Candice Hern (4 page)

Her own thoughts were racing as well. Everything was going to change between them. He would move Clarissa into the house next door and would never climb over the balcony again. No wife would stand for her husband's climbing into another woman's boudoir. Would Clarissa allow their friendship to continue at all? Or was Marianne about to lose her closest friend?

She took the decanter and placed it on the candlestand beside his chair. Let him get roaring drunk if that's what he needed. Any man about to marry the giggling Miss Leighton-Blair would need fortification. Perhaps she would join him. It might help assuage the unexpected pang of sadness that threatened to overcome her.

Adam helped her move the pair of wing chairs so that the candlestand and its wine stood between them, within easy reach. She curled up in the big chair with her feet tucked to one side. He settled into the other chair and crossed one leg languidly over the other. It was the way they often sat here together, cozy and comfortable by the fire, once three of them, now only two. Would Clarissa make it three again? Marianne doubted it. She took a hearty swallow of claret.

"I must confess I am still a bit overwhelmed by this turn of events," she said. "I really had no idea you were seriously interested in Miss Leighton-Blair."

"I wasn't certain about it myself," he said. "She caught my eye last Season, to be sure, but when I spent more time with her in Wiltshire, my interest was definitely piqued."

"How did that trip come about?"

"You have listened to me complain for years now about having to endure my father's constant pleas for grandchildren. At Christmastime, he claimed to be at death's door, declaring loudly that his heart could go at any time. He said he wanted to die content in the knowledge that his name would continue through the sons he hoped I would sire."

"Poor man. Is he quite ill, then?"

Adam chuckled. "The man's heart is sound as a bell. He has the strength of a plow horse, the old devil. He was only trying to force my hand, and I decided it was time to stop fighting him and give him what he wanted. Besides, I have never intended to remain a bachelor my whole life. It was time I got serious about settling down."

"I would think the selection of a bride would be an equally serious business."

Adam gave a frustrated sigh. "It was. It is. I began to ponder who might be considered as a prospective bride when, quite serendipitously, I received the invitation to visit the Leighton-Blairs in Wiltshire."

"Her mother, no doubt, noted your interest last Season."

"Yes, I'm sure she did. And there is no need for that contemptuous tone of voice. Mrs. Leighton-Blair is no different from any other hopeful mama trying to secure a suitable match for her daughter. I was wide awake to her intentions. I was not entrapped, no matter what you may wish to believe. I was ... am, in fact, very much attracted to Clarissa, so I accepted the invitation, knowing full well what it implied. But I went to Wiltshire thinking she just might serve my purposes very nicely, and I discovered that to be true. She may not be clever or witty or given to elevated conversation, but she is very gentle and warm and amiable. She suits me, Marianne. I like her. She will make a fine wife, even if it is not a love match."

Did he really believe that? Was he so infatuated he could not see how it would end? Marianne feared he would not realize he'd made a profound mistake until it was too late. Perhaps it was already too late. A gentleman could not honorably break off a betrothal. It was one of the few advantages Society allowed women over men: the right to change one's mind.

It would do no good, therefore, to try and talk him out of it. The deed was done. Marianne would have to learn to live with it.

She frowned. "Even if it is not a love match, I hope you will at least try to love her, try to make a true partnership of this marriage. I cannot believe you would be happy without love and companionship."

He smiled. "I will visit you whenever I require sensible companionship."

But would his young wife allow him to do so?

She almost spoke her concern aloud, but kept her tongue between her teeth. She'd said enough already. If she continued to express her disapproval, it would only make things unpleasant between them. That was something she did not want to do, not when this might be one of the last times they would share a cozy evening together by the fire in her sitting room.

"What are your plans?" she asked, in as cheerful a tone as she could muster. "When is the big day?"

"We haven't yet discussed a date for the wedding. Clarissa wants to enjoy the Season first."

"You will be the busy escort, then."

He groaned. "I suppose so. But it is her right to enjoy one last carefree Season before settling down. Things will be different for her after the marriage."

