Karen Harbaugh (4 page)

Mama began to entertain more; that is to say, she invited guests to dinner more than she had done. Any number of admirers who came to visit offered posies. Mama delivered most of these flowers to my room. She said that the visitors brought them for me, but I was sure they brought them so as to get in Mama’s good books rather than in concern for a girl just out of the schoolroom. After all, I believed most of them did not remember that she even had a daughter. I was sure of it when Mama apologetically presented me with a puzzle one of them had brought— something one would give to an infant rather than a seventeen-year-old young lady!

I was not surprised when I received a get-well present from Sir Jeremy—whether he meant good or ill toward Mama, I expected he would be desirous to remain in her good opinion. I
was
surprised (and secretly pleased) at his choice: a locket with a perfect miniature of Mama within. It showed a particular thoughtfulness on his part to consider what sort of gift would please me ... or was it only a thoughtful cunning? If it was the latter, it certainly succeeded, for when Mama saw it, her eyes shone and she exclaimed over the gift, much moved.

I was even more determined to come down when visitors called after this; Sir Jeremy seemed to me a clever man—very clever—and I felt I should find out if others of his ilk were keeping company with my mother. Further, I did not feel it proper she should keep company alone, with only her abigail for protection.

I had support from a surprising quarter in this respect. One day, when I heard that there were visitors belowstairs, I jumped out of bed, telling Grimley as I dressed that I would help Mama entertain them. She stared at me fixedly for a minute, then nodded briskly. “You do that, miss! I may be her abigail and as I see it, part of my duties is to be at her side, but this household has more to do in it than one body can manage! You may be a young lady, but it’s a wise head you have on your shoulders, and it’s better for your mother that one of her kin look out for her, poor lady, than an abigail, however long I’ve been with your family! And that’s a long time, miss,
if I
may say so, seeing as how I came to chaperone your mother straight from your grandfather’s house when she married your father!” She gave another brisk and competent nod.

I stared at her for a moment, a bit awed. This was the longest speech I had ever heard from her, and apparently she was working under powerful emotion, for her long nose quivered, her pale blue eyes turned a steely grey, and her thin lips almost disappeared as she gripped them together in a determined frown.

I went to her and took her hand, pressing it. “You may be sure, Miss Grimley, I shall do all that I ought. And I am grateful for all you have done for us, too!”

Grimley’s thin cheeks grew pink. “Ah, be off with you, then! I suppose I’m well enough, thank you!” she said gruffly.

I skipped to the door, but before I left the room I turned back to the abigail. “You know, Grimley, I mean to have Mama respectably married.”

She looked at me and shook her head. “Lord help me if I can see how you will. But I’ll not stand in your way if you can!”

* * * *

In general, the company my mother kept seemed refined. Before I was permitted downstairs, I would tiptoe quietly from my room and peer between the balusters at Mama’s visitors. They appeared, from the descriptions Emily had related to me, to be mostly dandies who must have deemed it fashionable to be at Mama’s feet. I soon discounted them as serious contenders for Mama’s favors; they were interested only in what was fashionable and displaying various affectations such as lisps, over-large buttons, and eye-searing waistcoats. Mama took them as seriously as I did—not very—for she often humorously rolled her eyes heavenward after they left.

More serious predators were the Corinthians; addicted to sporting activities, they were certainly fine figures of men. Their clothes were relatively plain but so well cut that one couldn’t help but notice the natural breadth of their shoulders or their well-muscled legs. I recalled Mama once saying that Father had been one of this group, and this made me feel uneasy. She would be more susceptible to these men than the dandies.

I found Sir Jeremy Swift was one as well. Indeed, as a man of nearly forty (and quite elderly, I thought, for he was starting to become grey at the temples), Sir Jeremy was an example par excellence to the younger men of the set. He was tall, large boned, and well muscled, and as I listened from my spot on the stairs, I gathered that he excelled at boxing, was a fine horseman, and was equally good with swords or pistols.

As it turned out, I did not meet him at dinner as Mama had planned. I saw him not long after breakfast one morning.

Mother usually took a light repast of toast and chocolate in her room so was not yet downstairs. I had already taken mine and was curled up on a big chair by the fireplace, reading Plato’s
Apologia
when Sir Jeremy was escorted into the parlour. I imagine Hartley, our butler, did not know I was there, so when Sir Jeremy walked into the room unannounced, I started and dropped my book.

