Esme rose and seated herself next to her mother on the settee. Fanny raised her eyebrows slightly and then finally looked down at William. For a moment she stared at him in utter silence.
“Isn’t he beautiful?” Esme said, unable to stop herself. “Isn’t he the most darling baby you ever saw, Mama?”
Her mother closed her eyes and put out a wavering hand as if to push William away. “He looks just like your brother,” she murmured, turning her face away and shading her eyes. Her hand stayed in the air, shaking slightly with the strength of her emotion.
Esme bit her lip. “William doesn’t resemble Benjamin so much,” she ventured. “Benjamin had such a lovely cap of black hair, do you remember? Even when he was—”
“Naturally I remember every moment of my son’s short life!” her mother broke in. “You do me great disservice, daughter, to suggest that I could forget the smallest detail of my little angel’s face.” She sat with her face shaded by her hand, overcome by grief.
Esme was stricken into silence. She literally didn’t know what to say.
“William is quite an adorable child,” Arabella said. There was a crackling warning in her voice. “And I do think that he has the look of his father rather than Esme. In fact, I would say that William is the spitting image of Miles Rawlings. Why don’t you look at William more closely, Fanny?”
Esme’s mother visibly shuddered. “I couldn’t…I just couldn’t.” She waved her slim white hand in the air. “Please, remove the child. I simply am not strong enough for this sort of blow. Not today. Perhaps when I am having a better day.”
“Of course, Mama,” Esme said quietly, tucking William’s blanket around his face. “I’ll take him back to the nursery.”
“Give him to the footman,” her mother instructed, sounding a bit stronger. “I didn’t come all the way to this house merely to watch you act like a servant.”
Esme had never given William to one of the servants, but she handed him over without a murmur. She should have realized how much pain the baby would cause her mother. No wonder Fanny hadn’t attended her confinement. The whole event was undoubtedly too distressing to contemplate. As she returned to the parlor, Esme braced herself for the look of disapproval that always crossed her mother’s face. But it was, miraculously, not there. Esme blinked and almost stumbled.
“Do come here, daughter,” Fanny said, patting the seat next to her.
Esme sat down next to her, careful to not allow her back to touch the back of the settee.
“We were just discussing how much your cap suits you,” Fanny said. “I think you will find that a cap truly eases one’s life. It does the necessary work of informing lecherous men that you are a woman of propriety and virtue. They never, ever make indecent proposals to a woman in a cap.”
Arabella looked at Esme with a faint smile. “I’ve just told your mother that she needn’t lend me one of hers.”
Fanny ignored that. “And Lady Bonnington has been regaling me with tales of your fiancé’s devotion. I must say, he sounds like an estimable gentleman. What a shame that Mr. Fairfax-Lacy stands to lose his courtesy title if the Duke of Girton’s wife gives birth to a son. The Earl of Spade, isn’t he? Of course, the duchess may birth a girl. We shall have to hope for the best.”
“Mr. Fairfax-Lacy doesn’t use his title,” Esme murmured.
But her mother swept on. “It would be even better were the earl to give up his seat in Parliament. The House of Commons is so very…common, is it not?”
“Mr. Fairfax-Lacy plans to resign his seat,” Esme said. “He wishes to spend more time on his estate.”
Her mother gave her a smile and patted her hand. “I’m certain that you can effect the earl’s resignation without delay. I feel quite heartened by this news, dearest.”
“I’m very glad to hear it, Mama.”
“Perhaps you could marry by special license,” her mother continued. “That would be by far the more respectable choice. No one to gawk, as would happen in a public ceremony.”
“Choice? What choice does she have?” Arabella said, and there was a distinct jaundiced note in her voice.
“Whether to remain a widowed woman or marry Mr. Fairfax-Lacy immediately,” Fanny said sharply. “Given our plans to rehabilitate dear Esme’s position in society, I tend to think that immediate marriage would not be frowned upon. What do you think, Honoratia?” she asked the marchioness.
