by Rosie Wynter
In her darkest moments, Claire found herself asking if it was her fault that the man’s heart had strayed. She revisited the night of the assembly and the fierce exchange that had passed between Mr Hawkins, herself and her family. If she had found her voice during that heated argument, if she had stood up for the poet and proudly declared her love for him – would they be together now? Perhaps, if she had shown more agency and had defended the man, he would not have felt the need to entrust his heart to another.
Whenever Claire began to think this way, she was quick to admonish herself. While a dark and sinister part of her tried to make her out as the villain of the story, she knew this was not the case. She could not begin to excuse Mr Hawkins’ actions by blaming herself. At the end of the day, if the man truly had loved her, he would have sought her out. If his proposal and declarations of love had been true, then he would not have been content to find a new muse in the next girl who showed interest in his work and words.
Whenever Claire found tears pooling in her eyes, or spilling down her cheeks, she quickly wiped them away. She fixed her face, determination setting in as she vowed not to see her mind overcome or overthrown by the man who had forgotten her so readily. If Mr Hawkins wanted to seek greener pastures elsewhere, Claire would not stop him, nor deign to linger in eternal melancholy on his account.
Of course, it was not just on account of Mr Hawkins that Claire’s tears flowed. If her only source of heartache had been the worthless and changeable poet, she might have had an easier time pushing past her feelings of dejection and despair. As it was, there was another who weighed upon her mind in the days following the party.
Thoughts of Lord Dalton began to encroach into Claire’s mind more and more, as she reflected on her actions at Holdenwood Manor. She thought about the tender feelings she had harboured for the man, the gentle budding of romance that had been overwhelmed and forgotten with the arrival of Mr Hawkins. When she looked back on those early days before the arrival of Lady Helen, Claire felt a renewed heartache, twice as intense as the one she felt on discovering Mr Hawkins lapping up the compliments of Miss Rosingden.
From time to time, Claire wondered if she might effect some kind of reconciliation with the earl. She would comfort herself with hopeful visions that she might meet with the man again, in some future time. She even began writing letters – tentative, uncertain correspondences, which she meant to send to the Earl of Dalton. However, these letters never left the house. Each one ended up crumpled or torn to pieces, usually burned up in the fireplace.
Try as she might, Claire could not find a satisfactory way of writing to the man. Did she write in a jovial and light-hearted tone, hoping that the earl would overlook her past transgressions and pretend the whole sordid business with Mr Hawkins had not happened? Claire knew this was unlikely. More than this, she risked insulting the man by writing to him in so breezy a manner, sparing no thought for his own feelings. Nonetheless, an apologetic and heartfelt letter seemed just as ridiculous and damaging a thing to send. Claire had not, after all, made her feelings known to Lord Dalton, and neither had he declared his interest to her, in definite words. She knew that writing a long-winded apology and confession of her feelings would be an imprudent thing to send to him. So, with no idea as to what she could send to the earl that might fix their relationship, Claire could only write vague half-formed missives that served no purpose, except as extra fuel for the fireplace.
To keep her mind from running circles around itself, and to avoid dwelling too long on unpleasant memories, Claire resolved to step out of the house and continue her work in sourcing reading material for Grace’s child. It was the one duty she had been given that she could throw herself into earnestly and which could keep her mind occupied as she sought to mend her heart. Although stepping into London’s booksellers did stir up some less than pleasant reminisces, Claire found the work of choosing the right kind of books for a child helped keep her mind centred and focussed.
It was while perusing collections of fables and rhymes in the corner of Hatchards that Claire was approached by the proprietor. The man singled her out at once, moving over to her side as soon as he saw her there. Claire put down the book she was studying and gave the man a slightly confused smile.
“Miss Curtis, is it not? You were the young woman who came in the other day asking after a poet by the name of Hawkins?”
Claire stiffened, and her eyes darted to the floor. She had all but forgotten the embarrassing way in which she had begged the bookseller to keep an ear out for word of Mr Hawkins.
“That is right. I did ask you that, didn’t I? I am sorry to have put you under such an imposition. I have no need for information of the man now.”
“Oh, indeed?” The bookseller raised a brow. No doubt he was confused to find Claire so suddenly reticent and dismissive, when she had all but begged him in weeks gone by to let her know if he heard anything of the man. “Then... you know of the indiscretion that man is involved in?”
Claire frowned, and she folded her arms about herself as though suddenly colder. She knew on instinct that whatever news the proprietor had for her, it would not be something she wished to hear. And yet, morbid curiosity drove her forward like a moth into the candle flame.
“I was aware of his being in town but have heard nothing remarkable about his affairs here.”
“Well, it seems the young poet has run afoul of his patron, Lady Helen. It’s quite the fracas if you care to hear it.”
Claire bit her bottom lip, feeling her resolve wavering. She did not wish to give Mr Hawkins any more of her attention, but the suggestion of news was too great a lure to ignore. She gave a nod to the bookseller to continue.
“It seems the man has been something of a terror to his patron, abusing her kindness and trust in him in a most deplorable way.”
