Two Corinthians (16 page)

Claire smiled and shook her head at him.  “Would nine be too early?”

“Not at all, ma'am. You must remember that at heart I am a countryman, not a Town beau.  I shall see you at nine.”

Lizzie went out to the front hall with him.

“Why did you look at me like that?” she demanded. “I do not believe Bertram is afraid of racing you, so why is he in a tweak?”

“Because I am to spend an entire day with your sister, goosecap. Chaperoned only by Alfie and Mrs—er—Copple.”

“You mean he is jealous?  He is not angry with Claire, is he?”

“No harm done if he is,” said George calmly, taking his hat, gloves and whip from the hall table. “A little competition never hurt anyone.”

Not that there was any real competition involved, he thought as he drove back to Bellingham House through the busy streets. He could not serve Pomeroy a backhanded turn by stealing another bride from under his nose. If the man only knew it, he was doing him a favour. It was Pomeroy who cared about Claire's appearance. For himself, he enjoyed her company whether she was up to her elbows in potting soil or wearing that enchanting hat with the lilacs which Lizzie had forced on her.

The feeling of calm was notably absent when George set out the next morning. In fact, there was a peculiar flutter under his blue-and-yellow striped waistcoat.  It might have been caused by something he ate, but he was inclined to put it down to a perfectly natural apprehension at the prospect of taking to task a young lady over whom he had no possible claim to authority. She would have every excuse for taking umbrage, and the last thing he wanted was to be at outs with Claire.

He thought of Lizzie and squared his shoulders.

He was wearing his Four-horse Club waistcoat, a flamboyant garment best reserved for meetings of the club, for two reasons: it would amuse Lizzie, and break the ice for a discussion of fashion with Claire.  Why had he let Lizzie talk him into this? He might have been looking forward to a peaceful day in the country with a pleasant companion. Instead, Claire would withdraw behind her veil of abstracted indifference and likely never trust him again.

Her trust was disturbingly important to him.  Perhaps it was best that he should lose it since she was to marry Pomeroy.

Lizzie came down to the entrance hall to tell him that Claire would be with him in a moment. She giggled when she saw the waistcoat.

“It is a bit bright, but nothing truly out of the ordinary. It does not begin to compare with the clothes Horrid Horace wears, or even my brother. Only someone as particular in his dress as Bertram could take exception to it.”

“You do not think your sister will swoon at the sight?”

“No, she will probably not even notice. It seems excessively odd to me that Bertram should persist in his suit when she is so utterly uninterested in her appearance.  Or his, come to that. You do mean to talk to her about it, do you not?”

“I do, though I cannot say I look forward to it.”

“I am vastly obliged to you, dear George.  Oh, here she comes. Look, Claire, George is wearing his Four-Horse Club waistcoat.”

George turned to watch her coming down the stairs.  She moved with unconscious grace, her tall, slender form floating down as if she weighed no more than a feather.  The tips of her delicate, competent fingers grazed the bannister and he shivered as he imagined them caressing his cheek, his back...

She flushed under his gaze and put up a nervous hand to her hair, neatly coiled under the lilac hat. Her gardening clothes were half-hidden by the new India shawl. He wanted to assure her that she looked delightfully, but that would not suit his purpose. Either she would be reassured and so take his advice less seriously or, since he had complimented her on those garments before, she would think him mocking.

“Shall we be off?  My cattle are champing at their bits.”

“I am looking forward to the drive.”  She pulled on her gloves, kissed Lizzie goodbye and wished her an enjoyable day. “It will be pleasant just to get out of the city,” she continued as they went down the steps, “but I hope also to see for myself your prowess as a whipster. If there is a stretch of road where it may be done safely, will you spring the horses?  Is that the correct term?”

“It is, and I will, if you wish it.”

He handed her into the curricle, then took the reins from Alfie, who had been holding the horses, and joined her.  Alfie hopped up behind and they were off. George would have preferred to be alone with her, but if he had to have an audience for their coming conversation, a slow-witted lad devoted to his mistress could not be bettered.

“I have never been driven faster than a trot.  It sounds exhilarating.”

