Chapter Eleven
Adam was delayed from attending Brentworth’s garden party by the arrival of a letter in the afternoon post. Upon seeing the handwriting, he sent his valet away while he read it.
His mother’s hand showed as steady as ever, but her words proved less comforting.
My dear son,
Your last letter troubled me. Your questions indicate that you are persisting in your intention to learn about your father’s death. I had thought, incorrectly it appears, that your years here had dulled your anger. I had also thought that upon returning to England you would conclude it best to allow his spirit to rest in peace.
I was unaware of the rumors of which you have now informed me, that he gave aid to Napoleon’s last army. Certainly no one whispered them to me. Nor did he confide in me, but he would have never wanted me to share the extreme distress such rumors would bring him. Although you have now given me the likely reason for the death he chose, I find that it only fills me with disquiet and regret, so I am not thanking you.
As to your query about what kind of support he might be thought to have given France, if not money, I have no answer. That you ask implies that you believe he may indeed have done this, and that pains me deeply. I trust you know in your heart that he was not that kind of man. Nor, other than me, did he have any special sympathies for my people, so he had no reason to betray his home.
As for the Earl of Marwood, that sorry war had been waged for years before I married. Such men normally draw their sabers over honor, a woman, or land. I never attempted to learn what initially caused it. It was so far in the past that it had nothing to do with me, and learning that history would not end the acrimony.
Spring has come to Paris, and as always it alternates between glorious mornings and afternoon rain. I hope to see you soon. When England starts to bore you, as soon it must, I look forward to your visit or, hopefully, your renewed residence here. I have ensured that your own house is kept in good repair, and I always tell certain inquisitive ladies that you will be back soon.
He had assumed he could learn something from her. He would have never written to her about any of these questions otherwise. Instead he had distressed her to no good purpose.
Her gentle scolds were nothing new. Her desire that he leave the past alone was not either. For five years she had convinced him that the prudent path was the forward one. Whenever he would grow restless about his unfulfilled duty to his father’s name, a visit to her would soothe the turmoil trying to take hold of him again.
You should marry. Give the title an heir and give me grandchildren, and find happiness. He always thought she knew more than she said and kept it from him lest it only feed the dark turbulence that might one day get him killed. Now, when he had at least half the truth in his hands, she insisted she knew nothing at all.
He submitted to his valet’s final ministrations in a dull mood and dallied with other mail before setting off on his horse for Brentworth’s house.
Perhaps it was the sun that improved his spirits, or the gaiety of the small crowd milling about the large garden. Certainly the sight of Lady Clara did not hurt. She sat with her sister and Langford’s brother Harry on a bench in the center of the formal plantings nearest the house. Her sister wore the white muslin that they had ordered at the dressmaker’s that day. Since most of the girls also wore white, only the simplicity of the garment marked her as different.
Lady Clara also wore a dress commissioned that day. Although decorated by simple embroidery so subdued as to be almost invisible, its color made all the difference. In the clear light of day, that hydrangea hue appeared more vibrant than it had in the shop.
He walked to them. She had said not to call. She had not said not to speak to her. Not that he would have obeyed such a command anyway.
Harry noticed him first and hailed him with a happy greeting. Harry looked much like his older brother, only still rangy in the way of young men about twenty years in age. He also wore spectacles, the result of too much reading by candlelight over the years. Adam assumed that long after he and Langford were forgotten, some esoteric history tome written by Harry would live on in the libraries of the world.
“It is a fine day, is it not, Stratton?” Harry appeared drunk with delight. Since Lady Emilia did not look bored, things must be going well between them.
“Yes, very fine.”
“Most fine,” Lady Emilia said with a big smile.
“Indeed it is fine,” Lady Clara said without even a small one.
He availed himself of an open spot on the bench next to Lady Clara. She inched her rump closer to her sister and farther from him.
“You ladies are more beautiful than the blooms,” Adam said. “That color is very becoming, Lady Clara.”
“I thought it would do, under the circumstances.”
“I am sure you look forward to the day when you wear a variety of colors again. Blue, for example. Bright blue, to set off your lovely eyes and contrast with your hair.”
“She has such a garment,” Emilia said. “He might be describing your blue riding habit, Clara. It does flatter her, sir. No one could fail to admire her when she wears that habit and sits atop a fine horse.”
“I am sure,” Adam said.
Clara sucked in her cheeks.
Harry’s mood had dampened a bit upon Adam’s addition to their group. Now he brightened, as if struck by divine inspiration. “I spied a bed of tulips when I entered. Would you favor me with your company while I go take a look at it, Lady Emilia?”
Emilia turned hopeful eyes on her sister. Clara gave Harry a critical glance, then another over her shoulder. “I suppose a short stroll through the plantings would do no harm. Remember what I told you on our way here, Emilia. We do not want Grandmother scolding me for being an inept chaperone.”
