Lord Greywell's Dilemma (22 page)

As he came around one of the bushes, he was mopping at his forehead with a handkerchief. He looked uncomfortably warm, and Elspeth felt a moment’s softening of her resolve. Always before he had looked so cool and unruffled, so far above the discomforts of ordinary mortals. He smiled at her as he stuffed the handkerchief back in his pocket and dropped down to sit at her feet, scarcely noticing the child at all.

“Heat always bothers me,” he said. “Especially this moist heat. You look adorable in that hat.”

The creation he referred to was a leghorn hat with a large brim, turned up behind in a soft roll in the French style. Elspeth remembered writing about it to Greywell, and she staunchly refused the compliment. “It keeps the sun out of my eyes.”

Self-consciously she retied the ribbon under her chin a little tighter.

“You still look adorable, with your curls peeping out that way,” he insisted.

“Francis, we had a message from Greywell this morning. He’s been wounded, but he’s all right and he’s coming to Ashfield very soon. I suppose as soon as he can travel. I don’t think you should call on me anymore.

Francis looked stunned. “Not call on you! I couldn’t live if I didn’t call on you!”

“Nonsense. We’ve been behaving very improperly. If you are not aware of it, I certainly am. I know it’s my fault. There is some weakness in me that I shall have to make a strong effort to weed out. And in order to do that I simply cannot see you any longer.”

“But I love you! Doesn’t that count for anything?” His long, elegant hands came up to claim hers. “I thought you felt the same way about me.”

“Well, I . . . I don’t know how I feel, Francis. I’m very confused right now. But that really doesn’t matter, you know. I’m married to Greywell, for better or worse. He has every right to expect me to act according to my marriage vows.” Elspeth tried gently to withdraw her hands from his, but he held on tightly.

“Dear Elspeth, you’re my inspiration. I’ve never written such poetry as I have since I met you.”

“But it isn’t the kind of poetry you meant to write,” she insisted, her face flushed. “You’ve completely ignored your major work while we’ve . . . dallied. You had meant to write much more serious poetry, something that would make men reexamine their souls and lead better lives. While we’ve been leading quite . . . exceptionable lives ourselves.”

His brow puckered. “Never think that. The poetry of love is justified in its very nature, as is the way we’ve responded to each other. You don’t understand! Love is not something you can control. It’s out of our human ability to dictate to our hearts. And their choice is sacred, Elspeth. Perhaps we
have
acted a little improperly, given your situation, but that is not to say we have much error on our side. One would have to show the discipline of a monk not to gravitate to one another’s company, to wish to share the fruits of our affection.”

“It’s one thing not to be able to control your heart, and quite another not to control your body,” Elspeth said sadly. “Please, Francis, don’t make this any harder for me than it is. You know I’m fond of you, but it isn’t
right
for us to do what we’ve been doing. And we certainly can’t continue to do it when Greywell returns. I owe him that much.”

At last Francis let go of her hands, but only so he could draw his fingers distractedly through his shaggy locks. He wore a pained expression. “I can’t just forget you, Elspeth. I can’t shut my heart to you. What about my poetry? The pain you’re causing me can only have its outlet in my poetry. That’s where I express all my emotions. You have to understand that.”

Elspeth sighed. “I do understand it, Francis. Of course you will continue to write your poetry, but you must be very cautious about where you keep it, for my sake. And Greywell is a friend of yours. Don’t forget that.”

“I can never forgive him for marrying you.”

“If he hadn’t married me, we’d never have met,” Elspeth said reasonably. “But then, perhaps it would have been best if we hadn’t met.”

“Don’t say that! It was our destiny, our fate to meet.” Francis went into one of his dreamy trances, coming out of it after a minute or two to say, “And perhaps it was our fate to suffer for our love. Maybe this was the grand design, the struggle I had to go through to purge my soul of its lesser interests. Yes, I do see that that would be a worthy ambition for a poet.” He smiled at her, a sad, nostalgic smile. “Very well, Elspeth. We won’t see each other anymore. But I shan’t forget the light you’ve brought into my life, the clarity you’ve given my vision. Knowing you has given me the strength to accept this burden. Without my love for you, I wouldn’t be able to bear it, you know. I would have dwindled away like some maiden in a decline.”