“Indeed?” Claire tried to keep her composure, but she felt her skin break out in goose bumps. Had word of her own transgressions made its way into the public knowledge after all?
“As the rumour mill has it, the man has been uncontrollable when let loose in high society. They say he has attempted wooing girls of consequence up and down the country with his words and half-baked poems of love and lust.”
“These rumours... were there any names given to these unfortunate girls?” Claire was careful in her words, not wanting to be seen to be prying too deeply but needing to know if her name was amongst those being spoken.
“No, as with many rumours there are no names at all involved. The way I reckon it, the man likely only attempted to ensnare one young lady. Those who have gossiped about it have overblown it so that now he is some kind of seductive serpent catching young maids up and down the country.”
“And is that all there is to the rumour?” Claire felt there had to be something more. After seeing Mr Hawkins in London with Miss Rosingden, she felt certain that some new event must have brought the poet and his deeds to public light.
“Well, after putting up with his transgressions while visiting friends in the country, Lady Helen decided she had had her fill of the man. Rather than dismiss him outright, the good lady offered him one last chance at redemption. She sent him down to London to live in a small apartment she had rented for him, under the proviso that he continued his work, so that a collection of poems might be published. Now, at this point, you might think the young man would heed the lesson he had learned and buckle down to his craft. That was not the way with Mr Hawkins. Once in London, he began using the allowance Lady Helen had given him to attend all manner of parties and soirées. Naturally, he used his patron’s name to get into such functions, and many assumed him to be a man of good character and standing.”
Claire gave a solemn nod, beginning to form a picture of the man’s actions in the last weeks. “I suppose the man claimed he was attending such functions in order to find inspiration for his works?” There was an air of derision in her voice as she spoke.
“Yes, something along those lines,” the books
eller affirmed with a slight smirk upon his face. “Now, you wouldn’t happen to know anything of this gentleman, would you?”
“Only by reputation,” Claire lied. Not wanting to have to embellish her falsehood, she put on her most earnest expression as she looked at the proprietor of the store. “Is there any more to the story?”
“I am sad to say there is,” the man said. His countenance turned grave, and he spoke on with a more deliberate and serious air. “As I already told you, most of the well-to-do folk in London assumed Mr Hawkins to be a man of honour and good repute. They took his association with Lady Helen as a mark of his good character and many trusted him. He received invitations to recite his works at various houses and estates but gained the particular notice of one Miss Rosingden.”
“I am not familiar with that young lady…” Claire left her sentence opened-ended, in the expectation that the man would fill in the missing details for her. She knew she should keep her mind and attention on Mr Hawkins, but a small part of her pride wanted to know more of the poor creature who had usurped her place in Mr Hawkins’ heart.
“Miss Rosingden is from one of those up-and-coming families you hear so much about nowadays: the middling sort. Her father used to be a small business owner in the city but has lately amassed a considerable fortune, after his business gained fame amongst the higher classes. I do not know the particulars of what he does, but he is amongst the new moneyed folk who are making a stir in the upper echelons of society. His great hope was that he might, through his fortune, see his daughter married to a gentleman with a title and lands.”
“Instead, I am guessing Miss Rosingden has ended up disappointing her father?” Claire asked. In her mind’s eye, she could almost picture Mr Hawkins making a proposal to the young girl in almost the same manner as he had proposed to her, not more than a month before.
“As good fortune would have it, Miss Rosingden still has the opportunity to marry well, although her reputation and honour have been somewhat tarnished by the whole affair. As people are telling it, it appears the gentleman was caught visiting her when her parents were away from home. The man even tried to persuade her to meet him in secret at his own apartment. Whether Miss Rosingden would have done such a thing cannot be confirmed, as fortunately the two were discovered by the girl’s father and all communication between them was broken off. Now, Mr Rosingden is working his hardest to expose the truth of Mr Hawkins’ nature to the rest of London society.”
“And what of Lady Helen? Was the poet’s patron made aware of his actions?”
“Indeed, she was,” the bookseller affirmed. “As you might imagine, Lady Helen was quick to renounce her patronage of the man and has vowed to ensure his works are never published in England. Considering her power and influence, she can go a long way to do just that. To be quite frank, however, I do not think the nation is losing out on much by having this man’s poetry swept under the carpet. From all the accounts that I have heard, his poems and writing are all rather trite and unremarkable. A lot of it is simply over-romantic nonsense deemed too insipid for more discerning readers. Only impressionable young romantics, such as our young Miss Rosingden, would find anything of worth or value in them.”
Claire tried to reign in her frustration at that moment. The bookseller had no way of knowing that he was, in a sense, insulting her own taste for literature in his disparaging talk of Mr Hawkins’ work. Once again, she was left feeling doubly stupid for having put so much of herself into her relationship with that man.
“So then, Miss Rosingden and the other young ladies of the city are now safe from this ne’er-do-well poet?” Claire asked.
“It would appear so, yes. The man was evicted from his London apartment, after Lady Helen confirmed she would no longer be supporting him. I imagine he will have no choice but to return to whatever town or village he once called home and try and make something useful of himself with his remaining days.”
