“And what is your favourite occupation, then?” she asked. She expected an answer that many a Regency gentleman might give, such as hunting or fencing—she hoped it wouldn’t be gaming—but he said, “Driving. Hands down.”
“Ah, yes,” Claire said, recalling the words of the article in the Chronicle. “You’re a ‘noted whip.’” He chuckled.
“And—and you’re in a club, are you not? The, er, Four-in-Hand, is it?”
He nodded. “And the Four Horse Club.” He paused and sipped from his glass. “I am seldom averse to a good race, but I find greater pleasure in a fast drive—as fast as the horses are capable of—on my own, rather than in competition with the members.”
Claire put her fork down and leaned toward him with a serious expression. She couldn’t help but feel that Julian’s love of speed might have been—or would be, that is—a contributing factor to the fatal coaching accident. “What is it about driving fast that enthralls you?”
He put his head back, gazing at her while considering the question. His eyes roamed the room. Finally his gaze swivelled back to her and he said quietly, “Freedom. And the sheer pleasure of the wind in my face. I never feel so appreciative of God’s creation as when I’m atop the board. I love an open road surrounded by country.” He paused and added, “I was born for speed, you know.”
Claire gave a reluctant smile. “Then it seems you must indeed be forgiven for risking life and limb.” She didn’t wish to approve of his speeding but his answer was beyond reproof. She couldn’t help but to add, though, “Yet all I see while you speak is how dangerous it must be, what with the frailty of carriages, wooden wheels, and dangerous turnpike gates and posts—”
He wiped his mouth with a napkin, his eyes sparkling at her. “There are risks to any worthwhile endeavour. I have an excellent carriage maker, and my plan is to improve upon those ‘frail wooden wheels,’ if you must know.”
A footman came and whisked away their plates, putting new ones in their place. Claire glanced stupidly at her plate and remembered instantly that there would be more courses. St. John dined like the wealthy upperclassman he was. Now she saw her mistake in accepting a full plate and glanced uneasily at him.
Nevertheless, she would study each course—already she’d learned much. Then she remembered—she didn’t need to study, she was no longer storing details for a book. She could simply live and enjoy it all. But she allowed only the smallest servings upon her plate after that, nodding only to let her glass be refilled.
“A few of my equipages are in the mews here,” St. John said, while nodding that he would accept a ladle of asparagus in sauce. “Though I had to let space elsewhere in order to keep as many as I like when I’m in town.”
She smiled. “Do you have so many?” Keeping coaches wasn’t inexpensive. He might not have meant it as such, but this told her more about the state of his finances than any amount of land, tenants, and shares of stock could. St. John had blunt to spare—in spades.
He gave her a little sideways smile. “I believe only the Regent and two dukes own more in this country.”
“My goodness! I should enjoy seeing your collection.”
He looked at her appreciatively. “And so you shall.”
“Will you take me for a drive? I may find that I like speed as much as you do.”
Something flitted across his face. “I would never attain top speed in your company,” he said gently.
Claire blushed. “Oh—my presence would slow you down, you mean?”
“Not at all,” he said. “I wouldn’t risk your safety in such a manner. But I would be delighted to take you for a leisurely drive.”
Claire ate little after that, but took bites of nearly everything that looked appealing for the novelty of it. He noticed, of course.
“Are some of these dishes new to you?” he asked.
Instantly she said, “Nearly all of them.”
His hand, holding a fork, froze in the air. Then he smiled and said, “Of course”—as he resumed eating.
Oh dear, Claire thought. He thinks I’m pigeon-headed again. Why must I always tell him the truth?
He gave her a sideways glance. “How do you find the negus?”
Claire looked at her glass. It was a brownish liquid and rather less sweet than she expected, but not unpleasant. “Interesting,” she said. The glass had been kept full, and Claire really had no idea how much she’d drunk. She could tell there was alcohol in the negus, for her head grew light—as did her heart.