“While I am naturally eager to see Lady Rawlings settled in such a beneficial position,” Lady Bonnington announced, “I do not approve of marriages within the first twelve months of mourning.”
Esme breathed a sigh of relief.
Arabella gave her a wink. “You must be eager to find an appropriate spouse for your son,” she said, turning to Lady Bonnington, “since he has returned from the Continent. I know there is no one of the slightest interest to him at this house party, but I am quite certain that you must have some thoughts on the subject.”
Esme’s mother stiffened. Clearly she had had no idea that her friend’s disreputable son was even in the country, let alone in the very house in which she sat. “May I ask—” she said, her voice shrill.
But Lady Bonnington broke in. She was magnificently quelling, Esme had to admit. “Fanny, there is no one in the world who deprecates my son’s behavior more than I do. But I decided he had been in exile long enough. He has naturally attended me here; as a dutiful son, he is engaged in accompanying his mother wherever I wish to be.”
“But this particular household is surely not the appropriate place to be!” Fanny sputtered. “Given the events of last summer—”
“We do not speak of that,” Lady Bonnington said with magnificent hauteur.
Fanny snapped her mouth shut.
Esme had to hide a smile. Perhaps she could learn something of Lady Bonnington’s technique herself.
“The events of last summer were grievous for everyone in this room.” Lady Bonnington gave Esme a little nod, and then turned back to Fanny. “You must understand, Fanny, that I have decided to keep that boy on a very tight rein. Where I go, he goes. I found London entirely too stuffy and tedious this season, and I decided to retreat to the country.”
Fanny nodded. “I agree with you. It is far too early for the marquess to reenter London society. But must he be here, in my daughter’s house?”
“No one could possibly question his presence, given that I am here,” the dowager trumpeted.
“That is certainly true,” Arabella put in merrily. “And now that you are here as well, Fanny, this party is positively taking on the air of a wake!”
“Your levity is repugnant,” Fanny snapped. “My only pleasure in making this visit is finding that my daughter has changed so much.” She patted Esme’s hand. “You have become the daughter I always dreamed of.”
“Yes, Esme has been remarkably silent, hasn’t she?” Arabella put in.
“Silence is a virtue that few women understand. Believe me, a virtuous silence is a far greater blessing than the kind of impudent chatter that you consider conversation,” Fanny retorted.
“You must ask Esme to tell you about her Sewing Circle,” Arabella said, standing up and shaking out her skirts. “I am afraid that the very sanctity of this room is wearying to such a devout Jezebel as myself.”
Esme felt an unhappy hiccup in the area of her heart. Fanny had leveled the same disapproving glare at her sister that she usually gave to her daughter. On the one hand, it was a pleasure not to be the target of her censure. But Esme didn’t like to see Arabella slighted either.
“Aunt Arabella was a blessing to me during my confinement,” she said after the door closed. “I don’t know what I would have done without her.”
“Really?” Fanny asked with languid disinterest. “I can’t imagine what that light-heeled sister of mine could possibly do to help anyone. Except perhaps a womanizer. I doubt she would have any hesitation helping such a man.”
Esme blinked. She had never before real
ized the amount of vitriol that her mother felt toward her sister. “In fact, Arabella was quite helpful during William’s birth,” she said cautiously.
“I knew you would see fit to reproach me for not attending you,” Fanny said in a peevish voice. “When you see how much pain it caused me to merely look at a young child, I wonder that you would even bring it up!”
“I didn’t mean to imply such a thing.”
Lady Bonnington had been sitting silently, watching Fanny and Esme with a rather odd expression on her face. “I will do Lady Withers the credit of saying that she was a source of strength to Lady Rawlings during the birth. Much more so than I was.”
Fanny shuddered. “You attended the birth, Honoratia? Why on earth would you put yourself through such an ordeal?”
“ ’Twas your daughter who went through an ordeal,” Lady Bonnington pointed out. “I merely counseled from the bedside.”
“Yes, well,” Fanny said in a fretting tone of voice. “Naturally I am ecstatic if Arabella actually managed to summon up an ounce of family feeling. When has she ever thought of me? She simply made one short-lived marriage after another, and never a thought for my wishes in the matter.”
