Mr Hawkins and Miss Rosingden would not notice her moving away. Throughout the remainder of the evening, she kept close and quiet beside Aunt Lynch in one of the other rooms, until her aunt decided it was time to leave.
“My, my, child, you are particularly quiet tonight. Did you not enjoy the ball? I noticed you did not seek to present yourself overmuch.” Claire was in no mood for interrogation by her aunt. She felt numb inside and deflated.
“I am sorry, Aunt Lynch. I am afraid I have developed a headache that has proved impossible to shake off over the course of the evening. But, it was an enjoyable evening, nonetheless.” Claire put little effort into her lie. She spoke in a monotone voice, eyes gazing listlessly out of the carriage window as it wound their way home.
“I suppose seeing that poet, Hawkins, has nothing to do with your current state of mind?”
Claire turned to her aunt.
“I must admit I was greatly pleased to hear that you did not attempt to engage with the man.”
Claire’s heart was so numb at the moment, that she even failed to be surprised at discovering the Duchess of Lynch was aware of Mr Hawkins’ presence.
“Mrs Mullins was given strict instructions to keep an eye out for a man of Mr Hawkins’ description and was quick to alert me when she said you had spied him. I might have made excuses for us to leave early from the event, but you did not approach the man.” Aunt Lynch explained herself, although Claire really cared little for the details.
“Mr Hawkins was already pleasantly engaged with another young woman,” Claire replied. Now that her eyes had been opened and the spell of Mr Hawkins was broken, she saw no point in hiding anything from her aunt. “He was enticing her in with his words, and she was flattering his ego with her praise. Some of the things they spoke of… I could actually recall saying and hearing the exact same when we used to speak together at Holdenwood Manor.” Claire felt her voice breaking. She resisted the urge to cry. She did not wish to waste her tears on so undeserving a man.
“Oh, my dear,” Aunt Lynch placed a consoling hand on Claire’s arm. “I know it is hard to accept when one sees the one they are enamoured of, wooing others. I am not insensible, even though I thoroughly disapprove of the man. Was he truly looking to seduce this other girl with the same poems and words he spared you?”
“I am sorry, Aunt Lynch. All this time I was defending the man and looking to berate you and my dear sister… when… when…”
“Take it as a lesson learnt, my dear,” Aunt Lynch said simply. She moved over to where Claire sat, and held her close in a consoling embrace. “At least you have been able to witness the character of the man here and now. Imagine if you had spent a whole year pining for him, or worse, if you had accepted his proposal when he made it to you.”
“It sickens me to even think he bothered to ask for my hand, when apparently I can be so easily replaced.” Claire’s voice carried an edge to it as she spoke.
“Oh, dear. Men’s hearts are sometimes… fickle. It is possible that Mr Hawkins is just the sort of man to fall in and out of love easily. Sadly, I have known more than a few gentlemen like that down the years. One minute they are making grand declarations and intend to marry you, the next moment their eyes are cast elsewhere.”
“Yes, Aunt,” Claire replied. Although she saw the terrible truth to her aunt’s words now, it still hurt to hear her admonishment. “How foolish I was! Not only have I made myself look like a fool, but I have spoilt things for Cromford and Grace at a time when we should be together. Not to mention the offence I caused…”
Claire paused, hardly being able to voice the name of Lord Dalton, who had been nothing but the perfect gentleman towards her. She shuddered to think that she had allowed herself to give up the earl, even deeming him as dull in comparison, and casting his attention aside so readily.
In this respect, she reflected with a shock of realisation, she was no better than Mr Hawkins in her own way.
“I can well understand why it was so necessary for me to leave Holdenwood Manor, and I admit that my behaviour was not in any way what was expected of me. Perhaps it is as well that I have been removed from society for a while.”
The Duchess of Lynch declined to say anything to her niece. It was obvious that Claire had learnt the error of her ways, and in a very hard manner. Perhaps time would be the answer. Claire was still young, and although finding a husband of means was imperative, it was not yet a desperate endeavour. Claire would learn.
The Duchess of Lynch sat back with a quietly satisfied smile playing on her lips, although she was too aware of Claire to give any indication of what she was thinking.
Chapter 14
To Claire’s relief, Aunt Lynch decreased the number of balls and parties they attended after her chance discovery of Mr Hawkins at the Earl
of Crowley’s soirée. All of a sudden, the business of Claire’s marrying seemed to lose its importance, and her aunt was quite content to pass up invitations to a number of events that might otherwise have been promising opportunities for her niece to meet young and prosperous bachelors.
The reason for her aunt’s newly-found relaxed air seemed quite obvious to Claire. Now that she had seen Mr Hawkins’ true character first-hand, and had rejected him as being disingenuous and disloyal, the dangers of her running away and marrying imprudently were gone. The dowager duchess seemed content enough with this victory and was willing to leave the matter of finding a new suitor for another time.
In a strange kind of way, Claire wished her aunt would have continued to push the parties and concerts on her. Of course, she had no intention of pandering to the egos of other young men and was certainly in no mood to let her heart be duped into love again. Still, the business of attending such functions, and dismissing the army of London’s single men, would at least have given her something with which to occupy her mind. She did not relish the days spent in idleness at her aunt’s house, being given nothing to do except dwell upon all the mistakes and heartbreak she had endured in so short a span.
At night-time, Claire lay in her bed, staring up at the ceiling. Sleep proved elusive, either because her mind was thrown into too much turmoil by the thought of Mr Hawkins, or because her body had done too little in the day to make sleep necessary for her. In the dark, alone, with only her thoughts for company, Claire would mourn. At times, she found herself mourning the loss of Mr Hawkins’ heart. Despite telling herself that the man was unworthy of her concern or regard, Claire could not cut herself loose from the web of feelings she had allowed herself to spin around the man.