Dessert arrived in the form of sugared fruit and cake, but Claire had no appetite left. When he saw she would not eat, he came to his feet and held out an arm for her. A footman she hadn’t even known was behind her pulled back her chair. St. John took her glass and handed it to the servant, along with his own, saying, “To the parlour.”
“The parlour?” she asked, surprised, coming to her feet. “Isn’t the library your favourite room?” She tottered a little when they started off, to her great surprise. A giggle escaped her. “Oh dear!” Claire exclaimed. “I seldom drink alcoholic beverages,” she explained, while he put an arm around her waist to steady her. “I’m afraid that negus is—is—a bit more than I’m accustomed to.”
He turned his head to speak to the footman. “Send Miss Channing’s maid to us.”
The parlour was a gorgeous display of Regency style with its mix of Georgian restraint and exotic trinkets, Grecian pilasters and rich carpet, symmetry and exuberance. A small table beside a sofa sported glowing candelabra, beside which St. John sat them. The fire was being built up by two maids.
The footman gave St. John Claire’s glass, which he in turn handed to her. When he’d got his own glass, he put it on the table. He turned back to her.
“This negus is the exact recipe the Regent serves his guests.”
Claire’s eyes widened. “Indeed!” She took another sip, enthralled at the idea of tasting an “exact recipe” of the Prince Regent’s household. She wanted to remember it always, so she took more sips, letting them linger over her tongue.
“Do you know the recipe?” she asked.
“We haven’t spoken more about you, yet. I’ve told you a good deal about myself—”
“Not about your family. I’ve heard nothing at all of them.”
“I’m the last of the line,” he said simply. “I lost my parents when I was quite young, hardly knew them, in fact. I spent my days, like many children, in the nursery and then was sent off to school. That’s why I became a ward of the marquess. My father, fortunately, arranged it before he died.”
“How did they die?” she asked softly.
He paused. “A carriage accident.”
To her look of horror—for she knew too well that St. John might have died the same way, had she not come to save him—he added, “They’re not uncommon.”
“No; I’m so sorry.” Claire’s eyes were large in her face.
“As I said, I hardly ever saw my parents.” He put an arm along the back of the sofa and said, “Now let us speak of you.”
Claire felt alarmed, for she had little to say that he would not doubt entirely. She took a swig of her drink. Mary entered the room and went and stood against a far wall.
“Where were you born?” he asked.
Claire studied the intense blue-grey eyes looking into her soul. She swallowed. “In Maine.”
The brows furrowed. “Main?”
“The state of Maine. In the United States,” she added, while lifting her glass. She took a good sip. Somehow the negus was getting tastier with each one.
“There is no such state,” he said softly.
Claire stared at him stupidly for a moment. She sputtered a laugh. “Oh! There will be—in 1820!” She giggled again. “But we’re not there, yet, are we?” She lifted the glass to her lips, but St. John took hold of it.
“I think you’ve had enough,” he said.
But she was feeling splendid—so light-hearted. She felt divine, in fact, and pulled the g
lass away from him. ‘I’m almos’ done!” she objected. “And the Prince Regen’ serves this to his guests.” He watched while she drained her glass.
“Go on. Are you certain you were born in Main?”
“Yesh, yesh, yesh.” She popped her head up and declared, “My grandmother used to live there!” She’d suddenly realised he ought to know that.
“Lady Ashworth?”
“Uh-hum. Only she wasn’t Lady Ashworth, then.” She turned to him with one finger raised in the air. “She was Mrs. Grandison!” She said the words with great emphasis, missing the fact that they were beginning to slur.
Leaning back, Claire felt amazingly relaxed. And Julian was so easy to talk to. And he seemed to finally believe her! She went on. “My mother and grandmother didn’t see eye to eye. My mother only let me visit her twice.” She paused and turned to him. “Whish is why I didn’ know her!” Claire swayed in her seat. “You remember? I didn’ know her?” She looked at him to see if he did.
