“With the old women and the gossips? I think not.” Imogene took her firmly by the arm and led her to a group of young women drinking punch from sterling cups. “Hello, one and all. A glorious evening to be out in society, is it not?” She pulled Alina to the forefront. “This is my dear friend, the widow Alina Hartley. Her husband passed away at sea almost a year ago now, and she has come to Brighton for a touch of sea air and good company. I trust you all to give her the latter?”
Alina shot a look at Imogene. “It wasn’t almost a year ago,” she corrected quietly. “It’s only been eight months.”
“Eight months, a year—isn’t grief a dreadful thing?” Imogene leaned close and whispered in Alina’s ear. “I’m off to get you a punch. Do try and smile a bit under that wan countenance.”
Alina nodded, turning with a beating heart to the group of women gathered before her. She really didn’t like women much, not after the betrayal all the female population of London had inflicted upon her over the years of silence surrounding her husband’s affairs. She knew he’d brought his mistress blatantly into their homes to be entertained over fireside conversations, and she hated that she’d been accepted sometimes days afterwards in their tearooms as though nothing was amiss. She prepared herself for all the casual, cold statements that had haunted her at social functions in groups of women, but the first girl to speak up, a mousy little thing in a pink gown with her brown hair bobbing atop her head, was only kindness and sympathy.
“Eight months is not so long,” the girl said. “I’m sorry to hear it, Mrs. Hartley. But, you may find the sea air a rejuvenating thing after all, and I would love to see you in my parlour or in my garden, if you’re available.” She cleared her throat and tossed an inclusive glance at the other women. “We don’t stand on much ceremony here, you know. Don’t bother sticking to proper calling hours or wearing your finest silks. Just show up in what’s comfortable whenever it suits you, and we’ll see if we can find butterflies in the garden.”
Alina stared at her, overwhelmed for the moment by the genuine warmth in her eyes and the magic in her words. “You’re really too kind.”
“And Imogene said you have a boy?” one of the other women said, leaning forward with naked eagerness on her face. “I do, as well, and a small girl.”
Alina would never have seen such honest maternal love portrayed in London. Mothers there were likely just as kind as this group of women, but it wasn’t as acceptable to fawn over one’s offspring. It was more proper to leave them with nannies until they were of an appropriate age to “add worth to a conversation,” and even then they were to be scolded and trained more than loved and appreciated.
“I do have a boy. His name is Jinx.”
“You should bring him over. My husband and I keep a house by the seashore, and when the tide runs out, there are the most magnificent shells.”
One of the other women laughed, a noise like tinkling bells. “I hope you don’t mind your little Jinx getting a bit wet around the knickers. Lillian here lets her children run pell-mell into the waves and sand.”
Alina smiled softly. “That’s what baths are for, after all.”
“Exactly!” the woman called Lillian exclaimed. “I like you, Alina Hartley.” She threw an impulsive hand through Alina’s arm and leaned against her as though they were schoolgirl friends. Alina had only ever had such effusiveness from Imogene, but as she looked around at the group of smiling faces, she realized there were women in the world who still held the innocence of child-like wonder in their possession, and for the first time, she yearned for real friendships.
“Are you all getting on swimmingly?” Imogene asked, returning with two cups of punch, one for herself and one for Alina. “I was only gone for a minute, and Lillian has already claimed my friend for her own.”
“Oh, you know what the Good Lord says,” Lillian responded. “Sharing is the soul of goodness.”
Alina laughed. “Your bible is very different from mine.”
“Lillian attributes all her charitable thoughts to the Good Lord,” said Imogene with a mirthful smile. “You’ll get used to it in time.”
“It’s a good thing most of us are married,” the small woman in pink said under her breath with a wink in Alina’s direction, “or we might not be willing to be quite so good friends with you, especially at a function like this.”
Alina wrinkled her forehead in confusion. “Excuse me?”
“She means because you’re so pretty,” Imogene clarified with a saucy toss of her head.
“Pretty! That’s an insult to her,” the tall woman who’d teased Lillian burst out in spontaneous laughter. “This Alina Hartley is a veritable goddess, so small and enchanting even in the black gown she wears. Why, I don’t believe the single men have been able to tear their eyes from her since she first walked into the room.”
Alina blushed. “Please, not so loud,” she said in embarrassment.
Imogene shrugged. “It’s no matter if people hear—it’s no great secret, after all, that you’re a lovely little thing. No threat to all these old married broads, or me—who hasn’t seen a man worth my spit in two decades, at least—but the other young women who are congregating for the dance yonder have been shooting daggers in your direction since your arrival. You’re a little too good-looking to be safe, and your widow’s weeds declare you to be available.”