Emilia walked off with Harry before she finished. She took advantage of the additional space to scoot farther away from Adam.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“Brentworth is one of my best friends. If you had not spent your first Seasons ignoring my existence, you would know that.”
“It entered my mind that he might be. Did you put him up to this? He does not entertain here often. I think the last time I was at this house was three years ago, before he inherited.”
“No one puts Brentworth up to anything. He decided on his own to do this.” Officially true, if not completely so. “Perhaps he has decided to entertain more and thought this small gathering would be a good start.”
“It came at a convenient time. It is a good start for Emilia too.” She looked over her shoulder again, to find her sister in the garden.
“Are you obligated to sit here the whole time?” he asked. “Is there some rule unknown to me that you cannot enjoy the sun and blooms if you are in mourning?”
“Of course not. It is just . . .” She looked around the garden and bit her lower lip. “I feel a little strange. I know all these people and yet feel removed from them all in a new way. As if they do not matter. As if I do not matter to them either.”
He knew that strangeness well. “You have been separated from them longer than you realize. Your father’s passing changes things too. We are all put in columns by others and get moved around as time goes by.”
“So I was previously in the Marwood daughter column, and now I am in the Marwood sister one?”
“Something like that.”
“This one is not as prestigious. I am now less interesting.”
“Perhaps less useful is a better way to put it.”
“My, you are cynical sometimes. I suppose that four years ago I was in the ingénue on the marriage market column, but that has changed now too. I am now in the spinster on the shelf column.”
“I would say you were in the mature woman who knows her own mind and self column.”
“That is generous of you. However we title it, I rather like this place.”
He gestured to the other guests. “I think they know that. It is perhaps another reason that you feel a strangeness with them.”
She stood. “If I am so comfortable with my mind and self, I should not allow others to make me feel strange. I think that I will be sociable for a spell.”
He watched her walk off and greet two ladies chatting nearby. He could tell that before anything more was said, those ladies expressed sympathy for her loss. That would probably happen with each person she met, since most would not have been at her father’s funeral in the country. He did not expect her to be sociable for too long.
He sought out Brentworth. He found him on the terrace, suffering a political harangue from the Viscount Weberly. Flushed and loud, the older man made pronouncement after pronouncement about the need to crush rebellions as they emerged and not wait for the niceties of legal action. Brentworth just listened, but when he saw Adam he used that as an excuse to extricate himself.
“I thought Weberly would never cease,” he said, steering Adam farther away and in the direction of the punch. “I long ago learned that it was a waste of breath to try to explain to minds like his that while it may be expedient to imprison demonstrators without trials, it was neither legal nor English.”
Weberly was not alone in advocating the government act in ways contrary to law and tradition. Fear motivated him and others. The French revolt still cast a long shadow, revived whenever unrest rumbled through the country. Since it roared at times now, Weberly and his ilk grew increasingly fevered in demanding action that would ensure their necks remained safe.
Brentworth procured two cups of refreshment from a footman manning the punch bowls. He handed one to Adam. “You will like this. It is a West Indian potion with a fair amount of rum. That other bowl’s content is sweet, typical, and lacking any fortification.”
“I am sure the ladies appreciate the choice.”
“You would think so. Several of them, however, have availed themselves of that which we drink, several times over. I am keeping my eye on one of them, lest she pass out cold before the afternoon is over.”
“Where is Langford?” Adam used the question as an excuse to cast his gaze around the garden until he spied Lady Clara.
“Out there somewhere, taking your advice rather too seriously to flirt with all the young girls.”
“He was born to flirt, and they are so appreciative that he cannot stop himself.”
“He had better make sure one of them does not drag him behind a shrubbery, or there might be hell to pay. Are these girls getting bolder, or am I getting older?”
“A bit of both, I think.”
“Speaking of flirting, where is your lady fair?”
“Over there beside the fountain, talking with Hollsworth and his wife.”
“Shouldn’t you be there too?”
“All in good time.”
“I suppose that first you need to assess the terrain before mounting an assault.”
“There will be no assault. I am a gentleman.”
“Call it what you will. As for the terrain, there is a delightful folly in the far northern corner, amidst that grove of fruit trees. A little temple to the goddess Diana. It is very cool back there, even on warm days, so it is unlikely to draw many of my guests.”
Adam eyed the fruit orchard in question. “I remember it, now that you remind me. The statue of the goddess is far nicer than one expects in a garden.”
“It is ancient Roman. I should probably move it to the gallery.”
“Lady Clara is a cultured woman. She probably would want to see it in its current location before you do.”
“Do you think so? Regrettably, I have all these guests to attend to and cannot direct her there. Perhaps you will tell her about it for me.”
