The Scandal of the Season (25 page)

Alexander understood the effort that it had cost her to say this, and he replied lightly, sparing her feelings.

“The fires of Miss Fermor's beauty burn too hot for my constitution,” he said. “Were I to approach any nearer, I should be in danger of incineration. I also think that she has too much hair,” he added.

Teresa smiled at last, but said, “Her hair is generally thought very fine.”

“Neither Miss Fermor's hair, nor any other part of her features, has for me one tenth the loveliness of your own person, madam,” Alexander replied.

Teresa could almost hear him holding his breath. Awkwardly, she replied, “I thank you for saying so, Alexander.”

“It is a mean enough compliment,” he said, looking at her closely. “I am like a poor fellow who makes his rich landlord a scurvy, worthless present, hoping to receive one of infinitely greater value in return.”

She hesitated, not knowing what to say, and answered at last, “Your present is worth a great deal to me.”

They had come to a natural halt as they talked, and they looked back to see how far Martha and Jervas trailed behind them. It was in fact some considerable distance, for the pair had sat down on a low bench at the entrance to the walk. Teresa looked at Alexander. The sight of his familiar form at her side, when she felt so much in need of being admired, brought a sudden lump to her throat. But how complex, how contradictory were the emotions accompanying the tears that started to her eyes.

They were tears, she admitted, of gratitude—that he had not left her, despite every provocation. But they were tears of pity, too. Was not there something pitiable in a creature who continued to beg, as Alexander did, after he had been beaten and abused? He stood beside her now, demeaningly dependent but fiercely proud, like a precocious child. And she was crying out of disappointment: in herself, as much as in him. She knew that she should love him in spite of his physical frailty—indeed that she should love him because of it. But she recoiled from him. She could hardly bring herself to think it: his crippled body repelled her, and the thought of his embrace made her cold.

“Oh—the others are nowhere near,” she exclaimed in dismay.

Alexander was looking at her evenly. When he noted the change in Teresa's manner today, the flames of hope had sparked within him, almost against his will. He feared that it was, as ever, misplaced hope. But he could not help but feel it.

“I see that you will not ask what sort of present you might make me in return,” he said.

She colored—already she regretted having allowed the conversation to come so far. She adopted their old, teasing style. “I have long ago learned that your wit is not meant to be answered, Alexander,” she said. “You present it as a collector might exhibit a butterfly, or an insect caught in amber. As a marvel, requiring admiration. It would spoil your display if I were to bring a specimen of my own to show.”

To her relief, this answer seemed to divert him from his thoughts of romance. He considered what she had said for a moment, and then replied, “The notion of an insect captured in amber is clever. And you are right, it resembles my wit exactly. Neither rich nor rare—only causing much puzzlement as to how it came into being.” Again a pause, and then, “You stand alone above your sex, Teresa.”

The mawkish finale of this speech caused a renewed agitation in her breast. “Come, Alexander,” she said severely. “Stop this pretended modesty immediately. It is exceedingly unpleasant, and makes me wish to return to my sister.”

“Then let us walk together a little more, and I shall do nothing but boast of my abilities,” he replied.

His answer relieved her; she hoped that the ardent exchange had been brought on by heightened emotion that had now passed. They walked more easily, but after a few minutes Alexander asked Teresa if she was tired, and she replied that they ought to get back to Martha. When they turned around, Teresa breathed comfortably to think that the moment of crisis had passed.

“How beautiful London is in the summer,” she observed, “and yet it fills me with a kind of dread. In August Martha and I must return to my grandfather's house at Whiteknights.”

“The town will be desolate without you,” Alexander answered, in his old tone of gallantry. “But why will you leave in August?”

“The Queen's summer levee at Hampton Palace is at the end of July, and Martha and I have plans to attend it. Then we shall go,” she said. “But if I had the means to live in London all the year, I should do so,” Teresa added.

“When
I
am rich,” Alexander replied, “I shall live in some bucolic spot upon the river, from where I may choose to be in either the country or the city, according with my taste.”

“You seem very sure of your success, Alexander.”

“Success has far more to do with being sure of one's talent than it has to do with being talented,” was his reply. “Though whether or not that will work to my advantage I leave you to say.”

She smiled, and they continued to walk companionably.

Before long, Alexander spoke again. “Your sister is waving to us, and we will be with her in just a few minutes,” he said. “How much pleasure I take from your company, Teresa. My only wish is that I might be instrumental in seeing you settled.”

Her heart beat quickly again, but she answered him steadily, “You do everything in your power to take care of us, Alexander.”

“There is yet more that I could do,” he said urgently. “I could offer you a home. I could promise that you would come to London enough even for your taste. I could make your life easy and Patty's secure.”

Not meeting his eye, Teresa said, “And how would you bring these miracles about?”

She prayed that he would not say anything he would regret.

“By declaring myself sincerely as your lover,” he burst out, “and making you an offer of marriage.”

She could not bring herself to look at him, but, prodding at the gravel path with the toe of her shoe, she said quietly, “Then I was quite right to say that a miracle would be required.”

He looked at her, aghast. “Do you doubt my sincerity?” he asked.

“Not at all,” she replied. “But I am somewhat skeptical of your abilities as a lover.” In her nervousness she giggled a little.

Alexander pressed on. “Then you doubt every part of my being,” he cried, “for you have only ever known me as one who loved you.”

Because she knew that it was true, it made her angry. “Had I not known you many years,” she said coldly, “I would take your last remark for an affront. If I had ever suspected your intentions, I should certainly not have permitted the attentions you bestowed.”