Alina gasped. “My widow’s weeds ought to be a sign that I am bereaved and unavailable for any sort of connection.”
“Many men would find your face reason enough to risk the possibility they might be able to pull you ought of your bereavement,” Imogene pointed out, and one of the women giggled, pointing toward a group of officers at the far end of the room.
“You’ll have some red-coated magic coming your direction soon, I think.”
“Is it quite proper?” Alina followed their gaze and saw that there were, indeed, a handful of young men looking in her direction.
“Eight months after your husband’s death? Of course it’s proper,” one of the women said. “It would be proper six months after, actually, but in Brighton you could have gotten away with four. We’re very lenient.”
“My lady?”
Alina knew what was happening before she even turned around, just by the looks of smug satisfaction on the faces of the women in front of her. She turned slowly, her heart fluttering, and caught sight of a handsome dark-haired gentleman in fine British uniform standing close at hand.
He put out his hand and sunk into a deep bow. “Could I interest you in a dance?”
Chapter 11
His name was Mr. Robert Wilkinson, and he was a newly-minted officer in the Royal armed guard. He had a fine head of hair and handsome features, though his eyes and speech were a bit languid for Alina’s taste. She had the odd feeling that he was falling asleep when he was speaking with her, and though he looked to be about her age, she felt much older when they began chatting on the dance floor.
“You’re new in town,” he commented, swinging her effortlessly into the steps of the dance.
“Only a few days in Brighton so far.”
“And will you be staying long, or will you be gone on the tide when the season is over?”
“I will be staying a bit beyond the season—a month and a half, perhaps—but I must return to my home in London eventually.” She passed under his lifted arm and turned in a delicate circle as the dance dictated. “Duty calls.”
“People often say that,” he answered gaily. “But does it really? I think the only duties we must follow are the duties of our own heart.”
She resisted the urge to laugh. “That must be a difficult philosophy to follow when serving at the King’s behest. I don’t know many soldiers who are allowed to follow their hearts above the orders of the acting monarch.”
It was the perfect opportunity for a touch of witty banter, but the moment seemed to slip completely unnoticed by the dapper Englishman, who only said with a note of seriousness, “You, to
o, are tied then to duty above the desires of the heart?”
“I don’t know that I rank it above the desires of the heart,” she replied slowly, “but I think if we are to throw duty out entirely, we are living in a world of idealism. I am a mother, and I was once a wife. Both of these duties are strong, and ought to be adhered to.”
“But if you were a wife,” the man said exultantly, as though catching her in her twisted logic, “you were not following the world’s duties, but rather the duties of the heart.”
Alina looked away from her dance partner, thankful for the break in the circle that allowed her to pass for a moment through the arms of a stranger before rejoining Mr. Wilkinson. His naïveté amazed her, that he would assume all marriages were ones of love and not duty, that he would think everything in life could be chosen by one’s own desire and will. It was preposterous, and impossible. She comforted herself by remembering that this dashing officer was still young and immature. Perhaps he was her same age, but he had not yet navigated the trials of a marriage—he had never been beaten down as she had been, or had to bear up the responsibility of his own miserable existence for the continued happiness of another.
When they broke apart, he asked to see her later, and she made an excuse of her busy-ness. She was desperate to return to Imogene’s side, but her friend was out on the dance floor as soon as she left it, and the other women were spread out across the room in various conversations. Alina walked out onto the veranda outside, standing unseen in the shadow of an overhang and listening to the quiet banter of the coachmen waiting outside.
The music could still be heard here in the street, and the light was almost more magical filtering through the fogged windows into the blissful calm of the star-lit night. The breeze from the ocean blew in, stiff and fresh, pulling the sweaty tendrils of Alina’s hair from her neck and lifting the soft layers of her dress. Below, she heard one of the coachmen ending a tale he’d begun when she first stepped outside.
“And then she says to me,” he recounts with a laugh, “she says—‘Who am I to know whether or not you’re a king or a servant?’ I says, ‘You might start by looking at the state of my coat,’ but she answers back, all saucy-like, ‘Sometimes, the wealthy walk about in disguise.’” The man paused, letting the weight of his story sink in before continuing, “Then says I, ‘You’ll find many a king willing to wear rags to blend in with the commonwealth for a day, but you’ll not find one willing to eat this slop you call stew. That’s a sure a sign as any that I’m a man of modest means.’”
The men below bellowed in amusement, and Alina smiled softly to herself in the darkness.
