A Season of Romance Page 50

  *

  Lucy hurried up to her bedchamber, tugging at the ribbons of her bonnet as she went. How dare he propose in that odious way, without a hint of warning! If he was anything of a gentleman he would have approached Aunt Evadne first, to ask if her niece was amenable to an offer. Instead he had sprung the idea upon her, confident that she would not refuse him. He was arrogance personified!

  She was thankful to find her room was empty and she locked the door behind her, then stalked across to the dressing room and turned the key. She was far too angry to see anyone. She tore off her bonnet and threw it onto a chair, quickly followed by her pelisse. She wanted to scream out loud with anger and frustration, but instead she had to be content with stalking back and forth, clenching and unclenching her hands. It was not enough that he should throw the question at her without any notice, but he had forced his groom upon her in the guise of an escort, when really he was there to argue his case for him!

  Her angry pacing slowed. She knew she was being unfair. Sir Darius would not want anyone to fight his battles for him. Lewis’s comments had sprung from affection for his master.

  ‘But he was too far away to know why we had quarrelled,’ she said aloud and immediately replied to herself that Lewis might well have guessed. He had been with Sir Darius for many years and probably knew his master as well as anyone.

  She sank down on the edge of the bed. Had that rushed proposal been a genuine declaration of affection? Could it be that Sir Darius Claversham really, truly cared for her? For a brief instant the thought warmed her, caused her heart to flutter, just a little, before it was replaced by a cold chill. If he had nurtured any affection for her at all, then she had killed it now, most certainly. After today’s encounter he could be in no doubt that she disliked him intensely.

  ‘Not that it matters in the least,’ she said aloud. ‘I had no thoughts of marriage until he made me that outrageous offer, and he will soon come to realise that it was a mistake. We are n-not suited and he is m-much better off without me.’

  And with that, she threw herself down on the covers and sobbed.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  It was several hours before Lucia felt calm enough to face anyone. She wanted to crawl into bed and remain there, but she knew that keeping to her room would invite comment, so she washed her face and hands and changed her gown in readiness for dinner.

  Lady Quidenham was talking with Morry when Lucy presented herself in the drawing room at the appointed hour, but she broke off and gave her niece a searching look.

  ‘You are very pale, girl. Are you quite well?’

  Lucia was expecting the question, and had her answer ready.

  ‘I was walking out in the sun this morning. Perhaps for longer than I should. It made me very tired.’

  ‘Hmm.’ The dowager’s sharp eyes surveyed her. ‘I hope you are not sickening for anything. Perhaps we should not go to the Derwents’ party this evening.’

  Lucia had already considered crying off but had decided against it. Sir Darius was a good friend of Lord and Lady Derwent, and he would almost certainly be there. Her conscience told her she should speak to him, and as soon as possible, to apologise for her appalling lack of manners that morning. His proposal had taken her by surprise, but she knew she should not have lost her temper in such a foolish fashion, it was unjust and uncalled for and she bitterly regretted it.

  A more gently-worded rejection might have allowed them to part amicably, but perhaps it was not too late. An apology now might repair some of the damage. Not that she wanted to marry, of course, but she hoped they might remain friends. It was a tiny spark of hope.

  She said, ‘No, no, ma’am, I have been resting since and I am very well now, I promise you.’

  ‘My dear, are you sure you are well enough to go out?’ Miss Morrison whispered, when Lady Quidenham rose to lead the way to the dining room. ‘You do not look at all the thing.’

  ‘Nonsense, it is a touch of sun, nothing more. I should have remembered to take my parasol with me when I went out.’ She squeezed her friend’s hand. ‘Thank you for your concern, Morry. I doubt we shall stay late tonight, and a good night’s sleep will put everything right, you’ll see.’

  *

  Lucy followed her aunt into Lady Derwent’s elegant salon, scanning the crowd for Sir Darius’s tall, imposing figure. Having made up her mind to apologise, she would not rest now until she had done so. When she could not see him her spirits plummeted, only to rise again when he walked in, only moments later.