“Aunt Arabella can hardly be blamed for the deaths of her husbands,” Esme pointed out, and then wished that she hadn’t opened her mouth.
“She drove them into their graves,” Fanny spat. “I grew up with the woman, and I’ve always known what she was like.”
Esme rose and rang the bell. “Why don’t I ask Slope to bring us some tea,” she suggested. “You must be exhausted after your long carriage ride, Mama.”
“As to that, I’ve been staying a mere hour or so from here, at dear Lady Pindlethorp’s house,” her mother said. “The season is just too tiring for someone my age, I find. Lady Pindlethorp and I have had a perfectly lovely time in the past fortnight. We have so many interests in common.”
Esme turned around slowly. “You mean you have been living at a short distance? But—but you could have come for a visit at any time!”
Fanny blinked at her. “Not until I was quite certain that you had reformed, my dear. I would never risk my reputation merely on dear Honoratia’s assurance, although of course I took her advice quite seriously. No, indeed. I will admit that I had quite given up hope of your reformation, as I believe I mentioned in my letter. I always thought you took after my sister, although naturally I am pleasantly surprised to find you so much changed.”
Esme’s jaw set. I will not scream, she thought. She felt her face growing red with the effort of not lashing out at her mother. Lady Bonnington seemed to guess, because she quickly turned to Fanny and asked her if she would like to stroll among the roses in the conservatory.
“Only if I need not step a foot outside,” Fanny said. “I’m afraid that my poor departed angel, Benjamin, inherited his weak constitution from me. I take a chill at the slightest breath of wind. I am virtually housebound these days, if you can believe it.”
Esme curtsied to her mother, walked up the stairs to her chambers, and jerked the cap off her head so harshly that hairpins spilled on the floor. Throwing the cap on the floor didn’t help. Neither did stepping on it. Neither did ripping off that horrible gray dress with its foolish little lace tippet that worked so well to give the wearer a nunlike air. None of it helped. She stood in the middle of her bedchamber, chest heaving with tears and pure rage.
She had achieved it all: the Sewing Circle, the respectability, her mother’s approval, Miles’s wishes—why did success make her feel so terribly enraged? And so terribly, terribly afraid, at the same time?
33
In Which the Goat Eats a Notable Piece of Clothing
The irritating man hadn’t left Shantill House, even after Bea had begged him. He stopped opportuning her and made no seductive moves. Instead he played duets with Helene, which left Bea embroidering on the other side of the room and trying not to think about the Puritan. She stayed away from him. No more flirtatious glances. No more flirtation, period. Certainly no more failed seductions.
It was late morning, and they were gathered in Esme’s morning parlor. Arabella and her sister were conducting a genteel squabble; Esme was presumably in the nursery. Naturally, Helene and Stephen were practicing the piano. Bea sat by herself, stitching away on her tapestry.
When Slope arrived with the morning post, Bea looked in the other direction. It was foolish of her to wish that one of her sisters would write. They had never answered her letters, and she was fairly certain that her father was intercepting them. Surely Rosalind would have written. They were only separated in age by a few years. Rosalind was to make her debut next year, and Bea wanted so much to tell her—
Well, to tell her not to make her mistake. Or did she mean to tell her to follow her example? Bea kept thinking and thinking about it. On the one hand, it was grievously hard to turn down Stephen’s marriage proposal on the grounds that by accepting, she would ruin his career. On the other hand, had she married whomever her father had seen fit to select as her husband, she would still have fallen in love with Stephen at some point, she was sure of that.
So Bea bent over her tapestry and surreptitiously watched the way Stephen leaned toward Helene, the way their shoulders touched as they played. What would it mean to him, to no longer be the estimable Member of Parliament? Would he be happy? If he were married, would he give up his mistresses, not to mention his supposed fiancée, Esme?
Helene received a letter. “I’m going from pillar to post,” she told Stephen. “This is from my friend Gina, asking me to visit her during her confinement.”