“I never suspected you of sporting proclivities, Claire!”

“I'm afraid you think me a sad stick-in-the-mud.”

He smiled down into her wistful grey eyes.  “How could I possibly think such a thing of a woman as little bound by convention as you?  And no, nor do I think you 'peculiar,' as your mother would have it. I can only wonder at your ability to tread the fine line between disregard for convention and outright impropriety.”

“Even Mama never accused me of impropriety.”

“Then I have no hesitation in pronouncing you not guilty.”

They talked of commonplaces while he negotiated the busy streets of north London, until they passed the village of Islington and joined the Cambridge turnpike. A straight stretch of road lay ahead, devoid of traffic.

“Hold onto your hat!” cried George, and gave his team their heads.

They thundered down the turnpike, the light curricle bounding and swaying over the rough surface. George spared a quick glance at his companion, ready to rein in if the slightest sign of alarm appeared on her face. She was pink-cheeked and laughing, eyes sparkling with delight. Reluctantly he returned his attention to the horses.

The burst of speed soon came to an end as the road narrowed and began to wind.

“That was marvellous,” gasped Claire, out of breath as if she had been the one galloping. “Oh dear, I held onto my hat but all my hairpins have gone flying, as usual.”

“Doubtless Mrs Copple will have some,” he said, clenching his hands to prevent plunging them into the mass of honey-gold silk flowing down her back. The journey was proving more trying than he had expected, and he had not even broached the subject of clothes. “I'm glad you enjoyed it, but a straight road with no obstacles is scarcely a test of driving skills. Which reminds me, you have not yet admired the waistcoat to which Lizzie drew your attention.”

She glanced at the garment in question.  “It does not seem to me remarkable, except as a testimony of your ability. I do not understand why Lord Pomeroy objects to it.”

“As in behaviour, so in dress there is a fine line between the acceptable and the unacceptable, to the fastidious.”

“To be sure. I hope I have taught Lizzie to choose what will at once suit her best and satisfy the dictates of fashion.”

“Lizzie's new wardrobe is impeccable. It is a pity that you do not follow your own advice.” Though he kept his eyes on a farm cart ahead, he sensed her immediate withdrawal. “For your sister's sake, Claire. Since you mean to chaperone her, your dress cannot but reflect on her. You have done so much for her already. Do not fail her in this small matter. Are you so set against it?”

“No.” Her voice was uncertain. “I suppose it is just that I have been told so many times that even the in most beautiful gowns I shall never be anything but plain.”

“Your dear mama, I take it.” He transferred the reins to his right hand and reached out to raise her lowered face to his. “You are not, ever again, to believe a word Lady Sutton says to you.”

“Yes, my lord!”  She looked surprised at the anger in his voice, but a glimmer of humour lit her eyes. “Not even that I am guilty of no impropriety?”

“I doubt she ever said anything so approving,” he snorted, swinging the curricle past the cart, “merely implied it by lack of criticism on that count. It is not true that you are plain, even in your wretchedest gardening clothes. Nonetheless, I want to see you in a ball gown.”

“There is little likelihood of that,” she said bitterly. “I confess it had not dawned on me that my appearance must affect Lizzie; in any case it makes little difference. She has told me of your kind efforts to introduce her to your friends, but we have yet to receive a single visitor other than you and Lord Pomeroy, let alone any invitations. I was a fool to suppose myself capable of giving her the Season she deserves when I have no acquaintance in Town.”

Aching to take her in his arms and comfort her, he managed to keep his tone light. “Then my efforts are not paying off. I must try something different.”

“You must not think I do not appreciate it, but I do not understand why you are going to so much trouble for us.”

How could she understand when he did not himself?  He turned it to a joke. “Let's call it an irresistible urge to spike your mother's guns.”

A gurgle of laughter rewarded him. He smiled, more than willing to abandon the serious discussion that had landed her in the dismals.

“'Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished,'“ she agreed.

“Hamlet, eh?  I did not take you for a bluestocking,” he teased.