His grandiose speech left Elspeth rather embarrassed, but she had no wish to contradict him. “You’ll have your poetry. That will be something to sustain you.” What would she have to sustain her? She looked at the sleeping baby, and realized his happiness was as important to her as her own. “And I have Andrew to care for. That’s why I came here. He’s the one who will give my life purpose.”

Francis stood up and dusted the seat of his riding breeches. There was perspiration on his forehead, but he didn’t bother to wipe it away with his handkerchief. Probably he thought it appropriate as an indication of his distress. He took one of Elspeth’s hands in his and carried it to his lips, where he kissed it fervently.

“Goodbye, my dear. I shall miss you, your sweet lips, your glorious body, your generous heart, your admirable mind. Remember that I will always love you. No, no, don’t deny me the right to tell you that one last time. Someday you will be famous, as the mysterious lady to whom my poetry was dedicated. To the Only Love of My Life. Others will know how I suffered, but they will never know the object of my love.” He gazed deeply into her eyes before abruptly turning aside and striding in the direction of the stables.

Elspeth shed a few tears but dried her eyes when the baby stirred. “Come along, my love,” she said as she picked him up. “We have a million things to do before your Papa returns.”

* * * *

Greywell had fallen asleep during the journey from Daventry to Dunchurch. His arm ached abominably, and sleep was the only release he had from the pain the jolting carriage caused. A warm breeze came through the open carriage window to waft across his brow and tease his dark locks into disorder. Outside of Dunchurch, when he woke, he surveyed the passing landscape with a certain eagerness. This was truly familiar territory.

Opposite him his valet, Clemson, sat upright, with a grim compression to his lips. He had not approved of Greywell’s traveling with the injured arm. If he’d had his way, they’d still have been in Brussels, with the viscount safely tucked in bed recuperating. But Greywell had insisted he was well enough to travel, and that there was confusion enough in Brussels without adding his mite to it.

“There are hundreds of severely wounded men here,” he had pointed out, “and we would just be in the way of heroic efforts to see to all of them. If we could be of any use, I’d stay. As it is, we’re better out of it.”

Both of them now studied the passing fields, the heavily leafed stands of trees, the few large houses set far back from the road. Clemson was thinking of the comforts of Ashfield, and how he’d be relieved to be there once again after the horror of the streets of Brussels, filled with wounded and dying men. Before he had found Greywell, he had attended to those he could, but once the viscount was found, he refused to leave his side.

Despite the almost cheery note Greywell had dictated to him to be sent to Lady Greywell, Clemson was not, at first, all that sanguine about Greywell’s condition. There was not only the arm, which had received an enemy ball, but a bad cut on the left leg and a burn on his shoulder. But they were all healing properly now, thanks mostly to his care. And Greywell, if he wouldn’t listen to Clemson’s advice, never stinted his valet in the thanks due him.

Despite the pain in his arm, Greywell wasn’t thinking of the comforts of Ashfield. He wasn’t, even, thinking particularly of his son at that moment. His thoughts were entirely concentrated on Elspeth. Their week together at Ashfield had not been particularly pleasant, and the letters they’d exchanged since then had given him little idea of what sort of reception to expect from her. Certainly she had accomplished his most cherished aim of restoring Andrew to health. For that alone he would always be grateful to her. He unconsciously grimaced. That might turn out to be the only thing for which he could be grateful to her.

According to her letters, she had not particularly interfered in parish business, or even in the functioning of Ashfield—but they were
her
letters. She might not, in her excess of enthusiasm for controlling other people’s lives, even notice if she was stepping on people’s toes. That streak of self-righteousness in her was something he didn’t think she even recognized. Her smug certainty that she knew what was best for everyone else could be a grueling attribute with which to live on a day-to-day basis.

Now he could see the beeches off to the left of the road, in the distance. They had always been the first indication that Ashfield was really near, though it would be another fifteen minutes before the carriage actually reached the gates and lumbered down the drive to the house. More for the servants’ sake than for his wife’s, he made some effort to rearrange his cravat, but Clemson leaned forward, scolding him, and took over the task. The valet also brushed his hair and his coat, taking the necessary implements from the case he perpetually traveled with. Greywell felt like a small child, being ministered to in the carriage. If his arm were of more use, he would never have permitted it.