  She and Lady Quidenham were still only yards away from the door and she fixed her eyes on him as he surveyed the room. He was smiling at something his hostess was saying while his restless gaze travelled around the room. Lucia kept her eyes fixed on him, clutching her closed fan between her hands with one finger touching the tip. It was a gesture she had heard meant "I want to talk to you."

  She knew the moment he saw her. He continued to smile, but suddenly there was no warmth in it. His face became as cold and stony as a mask. Clearly, he had not read Mr Badini’s book on fanology, for he merely gave her a distant nod before strolling away to the card room.

  A bitter chill of disappointment ran though Lucia. Until that moment she had not realised how much she had been hoping she might regain something of his regard. But his cold look said it all. That was as much as she could expect from him in future.

  None of Lucy’s particular friends were in attendance, and for once it was she and not her aunt who found the company dull and insipid. Not that she allowed anyone to notice, her manner was cheerful and smiling, as ever, but by the time Lady Quidenham announced she was ready to leave Lucia’s head was aching with the effort and she was thankful to reach the seclusion of her own room and tumble into bed.

  She awoke the next morning to bright sunshine and a view of unbroken blue sky from her window. A perfect early June day. She scrambled out of bed, trying to throw off her depression with her nightclothes. She would find an opportunity to apologise to Sir Darius at some point, but for now, she had other matters requiring her attention.

  She rang for Ella to help her dress in another new gown from Orchard Street, a primrose muslin exquisitely embroidered with yellow sprigs. A matching ribbon held back the glossy dark curls from her face and Lucia went down to breakfast, consoling herself that at least she was wearing a cheerful colour, even if it could not hide her wan cheeks or the dark smudges around her eyes.

  Her aunt and Miss Morrison were already at breakfast and Lucy took her seat with a word of greeting. She smiled across the table as she reached for the coffee pot.

  ‘I have a surprise for us all, Aunt. You have been so good, escorting me to all the balls and entertainments that I thought perhaps we could enjoy something a little more educational.’ A faint hush fell over the table. Miss Morrison looked up from her plate, her face full of eager enquiry. Lady Quidenham was far less enthusiastic. Lucia chuckled.

  ‘It is not as dull as it sounds, I promise you, Aunt. There is a series of lectures being held at the Royal Institution. I thought we might go.’

  ‘How exciting,’ cried Morry. ‘What is the subject? I am sure it will be delightful, whatever it is.’

  Lucia waved her hand, saying vaguely, ‘Something to do with flower painting. I could not help noticing the beautiful watercolours at the Dower House, Aunt Evadne. I felt sure you would enjoy this.’

  ‘I did not paint them, they are not my work, I was ever an indifferent artist.’ For a moment she thought her aunt might deny any desire at all to attend the lecture, but after a long moment, she gave a little shrug. ‘But I did have an interest in botany as a girl. Perhaps it might prove interesting.’

  ‘Excellent, then we shall all go to the lecture this afternoon.’ Lucia beamed at her companions. ‘It will be a high treat for us all.’

  The marbled entrance hall of the Royal Institution was bustling when Lady Quidenham’s party arrived. The audience comprised a large proportion of gentlemen, many of them sch
olarly, but there were a number of fashionably dressed ladies, too, although very few of them known to Lucia or her aunt.

  ‘I would have thought Somerset House would have been a better venue for a talk on art,’ muttered Lady Quidenham, surveying the company with some disapproval.

  Lucia tucked her arm through her aunt’s. ‘Come now, let us choose our seats.’

  She whisked her companions quickly through to the library, where chairs were placed in rows facing a small wooden dais. A heavy oak lectern rested at the front of the dais, behind which was a chair and small table, flanked by two easels, each one covered with a cloth to conceal whatever works of art might be resting there. Not many people had yet come into the room and Lucia led the way into the centre of a row.

  ‘You must sit between us, Aunt, directly in line with the speaker. We should have a very good view from here, as long as no ladies with very large headdresses sit in the two rows in front of us.’

  ‘I am not sure why you should suddenly be so concerned for my comfort,’ the dowager grumbled. ‘I should have been happy to sit at the back, where I might nod off without offending anyone.’