He nodded. He remembered.
“And my shawl—well, it was Grandmother’s shawl.”
“Is this another woman, another relation, or do you mean Lady Ashworth, your grandmamma?”
“OH, yes! That’s what you say, here. Grandma-MA. I mean her. Grandmamma.” Claire was having a marvellous time. How nice it was to tell St. John all about herself without a care in the world!
“Yes?” he waited, half smiling.
“Grandmamma had the shawl in a glass case; it was in glass! Hanging on the wall. I remember that.”
“On the wall, like a tapestry?” He seemed surprised.
“Yesh!” Claire paused. “But in glass.” Her face puckered in concentration. “I should’ve known then that it was special.” Her voice became sad. “But we moved to Connecticut, and I didn’ know. I didn’ know about the shawl and I didn' know Grandmamma. And my mother”—she turned to be sure she hadn’t lost her audience, but he was listening—“my mother,” she continued, “said Grandmamma was nuts.”
“Nuts?” His eyes narrowed.
“Loco!” She waved a hand around in circles, near her head.
“Are we speaking the same language?” he asked, repressing a grin.
“Mad! She meant, she was mad!” Claire cried. She went to take a sip from her glass, saw it was empty, and looking disappointed, put it down unsteadily on the table. She spied St. John’s glass, grabbed it and quickly took a sip. She swallowed and said, “Oh, isn’t this nice!”
He leaned over and gently removed the glass from her hands.
“I was enjoying that!” she cried.
He looked to the maid, who came to attention. “Take this. Bring coffee.” She came and took his glass and left the room. He turned back to Claire. “You were telling me how your grandmamma was mad,” he said.
“I never said that!” Claire cried. She stared at him, blinking.
“But you did—loco, remember?” He took her hands to help settle her, for Claire was growing fidgety.
“Oh! That was my mother!”
“Your mother was loco?” He was almost sorry he’d started this conversation.
“No!” She looked pained. “My gran’mother—Gran’mamma—was loco! That’s wha’ my mother said. I didn’ know whyyyy she said that. But now I know.” She stopped and pointed a finger at him. “NOW I know, all right! Because she visited the past! Just as I am! But my mother didn’ believe her.” She moved right up to St. John to look closely into his face. “Jus’ like you don’ believe me.” She moved away again, and sat back against the cushion, closing her eyes. “You see, ’tis all very true!”
Claire’s feeling of great contentment was turning into a strong urge to sleep. She moved towards him and snuggled into his chest. St. John seemed surprised at first, and almost reluctant to slowly encircle her with one arm.
His experiment was an utter failure. He had hoped to discover the truth about Claire’s past, but had heard only more delusions and confusion. She was adorably confused; he’d have to grant her that. But desperately deluded.
The first draught serveth for health, the second for pleasure,
the third for shame, and the fourth for madness.
--Anacharsis
CHAPTER 35
“Come,” Julian said gently. He tried to help Claire up, but she collapsed against him. He took her into his arms. “Time to get you to bed.” Mary had returned with coffee on a tray. He motioned for her to follow as he carried Claire for the second time to the guest bedchamber. She stirred sleepily in his arms, blinked and then focused her eyes on him. She gasped as if she was surprised to see him.
“Julian! Hullo! I’m so glad I moved into gran’mother’s cottage!” She threw an arm about his neck. “It brought me to you!”
“It did,” he said. He kissed her forehead and, entering the room, placed her gently upon a wing chair near the fire. He motioned to Mary, who brought the tray with coffee. She poured a cup, which St. John offered to Claire.
Claire looked at it dubiously. “I won’ drink that,” she said heavily.
“Why not?” he asked. “’Twill help you.”
“’Tis black!” she cried. Mary hurriedly added cream, stirred it, and gave it back to St. John. He again offered it to Claire. “Come, be a good girl. Take a sip.”
