Blossom Time (6 page)

“Lower your voice!” she said.

“But why on earth would you do a thing like that? You have always lived at Apple Hill.”

“Yes, as its mistress the past several years. When Dick marries, I shall be reduced to little better than a pensioner. I have some money of my own, enough to hire a flat.”

“What of Sukey?”

“She will stay at home and have a governess, of course. There was never any talk of my giving her lessons.”

“I think you are behaving rashly. Surely you and Annabelle can rub along without coming to cuffs in a house that size. It has dozens of rooms.”

“There speaks the voice of inexperience. And besides,” she added with a new twinkle in her eye, “I should love to live in London.”

When Lady Amanda’s advances became a little hotter than Sylvester could handle, he rose and moved toward Harwell and Rosalind, where he immediately collared the conversation and brought it back to his favorite subject. With nothing but another lecture on poetry to look forward to, the guests began to speak of a busy day on the morrow as soon as the tea had been drunk.

“Lord Sylvester must be fatigued after his trip,” Harwell threw in, although his houseguest was by no means inclined to drowsiness. He seemed ready to prose on for hours.

Sylvester and Harwell accompanied the dinner guests to the front door. “What time will be convenient tomorrow, Miss Lovelace?” Sylvester asked.

Harwell listened fretfully. Had this dull scald of an evening not been enough to show Roz what her new fellow was like? Tearing after Lady Amanda for half the time and delivering his screeds the other half. No wonder he was so thin; he didn’t even stop talking to eat.

“Elevenish?” Rosalind suggested, with every appearance of eagerness.

“Fine. We’ll work out an outline for your autumn poems. You may count on half a dozen pages.”

“When will you come to Merton Hall to look at the Donne manuscript, Lord Sylvester?” Lady Amanda asked. “Let us make it tomorrow evening. I have a few appointments during the day.” The leer of invitation was in her eyes.

An evening visit was fraught with peril. Sylvester blushed and said, “So kind of you, but I’m afraid I shall be leaving tomorrow afternoon. I am on my way home to Astonby. Papa is not well.”

“Pity,” she said, and drew him a little away from the others. “I so seldom get an opportunity to meet a poet. I was hoping I might involve myself in some manner in your magazine. Oh, not as a contributor! I fear that is not where my talents are,” she added, allowing her wicked eyes to suggest her particular talents. “As an investor, perhaps,” she said leadingly. “One likes to do her bit for the arts.” This was added to let Sylvester know she did not actually expect any monetary dividends from her investment.

“How very kind! Perhaps I could stay a day longer and drop Papa a note.”

“We’ll be in touch, then,” she said, and patted his fingers familiarly before striding out the door with a predatory smile on her face.

Harwell was thoroughly annoyed with his houseguest. To avoid coming to blows with him, he suggested that Sylvester take this opportunity of viewing his library while he tended to some accounts in his study. Once in the handsome oak-lined room, however, he ignored the thick leather-bound accounts and sat, frowning at a sketch of Drayton Abbey as it had looked before it was confiscated by Henry VIII and given to a previous lord of Harwell. He thought of life at the hall without Rosalind living nearby, and the frown grew deeper.

He would miss her. She was as knowledgeable as any gentleman about estate matters and had always taken a keen interest in his doings—commiserating with him during his troubles, rejoicing at his triumphs, and aiding him out of his personal difficulties, which usually involved women. It was nice to have a female friend with whom one could be so comfortable. If she were to marry some local fellow, it would be bad enough, but this freakish notion of removing to London permanently, and under the auspices of that demmed popinjay Sylvester, was sheer folly.

Was he being damnably selfish? Perhaps he didn’t know Roz as well as he thought he did. He had never had the slightest suspicion that she was interested in poetry. Odd she had never mentioned it. He realized, then, that it was always his interests that they discussed. He had never really bothered to get to know her. He had just taken for granted that she would always be there. Life would be different—lacking something—without her.

In Dick’s carriage, a different matter was under discussion.

“You should have Lord Sylvester to dinner before he leaves, Dick,” Annabelle said as they drove home. “He is so gentlemanly.”