  Lucia only laughed at that and patted her hand. She shook open her fan and settled down in her chair. The room was filling up now. She did not recognise any of the faces but she noticed that her aunt nodded to several of those taking their seats.

  Morry leaned forward to address her. ‘I did not have an opportunity to see who was speaking today, Lucia. Do you know who it is?’

  She merely smiled at that, and glanced towards the door. ‘Someone is coming now, I think.’

  An expectant hush had fallen over the room as two gentlemen came in. Lucia silently closed her fan.

  The first gentleman stepped onto the dais and began an introduction. Lucia missed his name because she was watching her aunt who was sitting rigidly in her seat, her face alarmingly pale, her eyes fixed on the second gentleman, standing patiently to one side and waiting to take his place on the dais.

  ‘…and without further ado I present to you, Mr Linus Theale.’

  Morry and Lucia joined in the clapping as Mr Theale stepped onto the dais. He smiled at the assembly, nodding to acknowledge their applause. Lucia held her breath as his gaze wandered across and came to rest on the centre of the third row. Upon Lady Quidenham, stone-like and immobile in her seat.

  For a moment the elderly gentleman’s gaze was arrested. His smile widened a fraction and he gave the tiniest nod of his head before his eyes moved on.

  ‘Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. Today is the final lecture in my series regarding my voyage with Captain Cook, in search of the Southern Continent…’

  Linus Theale spoke well. His voice was mellow, well-modulated and he seemed to hold his audience spell-bound, but Lucia heard barely a word for the first ten minutes. She sat tensely beside her aunt, wondering if the old lady would insist on leaving, despite having to make her neighbours stand to make way for her. Instead she remained in her seat, silent and unmoving, for the whole hour.

  When the lecture ended it was announced there would be a short break before the speaker would return to answer questions. The dowager barely waited for the applause to die before she was on her feet and making her way out of the row. Lucia and Miss Morrison had no choice but to follow her, apologising to those who had hastily vacated their seats to allow them to pass. Linus Theale was gathering together his papers, but Lucia saw him look up, his eyes following their progress towards the door. Lady Quidenham paused for the footman to open the door and, as if aware of Mr Theale’s eyes upon her, she glanced back. The gentleman’s chilly gaze was acknowledged by an equally cold nod from the lady, before she swept out of the room.

  They made their way down the stairs to the hall, where Lady Quidenham gave a peremptory order for her carriage. Lucia made no attempt to break the silence. Aunt Evadne had had a shock, and would need a little time to recover. Only Morry, who knew nothing of the mysterious Mr T, waxed lyrical about the lecture as they left the building.

  ‘What a fascinating man, to have sailed the oceans for so many years. And his paintings of the flora and fauna, so detailed, so beautiful. Exquisite!’ She turned to Lady Quidenham. ‘Did you not think so, ma’am? What a pity we could not stay for the questions.’

  ‘Yes, wasn’t it,’ murmured Lucia. ‘I am sure the speaker was disappointed to see us leave, and not merely because we had to disrupt the whole row to get out.’

  She met her aunt’s withering glare with a bland smile and they continued to the carriage. She and Miss Morrison continued to discuss the lecture for the whole of the short carriage journey back to Portman Square while the dowager maintained a stony silence. Only when they had reached the marbled hall of Quidenham House did she speak.

  ‘Lucia, I would like to talk to you in the morning room. Now. Alone.’

  If Miss Morrison saw anything amiss in this abrupt remark, she did not show it.

  ‘Give me your bonnet and pelisse, Lucia,’ she said, smiling, ‘I will take them upstairs for Betty to put away.’

  She tripped merrily up the stairs and Lucia followed Lady Quidenham into the morning room, closing the door carefully behind her. When she turned back her aunt was standing before the fireplace, leaning on her stick and glaring angrily at her.

  ‘You knew,’ she barked, her voice shaking with rage. ‘You knew Linus Theale was the speaker today.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you knew he was the man mentioned in those letters.’

  ‘I guessed,’ Lucia confessed. ‘But I could not be sure.’