“I gather you refer to the Duchess of Girton?” Stephen said. And at her nod, he added, “Cam, her husband, is my cousin.”
Wonderful, Bea thought sourly. Splendidly cozy.
“She and the duke returned from Greece a few months ago,” Helene was saying, “and now they are living on their estate. Apparently Gina will be having a child this summer.” She made a funny, rueful face.
Bea bit her lip as Stephen put a comforting arm around Helene. They had the intimacy of an old married couple.
“I can’t even bear to look at William. Although I love him.” The agony in Helene’s voice mirrored that in Bea’s heart. Nothing more was said, and after a moment Helene and Stephen returned to playing a Turkish march for four hands. Bea was sick of pieces written for four hands. She was sick of everything that had to do with one prim countess and one proper politician.
Abruptly she got up and walked out of the room. She might as well visit the goat. She still kept a daily pilgrimage to the ungrateful beast, although she hadn’t encountered Stephen again in the lane. He seemed to be avoiding the goat, as well as her.
As she tramped down the lane, regardless of the mud clinging to her boots, Bea was actually beginning to think that perhaps she could live in the country. Some sort of wild rose grew over the hedges in the lane. They were pale pink and hung down like faded curtains. For the first time in her life, she had a sense of what happened in spring. A scraggly tree next to the road had broken out all over in white buds. They stuck out from the branches like the knotted ribbons on debutantes’ slippers.
And there were daisies growing all up and down the lane. Impulsively Bea started gathering them. Finally she took off her bonnet and filled it with daisies. It hardly mattered if her skin colored in the sun. She could powder it white, or powder it pink. The sun felt kind on her cheeks. Finally she reached the end of the lane and leaned on the pasture gate. He was there, of course, the old reprobate. He trotted over and accepted a branch Bea gave him to chew. Bea even walked in his pasture sometimes; he had never again tried to chew her clothing. She pushed open the gate and headed for the small twisted tree in the center. There were no daisies in the pasture, of course. The goat presumably ate them the moment they poked up their heads. But the tree was in the sun, and surrounded by a patch of grass.
It was when she was sitting against the tree that she realized what she had to
do. She had to go home. Go home. Back to her irate father, who wouldn’t throw her out again if she promised to be a model of proper behavior. And back to her sisters. She missed her sisters. She didn’t want to play the voluptuary role anymore, not after meeting Stephen. He made her games seem rather shabby and hollow, rather than excitingly original.
Without really thinking about it, she picked all the daisies from her bonnet and braided a daisy chain, a rather drunken daisy chain that had a few stems sticking out at right angles. It was just the sort she used to make for her little sisters. Perhaps she would ask Arabella to send her home tomorrow morning.
He was there, in front of her, before she even noticed his arrival. “How you do sneak up on one!” she snapped.
“You are the very picture of spring,” he said, staring down at her.
Bea allowed him a smile. She rather fancied that compliment, since she was wearing a horrendously expensive Marie Antoinette–styled shepherdess dress that laced up the front and had frothy bits at the sides. Suddenly he dropped onto his haunches in front of her, and she blinked at him. His eyes were dark and—
She reached out and touched his cheek. “What’s the matter, Stephen? Are you all right?” She forgot they weren’t on intimate terms and that, in fact, she had hardly spoken to him in virtually a week.
“No, I’m not,” he said, rather jerkily. “I’ve made rather a mess of my life.”
“Why do you say that?” Bea asked, taken aback.
“Because I asked a lady to woo me,” he said, and the look in his eyes made her knees weak. “Because I asked a lady to woo me, and she very properly refused. I was unfathomably stupid to ask such a thing.”
Bea bit her lip. “Why?” Don’t say that you never wanted me, she prayed inside. But there was that something in his eyes that gave her hope.
“Because I should have said, ‘Seduce me. Take me. Please.’”
Bea supposed that was her cue to leap on him like a starving animal, but she stayed where she was. Her heart was beating so fast that she almost couldn’t feel her own disappointment. Wasn’t this just what she wanted? Of course it was.