He turned sharply at the sound and saw me. I hurriedly sat up properly and smoothed my skirts, then remembered I had dropped my book and bent to retrieve it. But he was there before me, picked it up, and handed it to me. “How do you do, Miss Canning. Since I caused you to drop your book, it is only right that I retrieve it for you, is it not?” He smiled.

I could see why Mama found him attractive. He was as I remembered him: black hair greying at the temples, uncompromising lines around his mouth, penetrating grey eyes, swarthy skin. But when he smiled his slightly crooked smile he grew young, for those steely eyes lit up with all the laughter of a child just venturing out into the world, inviting one to come along for sheer enjoyment. He reminded me of someone, but I could not remember who it was. I thought perhaps it was Miss Angstead since they were related but somehow was not satisfied with the answer. I could not help smiling back, but I forced myself to remember that I was going to survey his character with a keen and strict eye; after all, a man may have kindly laughter in his eyes but be an irresponsible rake.

“I thank you, sir,” I said. I opened the book to smooth back any rumpled pages.

His eye caught the title. “Plato! You are quite a scholar, then. Have you read all of his works?”

“No, I have not. The library here only has a few books like this in it, and the school I go to ... well, it is a young ladies’ seminary, and Plato and Cicero are not deemed necessary to a young lady’s education,” I said with a touch of asperity. Perhaps he thought me a little pert, for a crease appeared between his brows and he frowned slightly. Much do I care! I thought to myself.

“A bluestocking, are you? You believe all young ladies should have a classical education?”

“Well, of course!” I replied, nettled at his mocking tone.

“All young ladies being as intelligent and bent on being a scholar as you are, of course,” he continued casually. He flicked a nonexistent speck of dust from his lapel.

I really did not know of any other girl who read the works I did, and the idea of someone like Emily Possett bending her powers on a passage from Marcus Aurelius was ludicrous. I opened my mouth, then shut it, not wanting to resemble a fish. I looked at him suspiciously. “You aren’t a barrister, are you?” I asked.

He laughed. “No—” But he said no more, for the door opened suddenly, and Mama floated through.

A change came over Sir Jeremy: the harsh lines of his face softened, and a warm and tender light came into his eyes as he met those of my mother’s. “Celia!” he exclaimed.

“Dear Jeremy!” cried Mama, extending her hand, her eyes full of love. She saw me fidgeting a bit behind him, clutching my book. “And Georgia, my love! I see you two have met. How delightful! Ah, Jeremy, is she not a dear girl? She is becoming a most exceptional young lady.” She bent and kissed my cheek.

I smiled at her. “I hope I will, Mama.”

“Hardly more so than her exceptional mama.” Sir Jeremy smiled.

“Oh, Jeremy!” chided Mama, lightly slapping the hand that held hers still. “Of course she will be!” She lifted eyes brimful of laughter to his.

It was then my heart dropped to the bottom of my shoes. I saw, suddenly, of whom it was that Sir Jeremy reminded me. Mama’s sparkling sky blue eyes, as she laughingly raised them to Sir Jeremy’s, were filled with the same childlike wonder of the world as his, now looking into hers. It seemed almost as if with each glance they gave each other, they shared a delightful secret that no one else—poor things!—could understand. I remembered vaguely how it was said in the church service that when a man and a woman married, they “became one flesh.” I looked at Mama and Sir Jeremy and thought they were one soul.

I never felt more alone in my life than I did in that moment. It never occurred to me, when I first resolved to have Mama become married and respectable, that she might be lost to me. Of course, I reminded myself stoutly, it would happen eventually, one day when I became a schoolmistress—but I could not deny that another route I had envisioned for myself was one of standing by and caring for Mama in her old age. I wondered morosely if she would miss me when I would be away with my young charges.

I think I must have turned pale, for Mama was at once upon me, fussing. Sir Jeremy came to my rescue. “Perhaps she would feel better if she accompanied us on our morning ride. I would be glad of your company, Miss Canning,” he said kindly.