“I will try to remember to do that, assuming she and I have cause to talk again.” He set down his glass, then headed down the terrace, toward the fountain.
* * *
Clara extracted herself from a lengthy discussion regarding the new fashion for very high necklines and spied the Earl of Hollsworth standing near the fountain. His countess smiled amiably in her direction, so she joined them.
Hollsworth stood very straight despite his advancing years. Thin white hair rose in wisps from his head. Thick spectacles caused his eyes to appear very small. He smiled a greeting while the diminutive, gray-haired countess welcomed her.
Hollsworth had been a friend of her grandfather and later her father. A quiet man, he observed more than contributed at social gatherings. Her father had told her once that Hollsworth’s retiring demeanor meant people often spoke without realizing he listened. Her father considered him one of the most well-informed peers as a result.
Lady Hollsworth gave Clara’s dress a thorough examination. “Well done. I am so glad to see that you and your sister have ventured out and chosen to put aside full mourning. Young women should not have an entire year removed from their budding lives, and I find it odd that such a custom is becoming fashionable. Don’t you agree, Charles?”
Lord Hollsworth just smiled and nodded.
Clara devoted her attention to the countess, flattering her own fashionable ensemble. She had just finished when the earl straightened even more, enough that it drew his wife’s attention.
“Oh, dear,” she murmured, looking past Clara. She glanced askance at her husband, whose face turned to stone. “Surely he is not coming here.”
Clara looked over her shoulder. The he in question was Stratton, who appeared to be walking in their direction.
“He is an old friend of Brentworth,” she said, even though the duke’s presence did not need explanation.
The earl’s jaw shifted. The countess peered up at him, concerned. “Why don’t you go admire the plantings, Charles.”
With a stiff nod, the earl walked away.
“Forgive us. However, my husband does not choose to converse with Stratton. Nor would he want to cut him directly. You can see the conundrum.”
“I see it clearly. I am not sure I understand, however.”
The countess kept her gaze on the garden between them and the house. Clara moved so she could see it too. Stratton took his time in his stroll, pausing to greet other guests, but remained on a line that would end with them.
“He came back for reason. Notice how the men all greet him too heartily but grow sober as soon as he passes. He has come to find someone to blame for his father’s rash act, I assume. My husband would like to avoid a discussion with him about all of that,” Lady Hollsworth said.
“Lord Hollsworth cannot be worried that the duke will challenge him. Stratton is not without basic decency and would never dare to do such a thing with a man of senior years, especially after a simple conversation.”
Lady Hollsworth’s eyebrows rose. “I am sure many think so, but one never knows. Also, you are an odd choice to be his defender. Several times over. I expected you to follow my husband so as to avoid being a party to the meeting about to occur.”
“My grandmother has decided we should make an effort to end that old argument. Since no one seems to remember what caused it, I suppose she is correct.”
“This gets more curious by the second. Is the dowager not feeling well these days? She is not a woman to develop a faulty memory for any other reason.” Since Stratton was almost upon them, she fixed a smile on her face as he approached. “Let your grandmother suffer his inquisition about those jewels, if she has decided to make peace. My husband does not want to find himself parrying Stratton’s questions.”
“What jewels?”
“Stratton! How kind of you to seek out an old woman.” Lady Hollsworth greeted him and made a curtsy.
He exuded charm that should put any woman at ease. “I could not pass on the chance to speak with you.”
“You had only to call, and the chance would have been yours sooner.”
“I will take that as an invitation. And Lord Hollsworth?” he asked. “He is well?”
“Most well. He was just here a short while ago but sought the refuge of the flower gardens when Lady Clara and I began chatting about dress fashions.”
“I am sorry to have missed him. Perhaps I will cross his path later.”
“He would be most agreeable if you did, I know.” She made a display of rising on her toes and searching. “I should find him, I suppose. Clara, you and I will talk again soon, I hope. Call on me.”
She strolled away, leaving Clara with the duke.
“That was a little rude of her,” Clara said.
“I counted on her leaving, so you and I could be alone.”
“I do not think that will last long with all these people here.”
“I am sure it will. No one here is seeking conversation with me.”
He knew the reactions that followed him as he walked by.
“You cannot like how the men treat you with caution. It is as if they refuse to accept you as one of them.”
“With my station, they must accept me. I knew it would take some time for my absence to be forgotten or my return to be understood. Let us take a turn, if you are in the mood for it. Then some of the other guests can sit on these benches around the fountain, which I do not think they will do if I remain in this spot.”
The benches had indeed emptied once he arrived. Clara agreed to a turn through the gardens.
She still could not understand how blasé he remained about the social slights. “Do you know why men like Hollsworth avoid you?”
He bent his head to sniff the blooms on a lilac bush. “Some worry I will take offense at something they say. If they do not dishonor me, offense would be impossible. Yet it concerns them.”