The household at Ashfield had been alerted the previous day as to what time they would arrive, and Greywell felt sure everyone would be assembled. Not that he liked the idea. He was tired and his arm ached. All he really wanted was a bath and his bed. So it was a great relief to him when the carriage came to a standstill to find that only Selsey came forward with two footman to take charge of their luggage.

“It’s a pleasure to have you home, milord,” Selsey said, beaming.

“It’s a pleasure to be here,” Greywell responded. “You’re looking well, Selsey. No problem with your knees?”

“Lady Greywell gave me some salve to rub on them and they hardly give me trouble anymore.”

Trust Elspeth, he thought. “Where is Lady Greywell?”

“She said she’d wait for you in the North Drawing Room with your son.”

Selsey led the way, since he didn’t want his lordship to have to open the door with his injured arm. There was an unusual amount of activity in the hall, all trying to catch a glimpse of him as they found some excuse for being there. Greywell smiled at those he recognized and nodded to those he didn’t. Had she replaced many people? And then he was in the North Drawing Room.

Elspeth was seated on the pianoforte bench with Andrew at her side,
standing
on his chubby legs, and holding precariously to the tips of her fingers. Her gaze came to rest on Greywell, and she smiled.

“Welcome home. This is a new start for Andrew. He’s only just learning to pull himself up.” She returned her eyes to the child. “Andrew, love, look who’s here. This is your papa.”

No matter what she was, Greywell told himself, he would always value her for this moment. The joy he felt when he saw the boy turn his head toward him, and smile, and try to take a step forward, could not be denied. Without Elspeth the child might not have survived.

“Thank you,” he said simply as he came to stoop in front of the child, who had landed on his bottom on the floor. “Well, Andrew, we have a lot of getting acquainted to do.” He looked at Elspeth inquiringly over the boy’s head. “Will he let me hold him?”

“Oh, I think so. He’s not particularly shy. Sit down on the sofa and I’ll put him on your lap.”

Greywell wanted to tell her he was capable of picking the boy up with his left arm but thought better of it. He did as he was told, and Elspeth seated herself beside him, the child in her arms.

“Just look at those shiny buttons,” she said to Andrew. “I’ll bet you’d like to sit in your papa’s lap and play with those shiny buttons.”

Andrew obligingly reached for them, and Elspeth shifted him easily onto Greywell’s legs. “He should be dry, but that’s one of the hazards of children, Greywell. I dare say you’ll be wanting to change soon in any case. Shall I leave you two alone?”

“Please stay,” he said, smiling at her as he smoothed the boy’s unruly hair. “You’ve wrought miracles with him, you know.”

Elspeth laughed. “No, he’s simply grown, as children do. I’m glad you’ll be here when he starts walking. How’s your arm?”

“Not too bad.”

“I thought you’d be tired. I hope you don’t mind my not having the whole staff assembled for you.”

“No, I’m grateful.” Greywell ran his hand over Andrew’s arms and legs as though to check that everything was as strong and healthy as it looked. Then he raised his eyes to Elspeth again. “You look different. I don’t remember any curls, and certainly no dresses as delightful as that one.”

“Emily Marden urged the new hairstyle on me, and helped me choose a new wardrobe.” When Andrew wriggled on Greywell’s lap and extended his arms to her, she made an excusing gesture with her hands. “He’s used to me. Besides,” she said as she accepted the child, “you’ll want a bath and your bed after the journey. And it’s time for Andrew’s nap.”

Greywell rose as she did. “I’ll want to speak with you later, to find out how everything went while I was away, but, yes, right now I need to rest.” He laid his left hand gently on Andrew’s sleepy head where it rested against Elspeth’s shoulder, and then raised it to touch her cheek. “You look lovely. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate what you’ve done for Andrew.”

Elspeth flushed. “There’s no need to thank me. I’m very fond of him.”

“Yes, I can see that.” He followed her out into the hall and up the stairs until she left him to climb to the nursery. She seemed somehow different to him, subtly altered from the way he’d left her last autumn. Not just in her appearance, which was vastly changed for the better, but in her—what?—humility? No, perhaps not that. Greywell decided it was too soon for him to make any judgments. He entered his bedchamber and willingly submitted to Clemson’s ministrations.