Chapter Seventeen
When the Season began in April, Bertie put off leaving for London. He was comfortable at home with his family and cataloging Ian’s Egyptian relics and had no wish to upset matters by seeing Lady Catherine again. Dating from the time of the ball, her name was linked again with that of Cumberwell in the gossip columns.
Lord C— visits Lady C— in Somerset. Rekindling the flame?
Lord C— waltzes with Lady C— at Lady H—’s ball. Miss A— in seclusion?
Lord C— escorts Lady C— to the East End where she reads to the poor.
He dreaded the Morning Post but couldn’t keep his eyes from running over the society page. Expecting any day to read that Miss Anderson had cried off her engagement to Cumberwell, he decided to take his family on holiday.
He spent April traveling to and visiting Stonehenge, then down into Cornwall for ten days by the seaside. The twins were enchanted by the drama of the crashing waves as seen from the cliffs. Daily, they trod down the cliff paths to the beach, where Bertie taught the eager children to construct sandcastles and to swim, even though the water was cold.
Though he avoided the newspapers, the cliffs and crashing waves reminded him too much of Dorset and Lady Catherine. He tried to cure himself of the memory, but it stayed stubbornly intact. Never had he opened his heart the least bit to a woman. But her sea-green eyes haunted him with their guileless yet penetrating gaze. He remembered her full lips, the softness of her skin, her hand in his at Lady Clarice’s. His former hopes were too new and surprising to overcome the knowledge of his inferior birth and his suspicions of her lingering attachment to Cumberwell.
And that deadly sentence—“He thinks you aspire to marry me!”
He knew that Marianne guessed at his state of mind. Often, he would catch her studying him, but he tried to guard his thoughts. Over the years, he had cultivated the art of concealing whatever emotions plagued him. But his sister had known him all those years, and so she alone could guess what went on behind his appearance of reserve.
One evening as they sat watching the sunset over the sea from the terrace of their hotel, she said, “Bertie, do you not intend to go up to London at all this Season?”
“I haven’t made up my mind,” he said. “It is pleasant being with you and the children.”
“I can read the scandal sheets, too, you know. Do you really think that Lady Catherine would take Lord William back after the humiliation she has suffered?”
Annoyed to have his deepest worry put into words, he replied, “Who knows what the woman will do? She seems to enjoy his company well enough.”
“None of those reports, if you can call them that, sound like she was seeking his company. Rather the reverse.”
“She had a deep connection to him. They were engaged. If you had seen how blue deviled she was when I met her, you would understand my worries.”
“Maybe I did not see her then, but I saw her when you showed up at her ball. Her whole countenance lit up. She was exceedingly pleased to see you. Do you know what I think, Bertie?”
Marianne did not usually pry into his thoughts this way. She knew he didn’t like to discuss his emotions. “I can’t imagine,” he said, trying to dampen her mood.
“I have thought for years that you have let our mother have too much sway over you.”
“Mother?” he scoffed. “She has been gone these ten years!”
“But she left her mark. Do you realize that until I married Ian, you always tried to protect me? I know that I felt quite shy of my own emotions after living through Mother’s violent turns and her scathing tongue. When I was first married to Ian, I would take any kind of behavior from him rather than quarrel.” She smoothed her dress under her hands. “Not that we had much reason to quarrel. But I could not even bring myself to make the slightest wave in our dealings together. Ian accused me of being taciturn. Then one day he behaved in a perfectly odious way, merely to have me call him out. It was the most difficult thing I ever did. Little by little, he led me to see that he was not going to abandon me or explode at me if we differed.”
For a moment, she paused and put a hand on his sleeve. “You are afraid of your own feelings, Bertie. You keep yourself under lock and key. The only people who know you at all are Tony and Beau. And me, of course.”
He locked his jaw against her words, but she continued, “You do not have to like it, but you must admit that I know you best. Until the advent of Lady Catherine in your life, you have had no use for women at all. I do not know how she got under your guard, but she did. And now, because of assumptions that may not even be correct, you are pushing her out of your life.”
Bertie thought about this. Was Marianne right? Was he retiring from the lists too soon? He had never been so affected by a woman. He knew enough to know that in actuality, Lady Catherine was nothing like his mother. She was no heartless jade with an ungovernable temper and no thought for anyone but herself.
But his heart had never before been in danger. That meant he had never had so much to lose.
* * *
When the family returned to Oxfordshire, he extended an invitation to his friends and their wives to visit him there. After much thought, he had decided to take Beau and Tony into his confidence. He knew that he could count on their advice. He wished to see if a man’s perspective would agree with that of Marianne.
To his disappointment, Tony replied that he was committed to a week at the horse races at Newmarket, and Beau was too much involved at the Foreign Office to get away just then. The Wellinghams did, however, extend an invitation to Bertie and his family to join them at their house in Town for a fortnight.
Since Bertie hadn’t rented his customary set of rooms for the Season, and since it occurred to him that it would be a nice change for Marianne to visit London, he considered the invitation.