It seemed an unlikely conclusion for her to have reached, but Rosalind was pleased. “Yes, we really should,” she said. “He is being so helpful to me. He is seeing about a flat for me in London.”

“So odd to think of you as writing poetry,” Annabelle said. “I believe I was a little hasty to dismiss Lord Sylvester from consideration as a potential suitor, Roz. The son of a marquess is bound to be well to grass. I should think you would enjoy London. So exciting compared to Croydon.”

Rosalind recognized this as an effort to get her bounced out of Apple Hill, but as the ladies were of a mind, they continued to press the notion of a dinner party.

Before Miss Fortescue was dropped off at her door, it had been settled that Dick would host a dinner party the next evening. The guest list was not settled, but Rosalind was quite determined that Lady Amanda would not be invited.

What she wanted was a few guests who actually appreciated poetry and could discuss it knowledgeably with Sylvester, but as she mentally scanned her party list, she came to the sorry conclusion there was not a single poetry lover among them. It firmed her resolve to move to London.

Chapter Six

As Rosalind didn’t have time to rearrange the neckline of another gown before Sylvester’s call the next morning, she wore the one she had transformed for his first visit, with a different shawl to alter its appearance. The prospect of her burgeoning career, the remove to London, and Sylvester’s admiration combined to act like a tonic on her spirits. A smile hovered at the corners of her lips and lit her eyes. She looked, and felt, five years younger as she fussed in front of the gilt-framed mirror in the saloon, giving her hair a final pat before his call.

Her glowing smile dimmed somewhat when she saw Lord Harwell’s broad shoulders looming behind Sylvester in the saloon doorway. Sylvester smiled and came forward, while Harwell lurked behind like a shadow, frowning at her.

Being in a poetical frame of mind, she was taken by the idea that Sylvester’s blond radiance might stand for a symbol of goodness and light against the menace of Harwell’s dark hair and swarthy coloring. She had never considered Harwell a menace before, but she sensed he was against her remove to London and might try to prevent it.

Sylvester raised her fingers to his lips. “ ‘Full many a glorious morning have I seen’—but none have given me such pleasure as seeing you again, Miss Lovelace.” Then he made a deep, playful bow.

She enjoyed the attention, but would have enjoyed it more had Sylvester come alone. She felt a little foolish with Harwell scowling in the background.

After greeting Sylvester, she said, “Harry, I didn’t realize you meant to come this morning. Was there a special reason?” He often called to discuss parish or church business with her or Dick. If that was the case, she might palm him off on Dick.

“I didn’t realize I needed a reason other than friendship to call,” he said with a mocking grin.

“Of course not, but Lord Sylvester and I had planned to discuss my work this morning, as he has to leave soon, you know. I fear we will bore you.”

“How could I be bored in such stimulating company?” he said, and walked toward the sofa.

She gave him an impatient look, then turned to Sylvester. “As it’s such a fine day, I had thought we might have our discussion in the garden.”

“Excellent! Perfect! It would be sacrilege to stay indoors on such a morning. ‘Flowers to strew our way and bough of many a tree.’ “ He took her arm and she led him out to the garden, while he showered her with more floral quotations, and Harwell listened, occasionally shaking his head and rolling his eyes in amusement.

“I need not inquire who is the muse of this bower of bliss,” Sylvester said, as they wandered arm in arm through clouds of roses. Petals covered the ground like a carpet. Their perfume hung heavy in the air.

“I do take an interest in the roses,” she admitted, blushing.

He picked one of the Provence roses that were a feature of the garden and held it to her cheek. “I see where the rose got its lovely soft petals,” he said.

With Harwell’s scalding eye on her, she replied woodenly, “That one is a deal pinker than my complexion, I think.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that, Miss Lovelace,” Sylvester replied archly. “I think that pretty blush you are wearing is quite Provencal—not to be mistaken with provincial.” Then he laughed at his own sort of pun.

Sylvester soon deduced it was Harwell’s presence that interfered with his
à
suivie
flirtation and changed the subject.

He looked all around and said, “What an inspiration this magical spot must be for you, Miss Lovelace. One wonders how you could tear your eyes away from it all to get down to the business of writing. And now—alas!—we must proceed to business as well.