“Hollsworth certainly knows that even if he insulted you outright you would never challenge an old man. I said as much to the countess. She said he wants to avoid a conversation with you.”
He merely strolled on.
“Do you not mind that they all consider you dangerous?” She gestured broadly with her arm toward the rest of the garden.
“Do you as well? That would indeed wound me. I don’t care too much about the others.”
“I have not decided yet.” She lied. She did consider him dangerous. To her. It had nothing to do with duels or the past or any of the reasons everyone else treated him with caution. Even now, strolling along these garden paths, she was not her normal self. His proximity flustered her. Looking at him threatened to leave her tongue-tied.
Their path took them along the edge of an orchard abloom with flowers. “There is a folly in there,” he said. “A tiny domed Roman temple to the goddess Diana. The statue is antique.”
The fruit trees had not yet fully leafed. Sunlight dappled the paths beneath the branches. She thought she spied the dome. Joining Stratton when he ventured into the orchard did not concern her. They would probably come upon other guests among these apple trees.
The air cooled despite the splashes of sunlight. The folly stood in the far corner, near where the stone walls met. The marble goddess wore an animal skin and carried a quiver of arrows on her back. She bent to lace the sandal on a foot propped on a tree stump, against which her bow lay.
Clara mounted the three steps that circled the structure and passed through the arcade that held up the dome and framed the statue. “It is very realistic. The different textures have been depicted so accurately one thinks they will not feel like stone.” She ran her fingertips across the animal skin.
“It is probably early Roman. Brentworth’s father was a well-traveled man, with a keen eye for quality in art.”
She paced around the statue. He came into the folly, only he looked at her, not the goddess.
“You did not bring me here to admire this statue, did you?” she asked.
“I brought you here because you demanded I not call at your house.”
She turned to find him right behind her. Her heart rose, blocking her breath. Suddenly the orchard did not appear thin and open but instead dense and obscure. She could barely hear the sounds of the party in the open garden.
He lifted her chin with his fingers. “Had you not been so strict, I could have done this there.” He kissed her, softly at first but then more passionately. Sensations cascaded through her, so that she did not want to be at all strict right now.
He broke the kiss but kept his hand on her face. “I cannot allow you to spurn me, Clara. To deny this. I do not think you really want to either.”
She had been very sure of herself after their ride. Her mind had been most clear. Right now she could not remember what her thinking had been.
He spoke the truth, though. She did not really want to deny how alive she became when he kissed her. Considerations of his motivations ceased to matter then. She did not want to reject the pleasure or the flusters. She should, but she did not. She savored the way just seeing him excited her. She had dwelled within the memories of what happened on that hill for long spells ever since they last parted.
He kissed her again, and embraced her. The warmth of his body both comforted and entranced her. So good. Too good.
“If you repeat your command that I not call on you, I will have to pursue you into orchards and gardens all summer,” he murmured into her ear. “Discretion may become nigh impossible.”
Within her heady delight she vaguely noted that he had not stood down. He had warned her that first day that he never did.
Still, she should repeat her command. She should not do anything to encourage him. She should remember why these kisses were not only wrong but disloyal. Once this soulful intimacy ended, she surely would again care about all of that—
Sounds penetrated the silence around them. A giggle, and a man’s laugh. Not far away. Nearby, on the path.
Stratton abruptly released her and stepped out of the temple, leaving her alone with the goddess.
A beam of sunlight illuminated a white dress and blond head among the apple blossoms. With another giggle, Emilia stepped into the little clearing with the temple. Her companion’s face fell when he saw Stratton.
“Harry, how good of you to show Lady Emilia the way to this treasure,” Stratton said. “Her sister tried to find her before venturing here herself.” He pointed at Clara.
Harry saw Clara. So did Emilia. They both flushed.
Clara scolded herself while she fought to maintain her composure. In allowing the duke to once more bedazzle her, she had neglected her duty. Emilia was going to receive a very strong lecture on not being so stupid as to allow a man to get her alone like this.
“Come and see the statue,” she said. “It is impressive.”
Visibly relieved, Harry accompanied Emilia into the folly. They all admired the goddess together, then all walked back through the orchard and into the sunny garden.
Clara decided she and Emilia should take their leave. She dragged Emilia to Brentworth so they could thank their host. While they left, she saw Stratton near the benches, watching someone. Her gaze followed the line of his, directly to the Earl of Hollsworth.
Social niceties completed, she and Emilia settled into Theo’s coach for the ride to their respective homes.
“Did you have a good afternoon and enjoy yourself?” Clara asked, pointedly, as the necessary social lessons lined up in her mind.
“My afternoon was not nearly as enjoyable as yours, I think.” Emilia shot a meaningful look across the carriage cabin.
It was Clara’s turn to flush. She swallowed the long lecture she had intended to give her sister.