Hadn’t he been shamefully self-absorbed? Since Penelope was increasing and not feeling the thing, she would no doubt enjoy female company, especially with Beau so engaged. And Marianne had been in seclusion for too long. The twins were also at the age where they could enjoy London and many of the enticements it offered.
But two weeks would be long enough. There was no need to stay longer. Though he didn’t admit it to himself, something in him acknowledged that he should know where he stood with Lady Catherine in that length of time.
Marianne was delighted with the invitation. Gweet and Warrie had never been to London and asked him nonstop questions about its variety of entertainments. They decided to make the journey the first week in May.
* * *
“Uncle Bertie, I have never seen such a place!” exclaimed Gweet as they rode through Mayfair with its grand parks and houses. “Why, it is even larger than Bath!”
“It is that,” said Bertie as they pulled up in front of Wellingham House.
Penelope was very glad to greet them in her grand blue sitting room overlooking Green Park. “Oh, my dears, I am so happy you have come! Here is Arabella, Lord Wellingham’s sister. Arabella, meet Lady Deveridge and her children.”
Marianne spoke. “Marguerite and Warren, this is Lady Wellingham and Miss Saunders. Children, make your bows.”
Warrie bowed.
“We are actually called Warrie and Gweet, my lady,” Gweet said as she curtsied.
“Oh! I am so excited that you have come!” exclaimed Arabella. “We have been so dull with my brother always at the Foreign Office.”
She led the children upstairs to the nursery with promises of tea and cakes. Marianne and Bertie took seats by the fire. It was a very blustery day.
“We will have tea in a moment,” said Penelope. “And now that we are practically family, I must insist you call me Penelope.”
This comment was addressed to Marianne, who said, “I am Marianne. We are so grateful for your hospitality. I had despaired of getting Bertie to London this year, but we have had a very nice holiday in Cornwall.”
“Oh! I have always longed to go to Cornwall,” said Penelope. “I grew up in Northamptonshire. We took our holidays on the east coast. Not nearly as warm!”
Tea was brought in. As she poured it out, their hostess said, “We have the Fotheringills’ ball this evening, if you are not too tired from traveling.”
“Oh! That sounds lovely to me. I have missed London balls,” said Marianne. “Shall you go, Bertie?”
He looked from one woman to the other.
Will Lady Catherine be there? he longed to ask.
“Yes, I think I am sufficiently recovered, two days in a carriage with twins notwithstanding. Will Beau attend?”
“I am hoping he will,” said Penelope. “He knows you are to arrive today, so I believe he will make the effort.”
* * *
Beau did arrive that evening, and in time for dinner, too. The children were invited to take the meal in the dining room and were only slightly daunted at the presence of Lord Wellingham. Managing to quell their exuberance, they discussed their desire to visit the Tower, Astley’s Amphitheatre, as well as Madame Tussaud’s wax museum. However, when Bertie announced that he had hired a couple of ponies for them, their high spirits broke through.
“Oh! That is capital, Uncle Bertie!” said Warrie, his eyes alight.
“Ohh,” squealed Gweet. “What are their names?”
“Salt and Pepper,” said Bertie.
Later, when the children had gone up to the nursery to prepare for bed and the ladies had retired to the drawing room, his host poured the port and said to Bertie, “If I didn’t know better, I would think you were trying to avoid the Season, old boy.”
“I decided Marianne needed to come to Town,” Bertie said.
“How long has it been since she got the news about Deveridge?”
“About eighteen months. She was devastated. But she’s begun to regain her spirits. The ball at Westbury Castle was her first social event. Did her a vast amount of good.”
Beau surveyed him wordlessly. After years of acquaintance with the man, Bertie knew he was waiting for him to unburden himself.
He cleared his throat and plunged ahead. “Any of the gossip about Lady Catherine true?”
“I can’t say, really. I don’t think it has helped the matter that you have stayed away.”
Bertie sighed. “I don’t suppose it has made any difference. Her brother thinks I’m beneath her notice.”
“You’ve never met the old marquess, my friend. His is the opinion that matters. I don’t imagine he feels too kindly toward Cumberwell. I know Redmayne doesn’t.”
“It’s irrelevant if it’s Cumberwell she fancies,” Bertie declared.
“You’ll just have to find out, won’t you?”
* * *
The Fotheringills’ ball always enjoyed large attendance, and this year was no different. His own invitation, one of many such, had been forwarded by post to Oxfordshire and he remembered receiving it. Bertie had dressed with unusual care in his gray jacket and pantaloons with a pale-blue waistcoat. His hair had been a bit too long, but Beau’s valet had seen to it, and now he wore it in his favorite windswept style.
He told himself there was always the cardroom if Lady Catherine proved uninterested. After passing through the receiving line, he began to circulate. There was no Lady Catherine that he could see, but the room was so crowded . . . Ah! There she was.
But she was talking to none other than Lord William Cumberwell. He could not read the emotion on her face, for she was too far away.
Bertie made for the cardroom.