Chapter Twenty-Two
Robert had never had a more baffling welcome than the one he had just received. Mr Clearwell had the appearance of a sweet old man, but the behaviour of a paranoid invalid. Robert watched with trepidation as Mr Clearwell poured himself another glass of sherry. The last thing they wanted was for the man to drink himself into incoherence.
"I understand that you once painted a picture of my great aunt, Lady Letitia Hartley," he said. Clearwell gave a gloomy nod. "That painting is now in the possession of the Duke of Loxwell. How did it fall into his hands?"
"A simple question that warrants a simple answer. I gave it to him."
"What induced you to give a portrait of Lady Letitia to her enemies?"
Mr Clearwell shook his head sadly. "They were not her enemies at the time." He rubbed a weary hand across his forehead and sighed. "If I may, my lord, I will begin at the beginning. There was a time, when I was a young man at the beginning of my career, when I was befriended by one Lord Thomas Balfour. Lord Thomas fancied himself a budding patron of the arts, you see, and I flatter myself that I was one of the more talented painters in this part of England. We met at an exhibition of my work and he commissioned several pieces from me in the months that followed. He was a kind and gentle soul, as one would expect from his love of art. He treated everyone with respect, from the lowest villager to the Dukes who were his father's peers. But I think I do not overstate matters when I say that he and I were true friends, despite the difference in station.
"When it happened that Lord Thomas fell in love, he came to me even before his father. 'Clearwell,' he said, 'I want you to paint her.' I thought he meant a miniature for a locket, but Lord Thomas had grander designs. He brought the lady to me and had me paint her wearing his ring. I was surprised by how young she was – only sixteen years old. The treasured darling of her family – there was no hope of her father agreeing to her marriage before she turned eighteen."
"It was Lady Letitia," said Cecily. "I recognised the Balfour ring in the portrait. Oh, I knew it! I knew they were in love!"
She was so proud of herself for solving the mystery that she practically glowed. Robert could not stop his eyes tracing lovingly over her beaming face, even though he knew Clearwell was watching their every move with his painter's eye for detail.
"If Lord Thomas had one flaw, it was impatience," said Clearwell, making no mention of what he saw between Robert and Cecily. "He did not want to wait until the lady's father saw fit to part with her. Lady Letitia, too, was just as eager to be wed. They made a plan here in my cottage to elope together."
"How romantic!" Cecily breathed. "And, oh! How sad!"
"Sad is not the word." Clearwell's voice cracked with a half-forgotten grief. "The next news I heard of my friend was that he had been killed in a carriage accident."
"And Lady Letitia was with him!"
"The poor girl," Robert murmured. "To watch her lover die on the brink of happiness… Small wonder she was driven mad."
"You are jumping ahead of me, my lord," said Clearwell. "My story has not yet reached that unhappy conclusion. Now, the moment I heard of Lord Thomas's death, I went to Loxwell Park to offer my condolences. Naturally, I brought the painting I had recently finished for him. I did not think of collecting my commission, mark you! Only that, since it had been ordered by Lord Thomas, it was right to gift it to his family. Knowing that the then Marquess, Lady Letitia's father, did not approve of the love between the young pair, I could not deliver the painting to him." Clearwell rubbed a wrinkled hand over his leg as he spoke. Robert guessed that he was suffering from some arthritic pain, though he was too proud to show it. It reminded Robert of his father: a thought that now could not occur without a pang of regret. "I had not yet heard," Clearwell continued, "of the bad feelings which had sprung up between the two families. Their children had loved each other, but they did not know it. Lady Letitia's family claimed she had been kidnapped by Lord Thomas. The Duke and Duchess, quite naturally, denied the accusation. They blamed the Hartleys' carriage for their son's death."
"And it was in the middle of this trouble that you appeared, with the painting?" Cecily's voice was full of sympathy.
"The Duke took it from me without a word of what he had planned. If I had only known…" Clearwell shook his head wryly. "I might have saved myself a great deal of trouble, and Lady Letitia too. The Duke used the portrait to accuse me as her secret lover. I lost all my standing among the gentry. My career was nearly ruined by it. And as for the young lady…"
"She was maligned at the height of her grief by the very family she had tried to become a part of. At only sixteen!"
"I visited her, you know," said Clearwell. "It was the least I could do after the pain I caused her. If they knew of the rumours surrounding us at the house of invalids, they never mentioned it. I visited her every month. When she was finally carried off by a bout of influenza, I was at her side." His voice began to waver. "Shall I tell you the last thing she ever said to me?"
Robert was not sure he wanted to hear it, however much it might ease the old man's mind. He preferred to shy away from darkness. Cecily, however, got up from her rocking chair and went to Clearwell's side.
"Please, tell us. Lady Letitia's story ought not to die with her."
"She said, 'Do not be distressed, Andrew. I am shortly going to see the dearest friend I have ever known.'"
"The poor lady," Cecily murmured. She offered Clearwell a handkerchief, which he used to dab his eyes.
"Well, that's over and done with," he said, with unconvincing brightness. "As are most of my trials and woes, thank goodness." Having cleared the pain of the past from his mind, his expression grew shrewd and knowing. "Your own troubles, I think, are yet to come."
"I think you have guessed what circumstance brought a Hartley and a Balfour to your door," said Robert.
"I only wish it were not so plain. Looking at the pair of you transports me fifty-five years into the past. I have no advice to give you. If I had any power to change the mind of a Duke and a Marquess, I would have done it all those years ago."
"You have already helped us immeasurably," said Cecily. "All that we would ask of you is that you will come with us to speak to our fathers when the time is right. Your story might help us set aside years of feuding."
Clearwell's shoulders sagged in relief. "Then you do not intend to elope?"
Cecily caught Robert's eye. He understood her concern. It did not seem right to lie to the old man, especially not when he had told them so much.
"We will keep our feelings for each other a secret until our families are reconciled," he said, taking the burden of dishonesty on himself. Cecily was twirling a strand of hair anxiously around a finger. Although he regretted her discomfort, Robert took it as a good sign. While their love affair had necessitated deception, Cecily clearly prized honesty.
"I will not allow history to repeat itself," said Mr Clearwell, with all the authority of his age. "Earl or not, I will not hold with another elopement. Not after the trouble the last one caused."
"Rest assured, that is not our aim," said Robert.
He was not at all afraid of discovery. By the time Clearwell heard that an elegant young couple were staying at the local inn, they would be safely on their way to Gretna Green.
"I did not like lying to him," said Cecily, as they walked back to the inn, arm in arm. "Would it not be better, now that we know the truth, to go to our parents and see if we can bring things about the proper way?"
"I will not force you to elope with me," said Robert, though he could not hide his disappointment. His need to claim Cecily as his own grew stronger with every passing moment. It was already an agony of time until the happy moment came. He was not sure he could endure waiting longer. "But it seems to me the path of least risk. Once we are married, our families cannot tear us apart. It will be much less difficult to deal with if we can present it to them as a fait accompli."
"You are right," sighed Cecily. She let her head fall onto his shoulder. "At least, I am too tempted by it to think you are wrong."
They had reached the entrance to the inn, where a sign bearing a white swan swung gently in the breeze.
"Shall we go in, Mrs Somerville?" asked Robert, with a wry smile. Cecily's eyes were wide and blue, half hope and half fear.
"Why not, Mr Somerville. Why not?"