Things would be different for all of them.

* * *

"You're not wearing your brooch today." Lavinia Nesbitt's brows knit together in a deep frown. She gave a little sniff and then returned her attention to the needlework in her lap.

Marianne silently cursed herself for forgetting the mourning brooch with David's golden hair woven in an intricate pattern beneath the glass. She always tried to wear it when visiting his mother. Damn. She ought to have remembered. Relations with her mother-in-law had been strained at best since David's death, which was a source of great sadness for Marianne, who had no other family of her own. She had no siblings and both her parents were dead. Lavinia Nesbitt had taken Marianne into her home after Marianne's father had died, and had provided a welcome haven of warmth and comfort. She would always be grateful for that.

There was no warmth or comfort anymore, however. Lavinia would never be convinced that Marianne was not somehow to blame for David's death. She believed that if Marianne had notified her more quickly of his illness, she could have rushed up to town from the estate in Kent and nursed him back to health. But it had happened too fast and there was nothing anyone could have done to save him. The putrid sore throat had brought on a debilitating fever, and he was gone within days. But Lavinia truly believed her presence would have made a difference, and no one could disabuse her of that notion.

"I'm sorry, Lavinia, but the brooch did not suit this particular dress, so I left it off today."

Lavinia let out a disdainful little huff. "If you still wore mourning instead of bright colors, it would suit well enough."

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Mother." Evelina Woodall, David's sister, was seated beside Marianne on the settee, and she reached over and gave her arm a reassuring pat. She was a few years older than Marianne and had the same fair good looks as her late brother. "It's been over two years. Marianne is far too young to swathe herself in black for the rest of her days."

Lavinia looked up and scowled at her daughter. The words "like you" hung unspoken in the air between them. William Nesbitt had left Lavinia a widow fourteen years ago, and she still dressed in the unrelieved black of full mourning. Marianne had felt the force of her mother-in-law's disapproval when she had changed to half-mourning a year after David's death. When she had retired her black gloves entirely after another six months, Lavinia had never forgiven her. She saw it as a betrayal of David's memory. The notion of betrayal, combined with her belief that Marianne was at least partially to blame for his death, along with her disappointment that Marianne had failed to produce a child to carry on David's blood, meant the two women who had once been close would never be so again.

"Besides," Evelina said, interrupting Marianne's reverie, "I would hardly call that lovely blue spencer a bright color. It's a fetching style, Marianne. Do you have a new modiste?"

"No, this is Mrs. Gill's design." She sent her sister-in-law a grateful look for changing the subject. "She still suits me, so I have seen no reason to seek out another dressmaker."

They spoke for several minutes on the latest fashions and fabrics, but Lavinia broke in, as she always did, to steer the conversation to a topic that involved David. She was determined that Marianne's weekly visits would remind her of her duty to David's memory.

"I trust," she said, "that David's gallery is making progress in locating paintings for the summer exhibition. I have sent orders for the Reynolds to be brought up from Kent. It was his favorite painting, you know. I think he would be pleased to have it displayed in his gallery."

Evelina laughed. "It is not David's gallery, Mother. It belongs to the British Institution."

"Of which he was a governor."

"Yes, along with several other connoisseurs. It was not his alone."

"But you are right, Lavinia," Marianne said. "He would be very pleased. He thought more highly of Reynolds than almost any other British painter, and always felt he was important enough to warrant a retrospective exhibition. And to have his favorite painting included will be a fine tribute. I have also been able to convince several other friends to send portraits from their country estates. It will be a wonderful exhibit."

"How unfortunate, then, that he did not live long enough to see it," Lavinia said, casting Marianne a withering look. "And I have no doubt that wretched Cazenove fellow spoke against the exhibit. Thank goodness the other governors are more of David's mind on such matters."

Marianne winced. David's mother had always disapproved of his friendship with Adam. Lavinia never understood the bond between them, never understood how someone so unlike David could have become his closest friend. And the fact that Adam had been with him when he died, and his own mother had not, only made her dislike him more.

