chapter 35
To Laura’s astonishment, a dressmaker arrived on the morning train from London, bringing with her an assistant loaded down with a bag of sample materials and dress designs.
“You simply must have a new gown for the ball,” Tessa explained. “I had thought we might run up to London to order one, but I know you’re reluctant to leave James.” Tessa’s eyes twinkled merrily. “So I thought, why not bring the clothes here instead of the other way around?”
Laughing, Laura agreed. Though she had never been especially interested in fashion, she was not immune to the lure of new dresses. She had enjoyed wearing the gowns Abby had lent her, but a larger variety of gowns made just for her was even more appealing.
Tessa and the other ladies retired to Tessa’s bedroom, shutting the door against the household men, and indulged in an orgy of fashion. While Laura stood for a seemingly interminable time with the dressmaker’s assistant crawling all around her, measuring, the other women clustered on the chaise longue, examining fashion books.
The dressmaker arranged a profusion of materials across the bed for Laura to choose from—because, as Tessa pointed out, while Laura was still in mourning, it would not be terribly long before she could move to half mourning, and wasn’t this light shade of purple luscious?
Laura was at first reluctant to order so many clothes at once; it would be a large expense, and really, she had no need of so many. She had to remind herself that she no longer had to watch pennies, and, given his frequent comments, James was more than willing for her to buy new frocks. Still, she could not be as extravagant as Tessa urged.
Even Patricia was convivial as they bent their heads over the drawings of elegant dresses and discussed bustles and bows and trains. And since Tessa decreed that all of them must order something new for the ball, it was a cheerful group that went down to supper that night.
Preparations for the party went on apace. Laura had wondered how they could possibly need three weeks to put on a ball, but after she saw the frequency with which Tessa changed her mind, she understood why. Laura was content to leave the other women to it. She preferred a walk in the garden or a quiet hour alone with a book or visiting Abby and the baby. Most of all, she preferred spending time with James.
It was this new closeness with her husband, not the prospect of a grand party nor the anticipation of a new wardrobe, that wreathed her days in happiness. While a walk in the garden was pleasant, it became so much more if James strolled with her, holding her hand or draping an arm over her shoulders, stopping now and then to steal a kiss.
James insisted that Laura learn how to ride, for he had in mind to buy her a horse, so they spent part of each morning on horseback. When he first announced his intention, Laura had a few qualms. James, she feared, would be an impatient teacher who required perfection, and she not only had never ridden but was faintly uneasy around horses.
However, he turned out to be surprisingly easygoing, more apt to smile at her mistakes than to lecture. When she expressed her surprise, James looked taken aback, then gave her a wry smile. “Am I really such a tyrant?”
“No. A bit impatient. And perhaps not entirely given to sympathy.”
“Mm. Not entirely.” They rode on in silence for a moment, then he said, “You think I expect too much from people.”
“No. Actually, I think it’s just the opposite. You expect very little of people.”
“And I am rarely disappointed.”
“There. You see? That is just what I mean. You don’t demand that others be responsible; you don’t even assume they could be. You are so good at everything.” He snorted derisively, and Laura frowned at him. “You are. You told me yourself that you understand numbers.”
“Well, yes, I’m good at that. Business things. Not feelings.”
“No, you are rather leery about those. But it’s not merely numbers. You’re good at anything mental. You’re well read; you can debate on numerous issues.”
“Not a habit that necessarily makes one a welcome companion, I fear.”
“You know a great deal about art and music. Look at you; you even ride well. I suspect you waltz perfectly.”
He shrugged. “I manage to get around the floor.”
“You demand perfection in what you do. But you set such a low bar for everyone else that they are failures from the start. You don’t ask for affection or even friendship from anyone. Indeed, it’s only those who force it on you like Graeme whom you will admit into your affections.”
“Graeme. Of course.” His lips twitched in irritation. “But then Graeme is perfect, isn’t he?”
“Don’t try to distract me. We’re not talking about Graeme. We’re talking about you.”
“I am well aware of that fact,” he retorted drily.
“Have you ever expected Patricia to be anything but silly and flighty? Or for Claude not to be envious? Have you ever asked him for help or advice?”
“No. Why would I?”
“Because he’s your brother.”
“He’s not—”
“Don’t tell me he’s not your brother. So what if you have a different father? You have the same mother. You grew up in the same household. You’re brothers.”
“You think he wouldn’t have tried to murder me if only I’d told him not to?” He raised his brows in cool inquiry.
“First of all, you don’t know that he is the one who did it.” Laura began to tick her points off on her fingers. “Second, that supercilious tone of yours won’t deter me. Third—” She let out a little shriek as his arm lashed out and clamped around her waist, pulling her off her horse and onto his.
“Last, I know that there’s no way I can win an argument with you except this . . .” He kissed her.
Laura made no objection, merely twined her arms around his neck and enjoyed his kiss. When he lifted his head from hers, she smiled up into his eyes. “That’s not winning; that’s just delaying.”
James began to laugh. “I surrender.” He kissed her again, and after that, all other thought fled.
It was the way many conversations between them ended. Whether they argued or laughed or teased, heat and hunger were never very far beneath the surface for them. But later, as they rode home, James said, “What of Walter? How is it I have failed him?”
“You haven’t failed him.” Laura reached out to lay her hand on his arm. “You haven’t failed any of them. Sir Laurence left you with a great deal of responsibility, and you have done everything you could to live up to that trust he had in you. You aren’t to blame for whatever might be amiss with them. I only meant that you have shouldered too much, perhaps, and not left enough of their burden on them.”