  ‘So you set up today’s little farce to prove it. How dare you!’

  ‘I beg your pardon, Aunt, but you would not tell me. I remember seeing him at the military review, ma’am, the way he stared after you.’ She gave a little smile. ‘I think he still has an affection for you.’

  ‘You know nothing about it!’

  She glared across the room, her mouth working as if to hold back some strong emotion. For one alarming moment Lucia thought her aunt might burst into tears. But she steadied herself. She walked slowly to a chair and sat down. Lucia hurried across, pulling up a footstool and sinking down at her aunt’s knee.

  ‘I discovered he is a widower, Aunt Evadne. You are a widow; what harm could there be in your renewing your friendship?’

  ‘You are being quite ridiculous, Lucia.’

  ‘But why, when you loved one another?’

  ‘That was forty years ago.’

  ‘Yes, and your father refused the banns, you told me that.’

  ‘It was not only my father. I did so, too. I told Linus I would not marry him.’

  Lucia stared at her. ‘You refused him?’

  For a moment her aunt did not answer. Her eyes were fixed on some point beyond Lucia, in another time, another place.

  ‘What else could I do? He was going away for years. Indeed, it was not at all certain he would return from such a voyage.’ A sad little smile played over the old lady’s lips. ‘He had told me when we first met that it was his greatest ambition, to sail with Cook, to hone his skills under the guidance of the great naturalists who would be working on board the Resolution.

  ‘I never doubted that he loved me. When my father refused his consent to our becoming engaged before he sailed, Linus declared he would remain in England. He had a little money, we might elope and he would find work to support us, but how could I do that to him? How could I ask him to give up all his hopes, his dreams?’

  She fell silent, and Lucia thought she had never seen such sadness in anyone’s eyes.

  ‘What did you do?’ she asked gently.

  A sigh. ‘I refused him. I told him I had my sights set on a bigger prize. Someone with a title and a fortune. We quarrelled and he went off to sail the world. By the time he returned, I was married to Quidenham.’

  ‘And you have not met since?’

  ‘Once. Soon after he had arrived back in England. There was a great deal of interest i
n the voyage. Captain Cook became a national hero and his fellow travellers were feted everywhere. Quidenham invited some of them to dine here, including Linus. He presented me with four paintings he had made of plants found in New Zealand.’

  ‘The watercolours I saw at the Dower House!’ exclaimed Lucy.

  ‘Yes.’ The dowager nodded. ‘He gave them to me in the nature of a revenge, I think. To show me that he had returned, a successful artist and naturalist. The gift was supposedly a wedding present, but his congratulations sounded hollow, I knew he despised me for what I had done. The Viscount, however, was quite delighted with the paintings and insisted they should be displayed at Quidenham Hall. When he died, I had them installed at the Dower House.’

  ‘You could not bring yourself to part with them,’ said Lucia, nodding. ‘Because you still care for Linus Theale. Then surely – ‘

  ‘No! Do you not understand? There is too much hurt, too much bitterness between us. How dare you take it upon yourself to meddle in something you know nothing about! What you did today, tricking me into going to Albermarle Street, the distress that has caused, to both Linus Theale and myself, raking up old memories that we had both worked so hard to bury – that is unforgiveable.’

  Lucy had been so sure she had been doing the right thing, but her confidence crumbled beneath her aunt’s tirade and she put her hands to her cheeks.

  ‘Oh Aunt,’ she exclaimed, stricken. ‘I beg your pardon, I never meant – ‘

  ‘No, I am sure you did not. But do you see now that your meddling has achieved nothing but misery?’ She glared at Lucia. ‘You are too like your father, always chasing some scheme that ultimately comes to nought. I will thank you not to interfere in my affairs in future.’ She rose in an angry rustle of silks and Lucia hastily jumped to her feet. ‘In view of your behaviour today I have decided that our arrangement will terminate at the end of the month. Until then we will go on as before. I have no intention of making our disagreement public and giving the ton more grist for the gossip-mill. In three weeks’ time I shall expect you to give me those letters, as we agreed, but if you refuse it makes no odds to me now.