“You think that’s funny?”
She jumped, her heart in her throat, and realized for the first time that she was not alone on the balcony. Another man, tall and slender, leaned against the far wall. He was dressed in a fine dark overcoat and had a shock of blond hair, slightly grey at the temples sloping up from a well-defined forehead and a chiseled jaw.
“I’m sorry?” she managed, still catching her breath.
“I didn’t mean to startle you.” He stepped out of the shadow and she realized his eyes were the color of green only seen in a grassy field before a storm. “I enjoyed watching you observe the cabbies, and I hadn’t the heart to interrupt your reverie.”
Alina’s pulse calmed, and she, too, stepped out of the shadow into the stream of light from the window above. The man smiled at her, a wide, shattering smile.
“That’s better. In that gown, you look like part of the shadow yourself.”
“I needed some air,” she said simply.
“You’ve only been in there for a few minutes and one dance,” the man pointed out with another intimate smile. “Have we disappointed you so very soon?”
“How did you know how long I’ve been here?”
“Everyone saw Jonas Hartley’s widow enter the room. You’re not exactly the kind of face a man forgets.”
She blushed, more from annoyance than shyness. “Is that how I am introduced: ‘Jonas Hartley’s widow?’ How sad my parents would be to hear that, after having taken the trouble of giving me my own personal name.”
The man looked momentarily taken aback. “I am sorry to have caused offense. After all, Mrs. Fairfax told me you were not yet over your husband’s passing, and I thought it only wise to err on the side of compassion in that arena.”
She leveled a look in his direction, uncertain, but he seemed genuine and his eyes had that unique element of chagrin reserved for people who care about their impact on others. She swallowed hard. “You meant no offense, and so I will take one. You know my name, may I know yours?”
“I’m Colonel Colin Ellis.”
“Ah.” She tried to conceal the disappointment from her voice. “Another officer. I had not guessed it, as you are not in uniform.”
“I am an ex-officer. I have served my time and set up a fine holding here in Brighton. I make my money off shipping now, though I am convinced that to maintain my rightful military title is an allowable vanity.”
“Of course,” Alina said. “You have earned as much.” She wrinkled her forehead, remembering something he’d said earlier. “You mentioned Imog—Mrs. Fairfax. You are acquainted?”
“She took me under her wing when I first arrived with the regiment years ago, and she brought us food and supplies whenever our duties forced us to stay through holidays. She’s a dear friend, and told me of your arrival long before you came to Brighton.”
Alina nodded, sizing up the man who stood across from her. She felt at a disadvantage, having heard nothing about a Colonel Ellis from Imogene but knowing that he had heard ample news about her. Had Imogene told him about Jonas—not about his death, but about the tragedy of his life?
She bit her lip.“Perhaps I should go back inside.”
“Why? It’s a cool evening, and the air does you good. Besides,” he leaned against the rail, looking down at the coachmen below, “there are bound to be more stories, and you enjoyed the last one so very much.”
Something in his teasing voice brought a smile to Alina’s lips. “You think it improper for a lady to revel in the humour of the lower classes?”
“I think it uncommon.” He shrugged. “But I thought it amusing myself, and what is proper for an officer must be proper for a lady.”
“That cannot be so,” she scoffed.
“Excuse me?”
“Why, if I were to go downstairs now with a brace of pistols and enlist in the next campaign to Africa, the world would turn upside down with fury. If you were to do the same thing, you would be hailed as a hero in the streets.”
“I meant socially, my lady,” he clarified with a sideways glance. “But if you desire to speak about the veritable inequalities in our culture, the moonlight shines on such topics as well, I suppose.”
Alina smiled, relaxing at last in the company of this long-legged, light-hearted gentleman. She leaned against the rail beside him, a proper distance, but a movement of acknowledged friendliness nonetheless.
“The women inside talked of a man named John Constable, a painter. Have you seen him at work?”
“He’s down at the Chain Pier these days, trying to capture the light in the clouds. Yes, I’ve seen him—even talked to him one day, but he’s not well-liked in these parts. He has an eye for the water, but no understanding of the sky.”
“I would imagine the former would be more important to the people of Brighton.”
“Perhaps, but we are a fickle lot who expect either perfection in all areas or brokenness in all. If he were to paint the water as badly as he paints the sky, we could quite forgive him. It is the incongruency of it all that offends.” He tossed his hands in the air and began pulling them through the murky evening air, as though painting his own masterpiece.
Longing for a Liberating Love: A Historical Regency Romance Book Page 9