Claire wondered if such a thing was possible for Mr Hawkins. His manner being what it was, she could imagine that he would stubbornly cling to his writing, looking for any way possible to continue with his craft and slovenly lifestyle. He was not built to labour and toil in fields, and she had a hard time imagining him taking to any kind of profession.
Claire accepted that the man had nothing to do with her anymore. Indeed, she was glad of the fact. Over the past days, she had dreaded the thought of running into Mr Hawkins on the street or of finding him at another party or function. Knowing that the scoundrel was now banished from London brought her a strange kind of comfort. She did not wish him ill, per se, but she was glad to know that he was now out of the city and unable to work further harm on either her or another girl.
After hearing all the bookseller had to say, Claire made her excuses and left the shop. There were several books she had considered buying for Grace, but she found she could not concentrate on her task once she had learned of what had passed between Mr Hawkins and Miss Rosingden. She needed air and decided that a walk through the streets would do her good.
Mrs Mullins was acting as a chaperone that day. Claire determined to walk in the direction of one of London’s parks, and she moved briskly through the streets. She found the quick pace she was setting earned her a lot of confused looks from passers-by, but she paid them no heed. She felt pent-up frustration inside of her and walking at a quick pace allowed her to release some of that tension. Mrs Mullins must have understood this, as she made no attempt to correct Claire or to beg her to slow down.
It was just as the entrance to Saint James’s Park came into sight that a voice called to her from across the way. She froze in place, her expression appearing almost pained as she heard a voice as familiar and well-known to her as her own was.
Approaching her from the other side of the street was Lord Dalton. Even with his muscular frame and workman’s tan hidden under fine clothes, there was no mistaking him. None of the other men of prominence in London had his impressive physique. Seeing him again, for the first time in weeks, Claire found her eyes widening and her gaze roving across his form. Though it was a little unseemly to admit, she had forgotten how enticing the man was to look upon. How she could have ever thought of him as dull, was beyond her.
As she watched him move towards her, her gaze wandered invariably to his arms, remembering the way he had caught her up that first day they had met, when she had fallen out of the carriage. She blushed a little to find herself thinking about such things and tried to quiet her mind. She was long past the point where she could expect any kind of regard from the earl, and so it was better for her to rein in her feelings. Besides, there was another compelling reason for her to keep herself in check.
The earl was not alone. A woman of about Claire’s age walked in step with the man, her arm threaded through his with an easy, natural intimacy. She was a pretty creature, with long flowing blonde hair that contrasted with the earl’s short dark hair. Whereas Lord Dalton was tanned by hours spent in the sun, her skin seemed to be made of marble or fine bone china. She had a soft round face and large eyes of a dazzling green colour, and they flitted about excitedly taking in all before them.
Having turned at the earl’s call, Claire could hardly continue walking or pretend not to have seen him. It frustrated her greatly as she realised there was no avoiding the meeting between herself and the man. Of course, it wasn’t the earl himself she wished not to see, but rather the young woman clinging on to him. Claire had been anxious to meet Lord Dalton again, ever since she had discovered the true nature of Mr Hawkins. She had tried her best to nip any hopes she had of his still harbouring feelings for her in the bud, but it seemed her heart still held onto that complex longing for him. For, how else could the sudden jealousy and frustration she felt at seeing the charming, doll-like creature on his arm be explained?
“Lord Dalton,” Claire said as the man drew closer. She kept her eyes firmly on the earl, unable to countenance looking too long into the forest green irises of the girl wi
th him. “I had no idea you were in town.” Claire wracked her brains for something else she could add to her statement. Considering the way they had parted, she felt she ought to say something poignant at that moment. Unfortunately, her mind and heart were in turmoil, affected more deeply than she would care to admit by the classical beauty that leaned in so close to the earl’s side.
“Yes, I had not meant to return to London quite so early, but a few matters of business forced me to return to the city. While I would much prefer to be plying my trade as an architect, from time to time, the responsibilities of my rank and title forbid me from indulging in my true calling.”
The woman on Lord Dalton’s arm gave a somewhat amused smile and playfully swatted his hand with her free one.
“Now, do not go bemoaning your lot to this poor woman. Need I remind you that many would gladly trade their right arm and leg to hold your title? You should be grateful for your lot rather than complaining every time you are called away from your drawing board.” The blonde girl seemed quite free-spirited and obviously felt close enough to Lord Dalton that she could chastise and mock him. Claire felt a wave of aversion pass through her.
Lord Dalton’s eyes moved between Claire and the other woman. “Oh, please forgive my manners. Miss Curtis, might I present Miss Amelia Lambert.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Lambert,” Claire said. She gave a perfunctory curtsy and her voice, when she spoke, was clipped and abrupt. She sucked in a breath, as she tried to decide on her course of action. There was a war taking place inside her mind at that moment. One part of her wished to quit the earl’s company forthwith. It was a strong instinctual desire. She had struggled enough without finding out that Mr Hawkins had placed his affections in another woman so soon after parting from her. To discover, now, that the earl had done the same thing, was too much to be borne. Even if Lord Dalton had more right than Mr Hawkins did in transferring his affections, it did not make things any easier for Claire.