“Walter was still a lad when Sir Laurence died. I never knew what to do with him.” He glanced at her. “If only I had been wise enough to marry you then, no doubt he would have come out better.”
“There’s nothing wrong with Walter. And no one can blame a young man for not knowing what to do with a stripling boy. He admires you, James.”
“Walter?” James looked startled. “He scarcely talks to me.”
“He is, I think, a little in awe of you. He’s not a confident young man, and I think he’s afraid of displeasing you.”
“If he was so afraid of that, one would think he would try harder to stay in school. I don’t understand him. He’s not unintelligent. He used to always have his nose in some book or other.”
“I get the impression he’s bored.”
“School is always boring.”
Laura laughed. “Not all his subjects bore him. He likes history. But he’s uninterested in most of the others.”
“It’s clear he’s not destined to be a scholar, but I cannot see that he has the slightest aptitude for anything else, either. He hasn’t any sense for money. He’ll buy a book or go to a play when he hasn’t enough left of his allowance to eat. He’ll lend money to anyone with a sad story.”
“He has a good heart.” Laura paused, then took the plunge. “He wants to write books.”
“He what?” If she had hoped to startle him, she had more than succeeded. “Books? History books?”
“Stories set in the past, certainly, but more . . . tales of derring-do.”
James stared at her blankly. “Good Gad.” He absorbed the news and let out a laugh. “Walter? Really? Sir Walter Scott sort of tales? Stevenson?”
“Dumas. Yes.”
“Who would have thought? He was ever the most timid of us.”
“I gather it’s more the thinking of it than the doing he enjoys.”
He gave her a considering look. “He has come to you, I take it, to intercede? He’d like to leave university and take up residence in a garret in London and write?”
“He didn’t ask me for intercession, and I doubt he wants to live in an attic anywhere, but yes, he would love to leave university. Writing books seems to be what he’s interested in, at least at the moment. He is still young.”
They rode the rest of the way in silence, but after they dismounted and were strolling toward the house, James said, “Have you read Walter’s stories? Are they any good? Can he do it?”
“As for ‘can,’ he already has written two, as well as some shorter pieces.”
“Two? Really?”
Laura nodded. “I enjoyed them. As to whether or not he will find someone to publish them or becomes a famous author, I don’t know that I can judge. I’m not sure that’s really the point. It’s what he wants to do.”
James took her hand. “Tell me, my wise Laura, what should I do?”
Laura glanced up at him and was surprised to see the uncertainty in his face. “That’s up to you and Walter, isn’t it?”
“You have no opinion?” He cocked a disbelieving eyebrow. “There’s a first.”
“My opinion is that you should talk to Walter. Find out for yourself what he thinks, how he feels. What would mean the most to him is for you to pay heed to him. He would appreciate knowing you are more interested in him than in his record at school.”
“I don’t give a damn about his school record. Or how he lives, really. I merely hate to see him fritter away his life, playing the fool.”
“Telling me that does little good, since I am not Walter.”
“Bloody hell, Laura, you know I have no facility with people.”
“You’re able to talk to me well enough.”
He grimaced. “That’s because of you, not me.”
“Flattering as that is, I don’t think it’s true. I think it’s that with me you are more yourself.”
“That makes absolutely no sense.” But he was smiling down at her as he said it.
“Doesn’t it?” She sparkled up at him.
They had slowed as they walked, and now he pulled her to a stop and bent to give her a hard, quick kiss on her mouth. When he lifted his head, he sighed and said, “And now, I suppose I must talk to Walter.”
His hand tightened around hers for an instant, then he turned and walked up the steps and into the house.
Laura watched him go.
“A tender scene.”
She lifted her head at the sound of the woman’s brittle voice and saw Patricia sitting on the shadowed terrace. Determined to be pleasant, Laura smiled and strolled over to her.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Salstone.”
“You might as well call me Patricia. Clearly we’re going to be stuck here together forever.”
“Surely not that long.” Laura smiled. “But it would be nice to be Patricia and Laura, not Mrs. Salstone and Lady de Vere.”
Patricia gazed off into the garden, not looking at Laura, as she said in a quiet voice, “James seems . . . happy.”
“I hope he is.”
“What about you?” Patricia narrowed her eyes at Laura. “Are you happy? Is this what you wanted? Or did you hope he’d die?”
Laura started to snap back an angry retort, but caught herself. “I never hoped for James’s death. I’m not sure what I wanted or expected. I didn’t envision the life I have now. But, yes, I am happy.”
She refrained from adding “far happier than you,” but there was no need to; the truth hovered in the air between them.
Patricia’s mouth pursed into its usual pout. “James loves you.” There was an almost wistful note in her voice. “The way Graeme loves that American.”
Laura’s heart squeezed in her chest. She managed to say, “I would like to think he holds me in regard.”
Bidding the other woman a quick good-bye, Laura turned and walked on to the house. Her thoughts tumbled wildly about in her head. Did James love her?
There were times when she thought so, when he made love to her with such tenderness that she almost cried or when he turned and saw her approaching and a smile broke across his face like the sun rising. But he had never come close to expressing anything more than the assertion that she was beautiful. Of course, pulling a confession of love from James would probably require torture. He was so closed off, his emotions shielded behind an impenetrable wall, that she sometimes feared James could never love her. And what was she to do then?