"Adam has his own taste in art," Marianne said. "It is not the same as David's, to be sure, but it is a connoisseur's taste just the same." Adam was a passionate collector of modern art and a patron of several artists. His taste in art reflected the way he'd lived his life: impulsive, intuitive, slightly reckless. He loved the wild, frenzied paintings of Fuseli, and the restless movement of light and color in Turner's work. David's taste had been more conventional and analytic, just as his life had been more cautious and conservative. Poussin and Claude were his models of perfection; Benjamin West was his favorite contemporary artist. But each of the two friends has appreciated the other's eye for a good painting.

Marianne had become caught up in their passion for art and over the years had developed her own preferences. She had a partiality for the brushwork of Thomas Lawrence, but preferred watercolor paintings most of all. David had encouraged her interest by patronizing the best painters in watercolor and presenting her with frequent presents of their work. Though the public rooms of the Bruton Street house were adorned with the classical works David preferred, the walls of their private sitting room were filled with the watercolors of Payne and Girtin and Cotman and the Varley brothers.

"And remember," Marianne said, trying to improve her mother-in-law's perception of David's best friend, "that Adam endowed the Nesbitt Prize in David's honor. We must surely be grateful for that."

"It was a magnificent gesture," Evelina said. "Nothing could have been more appropriate."

David and Adam, both art-mad when they returned from a tour of the Continent during the brief peace of 1802, were among the founders of the British Institution, which had its own gallery in Pall Mall and hosted two major exhibitions of paintings each year. The spring exhibition provided a facility for living artists to display and sell their work. This was Adam's purview. The summer exhibition displayed old masters, David's passion, and students and amateurs were provided with an opportunity to study and make copies. The governors devised a series of prizes based on an idea once suggested by Reynolds — instead of painting laborious copies of old-master works, each student was asked to paint a companion piece. Prizes had been awarded since 1807, and last year the first Nesbitt Prize was added to the list.

Adam could not have better honored his friend.

"In any case," Lavinia said, "I look forward to the Reynolds exhibit, even though it will break my heart that David cannot be there to see it. When it opens, I trust you will lend me your arm, Marianne, so that we can both enjoy the legacy of David's gallery, and be reminded of his generosity and vision."

Evelina caught Marianne's eye and then lifted her own gaze to the ceiling in silent exasperation. She rose from the settee and said, "I must be off. I need to stop by the lending library and return a book. Will you walk with me, Marianne? I'd appreciate the company."

"Of course."

Marianne stood and shook out her skirts, grateful for an excuse to leave. While Evelina sought out a footman to retrieve their bonnets and shawls, Marianne bent over Lavinia and kissed her raised cheek. After a few parting words, she walked out the front door with her sister-in-law.

"I'm sorry Mother is still being so difficult," Evelina said as they walked along St. James's Square.

Marianne shrugged. "I have grown accustomed to her behavior."

"But it still hurts?"

Marianne sighed. "Yes, it does. I just wish she did not expect me to be a martyr to David's memory." For some reason, her mother-in-law's attitude was particularly aggravating today. It made her feel constrained and stifled, jittery and on edge. Marianne had the irrational desire to burst out of those constraints and do something reckless. Something rash.

Like acting on the Merry Widows' pact. She had not been able to get it out of her mind for the last few days. She still was not sure she could ever do such a thing as take a lover, or even if she wanted to do so. But the notion had grabbed hold of her and would not let go. She smiled to consider what Lavinia would think if Marianne acted on that silly pact.

"What else can you expect," Evelina said, "from a woman who's worn widow's weeds for fourteen years? Don't take her too much to heart, Marianne. No one else blames you for casting off your black dresses after a year. Any other widow would do the same."

"David often spoke with sadness, and even a bit of frustration, about your mother's inability to move on with her life. I like to believe he would not have wanted me to wear my widowhood like a shroud, as Lavinia has done."