“Surely that is the sort of quotation everyone knows, and inappropriate besides, since Hamlet is talking of his own death, I believe.  I cannot claim to be a bluestocking, or even well-read, but one cannot spend all one's time in the garden, especially in winter. Books on gardening grow dull after a while.”

“Never tell me your mama approves of you reading Shakespeare?”

“Heavens no, but Papa once saw
The Taming of the Shrew
and he takes it as a personal insult almost if she says anything against the Bard.”

The rest of the drive passed pleasantly and quickly in talk of the theatre, Shakespeare and books in general. When they passed Waltham Abbey, they agreed that on some future, more leisurely, visit to her house, they might stop and inspect the magnificent Norman nave. George was glad to have laid the groundwork for a future outing in her company.

He also enjoyed the rest of the day. He was, as he had told Claire, a countryman at heart, and though he had never paid particular attention to gardens, either kitchen or flower, he found much to interest him.

He was especially glad he had come when a vociferous disagreement arose between the mason and the carpenter, come to put in the foundation and frame of the greenhouse, and the glazier. Glazed was the right word for the expression on Claire's face when the men started shouting at each other in semi-comprehensible Essex dialect. Alfie was putting up his fists, prepared to defend her to the death, when George stepped in. He silenced them with a look, and a few pithy, well-chosen phrases had them scurrying back to work.

Claire still looked shaken. George realised with a rush of tenderness that it was not only her mother's diatribes that overset her. She was sensitive to any display of animosity. He put his arm about her shoulders and led her towards the house.

“Come and sit down for a while. Mrs Copple shall make you a pot of tea. Those fellows know perfectly well what they should be doing and I shall go back in a few minutes to make sure they are doing it.”

“Thank you, tea does sound good.” She was rapidly recovering her composure.  “I hope you will join me?”

Claire was not in the least disconcerted at the notion of entertaining a gentleman in the kitchen. Nor was she put out of countenance by Mrs Copple's tea, which arrived on the table very black, very sweet, in earthenware mugs. While the housekeeper bustled about preparing their luncheon, they exchanged amused glances as they pretended to sip the treacle-like brew.

George gave up, hoping the woman would not be mortally offended.

“It's all very well for you,” Claire whispered.  “Gentlemen are not expected to drink tea. I shall have to finish every drop.”

He grinned at her. “Be brave,” he said. “By the way, I noticed your lad was ready to engage in a bout of fisticuffs just now. Inappropriate for the circumstances, but it might be useful some time if he knows how to handle himself. Should you object if I were to give him a few pointers?”

“Alfie?  Do you suppose he could learn?”

“Bruisers are not generally known for their intellects.  I spar regularly with Gentleman Jackson and I'm sure I can teach him a few tricks.”

“If you think it wise,” she said doubtfully.  “I daresay it would be good for him to be able to defend himself, as long as he understands that fights are to be avoided if possible.”

“I shall impress that upon him. Well, there is no time like the present, but you must come and tell him to go with me or he will not stir an inch.”

“I'll come at once.”

“There'll be a bite to eat waiting for you around one, miss,” Mrs Copple promised as they went out.

“Thank you for rescuing me from that tea,” Claire said as the door closed behind them.

“I hope that was not a sample of her cooking.”

“If so, I shall hire a cook when I move here, or learn to do it myself!”

George nodded, keeping to himself his doubts that this would ever be her home.

After luncheon they left Alfie planting roses in the front garden and went for a walk in the Royal Forest of Epping. On the ancient hornbeams and beeches, strangely twisted after centuries of pollarding, buds were showing spring green, and nesting ducks quacked from the heathland ponds. It was quite different from Oxfordshire, Dorset or Northumberland, and they found much to discuss. They agreed that walking gave an intimate view of the countryside which was missed on horseback or in a carriage.

By the time they left to drive back to London, George was convinced that Bertram Pomeroy must be touched in the upper works not to have proposed to Claire yet.

Chapter XIII—Bertram

“Miss Linwood's pictures are much more striking than the paintings at the Academy,” said Lizzie decidedly.

“You cannot be serious in preferring embroidered copies to the original oils.” Bertram's patience was wearing thin, his attention wandering from his horses.