“For the autumn poems, I hoped for a continuation of your theme of the cycle of life: the rich harvest of summer—paralleled, of course, with the Age of Reason—followed by the decline of human hopes and aspirations as the sun’s diurnal visits shorten, plunging us into ever longer periods of darkness. This will call up a collateral memory of the Dark Ages, with the decline of learning and all cultural endeavor. We really ought to have begun with autumn—the sleep of reason, advancing to winter’s symbol of the Dark Ages, on to spring’s Renaissance, and so on, which you have already done so marvelously in your
Blossom Time
poems. When the oeuvre is collected into a book we shall give the seasons their proper order.”

Rosalind was overwhelmed by this casual mention of her contributing four sets of poems. Why, she would be that honored figure, a regular contributor! She was particularly excited by the idea of a book. It was a heavier burden than she had anticipated. How was she to learn enough history and philosophy to tell the story of mankind through flowers in a few months? Sylvester had imagined her simple nature poems into a whole philosophy, and presumably the meaning of her falling leaves and shorter days would be similarly expounded by him in his critique.

Harwell listened with only half an ear. His greater interest was to learn what plans Sylvester had for Rosalind’s remove to London. When, after a deal of poetic discussion, this topic arose, he listened closely.

“What of the flat you mentioned?” she asked Sylvester, after the
Camena
business had been settled.

“I shall discuss that with Papa when I go to Astonby. I know he has a block of flats on Glasshouse Street. I doubt they are all rented yet as he has been having them painted and repaired. They ought to be quite comfortable, and the location is good.”

“What sort of rent would he charge?” she asked.

With Harwell hovering close by, Sylvester answered vaguely. “That would depend on how many rooms you require. How many people will there be, besides yourself? How many servants would you be taking?”

“Only two servants, I think. A footman and a general servant who can clean and do some cooking. I shan’t take a groom or carriage. I can hire a carriage when I need one. I would like to take my mount.”

Harwell assumed she would also take a female companion to act as chaperon. Every atom of his body disliked the scheme, yet when he saw how happy Rosalind was, how radiant, he realized that he was being selfish. He should be happy for her. But he didn’t intend to let Lord Sylvester monopolize her entirely. He was indebted to Roz for dozens of past favors.

He said, “It sounds a happy arrangement. It will do you the world of good, Roz. I shall be sure to call when I am in London and introduce you to some of my friends. You mustn’t keep your nose to the grindstone night and day. You will want to socialize. Pity you haven’t made your curtsy at St. James’s, but there are still plenty of do’s you could attend. I know your love of dancing. There are the theaters as well, concerts, exhibitions, and so on.”

“Thank you, Harry,” she said, surprised and pleased at his sudden volte-face.

He studied her flushed face for a moment, and she met his gaze steadily. When he spoke, his voice held a new tone of gentleness, almost regret. “It is I who should thank you for a hundred past kindnesses, which we shan’t go into at the moment. I am in your debt.”

Sylvester sensed a conspiratorial note creeping into the conversation. What “past favors” were these that could not be discussed in front of him? Had Rosalind been Harwell’s mistress? It was possible. Harwell’s reputation with the ladies was pretty well known, and Miss Lovelace, living so close, must have been a strong temptation. She was no girl—must be a quarter of a century. Harwell’s gaze seemed still to hold some echo of tender love as he studied her. Yes! They had been lovers. But the affair was over now, and the lady was available. An older lover would be all the crack. Lady Oxford certainly hadn’t done Byron’s romantic reputation any harm.

It was odd that Lord Harwell had invited him to stay at Drayton Abbey. Harwell had insisted on accompanying him this morning as well. Sylvester soon concluded that there had been an affair, it had ended without rancor, and Harwell was now trying to ease Miss Lovelace gently out of his life.

“You have only to ask if you have need of anything,” Harwell was saying. “You mentioned taking your mount. You can stable it with my cattle, if you like.”

Sylvester walked on a few paces, pretending to admire the flowers, but he could still hear them.

“I hadn’t considered all those details,” she replied. “Yes, I would like to be able to ride—but then I would need a groom.”