I needed to be alone to think about what I might actually accomplish if I helped Mama and Sir Jeremy marry. So I smiled slightly and thanked him, saying that I did indeed feel tired and needed to rest.

Mama was inclined to stay with me, but I insisted I was quite all right and that she go out. Sir Jeremy looked concerned, too, but I smiled reassuringly at him and bade them enjoy their ride.

After they left, I neither rested nor was left alone to think. Bartley, perhaps warned that I was in the parlour, announced my next visitor. “Lord Lucas Ashcombe!”

I sighed in annoyance. Bartley was an old and faithful retainer, but because he
was
very old, he had a habit of forgetting occasionally when one went out and when one was not at home to visitors. Mama did not want to dismiss him because it would hurt him, and I agreed, but it did make things awkward sometimes. As it did now. Bartley merely smiled and nodded at me when he saw me in the parlour. He seemed to forget the proprieties where I was concerned, for the butler still thought of me as a little child rather than a grown young lady. As a result, he allowed Lord Ashcombe in and did not call for a maid to chaperone me. Fortunately Bartley also forgot to close the door.

One of Mama’s admirers, Lord Ashcombe was a handsome young man, and that was the problem— he was young. Calf-love, said Mama, feeling sorry for him, for it was clear that at three-and-twenty years, he was in love for the first time. To repulse him outright would be the cruelest thing imaginable, she declared. I thought to repulse him outright would probably be the most
sensible
thing imaginable. However much Mama treated him like the boy she perceived him to be or gently snubbed him from time to time, he persisted in writing silly poems and dogging her steps whenever he saw her.

Were it not for the fact he was too young for Mama—why, she could almost be
his
mother!—I would have liked him well enough. Indeed, when I first saw him, I knew him to be far more handsome than Sir Jeremy. Mama did not agree with this, but I remembered that as one grew older, one’s eyesight was not always very acute and saw that this was perhaps the root of her opinion.

There was nothing wrong with
my
eyesight, however. Lord Ashcombe had curling, true black hair—so black it shone blue in the sunlight—and his profile was just enough short of classical to be interesting. The planes of his face were lean and his chin stubborn, but his lips could curl in the most delightful smile. He had large, sleepy violet eyes fringed with lashes a girl would envy and a way of looking at one that made one shiver—or perhaps that was only me, for Mama seemed unaffected by it. She often laughed at him for it, saying he did a good imitation of Byron’s Corsair. He was tall and looked graceful, but I found somewhat to my chagrin that he had nevertheless moments of awkwardness. I will confess I had a
tendre
for him, but it was short-lived;

there is nothing like a young man making a fool of himself to make a girl fall out of her infatuation with him.

And so it was with poor Lord Ashcombe; anyone could see that he was so much younger than the rest of Mama’s admirers and that she did not consider him seriously. But I deduced from one of the poems he wrote that her kindly condescension only spurred him to greater efforts, for he saw her as “a princess pure/whose eyes doth hold distant allure” and something about unmindful disdain prompting him to display no pain when he went out to conquer exotic plains. He had finished Oxford, and I thought that august institution should have made him a better poet, but perhaps these were his first rhymes and he only needed practice to become better.

He did have a somewhat dramatic air about him. As Bartley held open the door, Lord Ashcombe seemed almost to leap into the parlour, and at once he started to declaim: “Oh, Celia of the gold hair/Thou sinketh me into deep despair—”

“I’m sorry, but my mother is not here,” I cut in bluntly, then giggled because I had unintentionally half rhymed him. He turned to find me sitting on the chair by the fireplace, and he flushed all the way up to his ears.

“I was told that
Mrs.
Canning was here,” he said stiffly, nervously passing the posy he had brought from his right hand to his left and back again.

“Please do sit down, Lord Ashcombe. I am sorry for the mistake, but Bartley has been with us for so many years and is becoming quite forgetful. I am sure he meant
Miss
Canning and did not mean to mislead you. Would you like some refreshment?” I asked.

My conciliatory tone seemed to placate him somewhat, for though he looked at me suspiciously, he said: “Yes, thank you, Miss Canning, I would like some. This damn—dashed poetry writing does make one feel rather dry. Popped it off before I came, you know. Meant to present it to your mother; thought
she’d
appreciate it.” He glowered at me as if to say “even if
you
do not.”