She did as he bade. He spoke to the maid. “See that she finishes this. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” Claire’s eyes were closed, but she murmured, “Goodnight, Julian!”
“See that she finishes it,” he repeated.
He waited nearly an hour, giving her time to sober up. He felt badly for having plied her with negus. Whatever the cause of her delusions, they were stronger than he’d realised. For some reason, this was no deterrent to his growing assurance that Claire was the woman he would marry. She might be deluded in some respects, but she was delightful in others. She was surprising and beautiful and earnest. He felt restless until he finally returned to her chamber. He knocked lightly, and Mary opened the door.
“How is she?” he asked.
“More herself, sir.” She opened the door wider for him to enter. Claire was already ensconced in bed with blankets pulled up over her chest. She wore a chemise—which had been beneath her gown—and a light white cap, supplied by a maid. She looked, he thought, charming.
She smiled as he came towards her. “Hello,” she said. “I am quite recovered from the Regent’s negus, I think.”
“I am glad of it,” he said lightly. His eyes darkened. “I should not have allowed you to drink so much.”
“Allowed me to, or engineered that I would?” she asked with a smile.
He let out a breath of a laugh. “Little gets by you. I beg your pardon, then, for ‘engineering’ it.”
She played with the edge of the blanket. “I daresay I was remiss in it. I made it easy for you—”
“Not at all.” He came a step closer. “I’ll see you in the morning. If you need anything, Mary will ring for it.”
“I hope I’m here in the morning,” she answered forlornly.
In reply, he took her hand and kissed it. Then, with a small bow, he was off. As he left, Claire’s eyes searched the room and landed upon the tallit. That horrible shawl! It would take her away from him.
“Julian!” she called. He heard her from the corridor and came instantly back. “Mary,” she said, “Give Mr. St. John my shawl.”
“Your shawl, ma’am?”
“Yes, the shawl.”
Julian received it and looked at Claire questioningly.
Claire motioned him to approach her, which he did. Keeping her voice low, she said very seriously, “You must destroy this!”
Julian looked at the shawl, and he looked back at Claire. He tilted his head at her, as though trying to figure something out; he looked suspiciously as though he might smile.
“This shawl,” she said earnestly, “is magical! It takes me away and then it brings me back. But one day it might not bring me back!”
He remembered wh
at she’d said about the shawl earlier—evidently it was part of her delusion. “If you wish,” he said. He couldn’t help it and gave a wry grin.
Claire shook her head. “I know, it sounds mad! But every time I wear it—every time, mind you—is when I travel from one time to another!” To his look of gentle disbelief, she said sadly, “I am not mad, sir.”
He leaned over and kissed her forehead. “I am the one who is mad. About you. I will rid you of the offending shawl.”
“Thank you! If you do, I shall see you in the morning!”
“I look forward to it,” he said.
A strong wave of affection for him overcame Claire of a sudden, and she grasped his hand as he went to straighten up. The depth of feeling she suddenly had was almost alarming. In fact, it was so strong it made her nearly sad with the weight of it. But he’d offered for her. He must love her. It gave her courage. “Julian,” she said in a low voice. She was dead sober.
“Yes?” He was listening intently.
“I’ve just realized—I’m afraid, that is—that I’m…I’m in love with you!” She kissed his hand. He sent a quick look at the maid, who hurriedly stared into the fire and pretended not to be listening. He leaned down again. “But you still haven’t said it. That you’ll marry me.”
She stared at him with large eyes. Julian St. John was the best thing she’d ever seen, the best human being she’d ever known. If she agreed to marry him, there would no longer be any choice in the matter. She must stay in his world. For the last time, she thought of the book she would never write. The success and acclaim that could never be hers. But if she did not marry him—the only alternative was to lose him. As she thought all this, he waited with great patience.
She took his hand and kissed it again. “Of course I will.”
The feeble, fluttering, thrilling—oh, how thrilling!—pressure of the hand!
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