At last he stopped being gallant. Looking directly at her, he said harshly, “Teresa, do not insult me by pretending not to have understood me.”

She looked around, not knowing how to respond. His foolish intensity made her more angry. “Pray, sir,” she answered, “do not insult
me
by suggesting that there is anything like an understanding between us.”

“Insult you?” he said, incredulous. “You call me presumptuous for singling you out as the loveliest woman I have known?”

Unable to control her feelings of vexation, she returned, “It is a distinction that I had rather you had not thrust upon me. I came to London without any thoughts of attachment—entirely free to choose—to be chosen. I considered myself a woman without obligation, and I assumed that this was the light in which I was generally regarded.”

He stared at her, incomprehension stamped across his face. It merely goaded her on.

“But now I learn that you have marked me out as your own,” she said, feeling a sob rising in her throat. “Perhaps you have even boasted of it to others—and put it about town that I am already attached. Am I to understand that you have presumed to speak as my champion, though I have never permitted it?” She knew now that there was nothing true in what she said, but she went on regardless. “I have never given you the slightest encouragement. I loathe the merest idea of an arrangement, an attachment, being formed to a person who—with…”

His face was quite still as he finished, “With
me
is what I believe that you are saying.”

This roused in her a fury of self-reproach. “You think me cruel, unthinking, selfish—a thousand things—I know.” She broke off; she must hold her tongue, she must not bring Martha into it, but it was too late. “Why do not you marry Martha?” she cried desperately. “You would do well with her. But do not blight my chances by appointing yourself as my lover, least of all when we are among such acquaintance as these.”

“You are referring, I assume, to Lord Petre,” he answered. “You are a fool if you do not see that he would hold a women such as you in contempt.” He paused and weighed his words. Even now he was generous. “Not because
you
are contemptible, Teresa, but because he is,” he added.

“He! How dare you presume to know what he, or any other gentleman, thinks or feels about me,” she stormed. “You know nothing of men or of the world. You are a cripple, as small in thought as in stature! You see nothing, you hear nothing, Alexander, but what is lowest to the ground.”

He stepped back with a look of disbelief. “Then you cannot blame me, madam, for having paid such long and devoted attentions to your person.”

They had nearly reached Martha and Jervas, and Alexander saw that they had been overheard. Already the pair were standing to meet them, Jervas's legs braced awkwardly to confront him, Martha white with anxiety. The four of them stood for several moments in ghastly silence.

Martha finally spoke, ending the pause.

“The sun has tired me and the glare has given me a headache,” she said. “Mr. Jervas has been sitting with me so kindly, but I must go home.”

“We have already been here far longer than we ought,” Teresa added brusquely. “Give me your arm, Patty—let us hurry to the carriage.”

“I shall accompany you,” said Jervas, before Alexander could speak.

But Teresa replied curtly, “We prefer to walk alone.” And she pulled her sister forward without another word. Alexander held Jervas back, letting them go on.

 

Anger, misery, and disappointment were the prevailing emotions of the afternoon. Alexander was not prepared for such bitter sensations, largely because he had not prepared himself for the conversation at all. He knew perfectly well that Teresa had no wish to hear his avowals. He had not even meant to make them. Only a short time before, he had been thinking that she occupied less of his attention than in the past—what had made him declare himself now? He had thought that she would refuse him, and indeed, had she accepted the offer, he believed that his feelings would have been divided. Some strange, perverse vanity had led him on, a contrary sort of pride. Just as he felt his fatal weakness for Teresa abating, he had been tempted into declarations from which the former intensity of his feeling had hitherto made him shrink.

And he had been punished for it. The cruelty of her response! It was as though she hated him—and yet he did not think that it was hate she felt—how could it be? There must be some part of her that responded in kind to his affection. But there would be no more of such thoughts. He would not ask himself, over and over, whether she loved him. She would not marry him. He had seen her cruel, cold, selfish, angry. He could not continue to admire her. He, too, must be cold.

Teresa had never imagined that sorrow would figure in the aftermath of a proposal from Alexander, but now she, too, felt its thorn. The feeling surprised her. She was sorry that Alexander had spoken and that there had been such a scene. She wished that she had not become so angry; she wished that she had not been driven to say things that she did not really believe. But she would not take back what she had said, and run the risk of opening the discussion again. She was sad, she was vexed—but she would not feel regret.

And yet despite all this, she was disappointed that his declaration was over. She had long planned that if Alexander should ever propose she would refuse him. But the knowledge that he admired her had been a precious consolation—even if it was one that she never admitted. Now that her refusal had been given, she was left with the fact that it was the only offer she had received. Natural, then, that Alexander, who had forced so unwelcome a reflection upon her, should become even more markedly the object of her resentment.

A week passed without contact between Alexander and the Blount sisters. During this period a considerable share of unhappiness fell to Martha, who had no feelings of indignation to modify her lowness. She was cut off from her two dearest friends, neither of whom made any attempt to draw her into their confidence. Since she did not understand precisely what had happened, she feared the worst: that Teresa and Alexander would refuse ever to be in the same room again, and that she would be forced to choose between them.

As Martha sat alone in her room thinking over the sad state of affairs, she sighed bitterly. There would be no real choice, of course. She would have to take her sister's part. Why must it always be thus—would there never be a moment in her life when she could do, or even speak, as she truly felt? Although she was angry with Teresa for having spoken harshly to Alexander, she was conscious, too, of a secret pleasure. No longer could he persuade himself that Teresa was the superior sister. In the face of such bitterness, such selfishness, Alexander must see Teresa clearly at last. Wretched, perhaps—deserving of sympathy and care—but willfully cruel to the people who loved her most.