Someone to Wed
Page 21
“Oh, Alex,” his mother said. “I feel all the sympathy in the world for her. I truly do. But it chills me to the heart to think of you married to her.”
“She was terrified,” he said. “This was something she has never done before.”
“I fear for you,” she said. “I know you are thinking of marrying for money, not for yourself but for the people here whose livelihood depends upon the prosperity of Brambledean. And I know you are kindhearted. But, Alex, she is not the bride for you. Oh, I do try not to interfere in your life. I try not to be the sort of mother who hangs about her son’s neck like a millstone. But—Oh, Cousin Humphrey Westcott was a wicked, wicked man and I do not care what anyone says about not speaking ill of the dead.”
Alexander sat down in the chair closest to the door. He rested one elbow on the arm of the chair and pinched the bridge of his nose between a finger and thumb, his eyes closed. “She has come to the conclusion that we are incompatible,” he said. “She told me so just now before she left. She has realized that as my wife she would be compelled to move beyond the life of isolation to which she is accustomed, and she believes herself incapable of doing it.”
He heard his mother expel her breath.
“I asked her to come to London this spring as your guest at Westcott House,” he said. “I offered to take rooms elsewhere. I thought she might be persuaded to meet a few people, attend a few social functions, get to feel more comfortable around her peers. But she will not, or cannot, do it. She has withdrawn her offer and said goodbye.”
Neither lady spoke for a while.
“And I suppose,” Elizabeth said, “you now feel guilty, Alex.”
He opened his eyes and laughed, though without humor. “Like you and Mama,” he said, “I wonder what happened to her. She will not speak of it. The only emotion she showed came when I broached the subject a little while ago. I believe, though, that this whole experiment of hers has left her feeling a little bit hurt. Perhaps more than a little.”
“But that is neither your fault nor your problem, Alex,” his mother said.
He looked broodingly at her. She was quite right, of course.
“I know,” he said. “But I hate to think I may in any way have been the cause of pain to her.”
“Are you feeling a little bit hurt too, Alex?” Elizabeth asked.
He thought about it. “Her birthmark,” he said, “is just the visible symbol of much deeper pain. I was relieved to see her go, Lizzie, I must confess. It was not a relationship that was developing comfortably. But she is a person, and I got to know her a little. She likes daffodils.” He frowned down at the hands he had draped over his knees. “She calls them golden trumpets of hope but was embarrassed when she said it aloud. Perhaps I would like to be her friend, but it is too late for that. Anyway, a friendship between a single man and a single lady never seems quite appropriate. I am sorry to have clouded your day. What can I do to lift the gloom? Take you both for a walk outside, perhaps?” He smiled from one to the other of them.
“I do believe,” his mother said, “I would prefer a quiet half hour or so lying on my bed. It has been an eventful day. But you and Lizzie go outside if you wish.”
“You may be right, Alex,” Elizabeth said, bending to put her embroidery away in the bag beside her chair before getting to her feet. “It may be impossible for you to reach out to Miss Heyden in friendship, but it is not impossible for me. I should like to call upon her at Withington House, with your permission.”
Their mother sighed but said nothing.
“It is all of eight miles away,” he said, “perhaps more. Are you sure, Lizzie?”
“It is good manners to return a call, is it not?” she said. “It need be no more than that. If she freezes me out, then I shall return here with no real harm done. But perhaps she needs a friend, even if the sort of friendship I can offer can really only be conducted by letter. We ladies thrive upon letter writing, though, as you know.” Her eyes twinkled at him.
Would she freeze Lizzie out? He had no idea. But he felt a certain relief to know that she would have the chance at least of a long-distance friendship—and that she would know that she had not been as thoroughly disliked as she had thought.
“Thank you,” he said.
“And now you may escort Mama up to her room,” she said, “and I will come up too for my bonnet. I am in need of that walk.”
Seven
Wren was making preparations to go to Staffordshire. She had not intended it to be so soon. She loved being in the country during springtime, but, more important this year, she had set herself the task of finding a husband. That project was at an end, unsuccessfully as it turned out, but not every enterprise could succeed. That was one lesson she had learned from her uncle. Failure must be taken in one’s stride just as success must be. If one kept a cool, sensible head and learned from one’s mistakes, the successes would ultimately outweigh the failures. There was always something new and something challenging to look forward to. It was a bit hard to believe at the moment, it was true, for her feelings had been bruised and she had found herself for the last day or two a little broody and even a little weepy. But through this experience she had learned that for her, success was to be looked for alone and in impersonal things, most notably in her business. For that at least, she could be grateful.
A change of scenery would invigorate her and do her an immensity of good, she had decided. She would keep herself busy doing what she loved doing and did well. Being there would enable her to speak directly with Philip Croft, the longtime manager, and everyone else. She would be able to get out into the workshops and marvel anew at the almost magical process of creating vases and jugs and tumblers and figurines out of something as airy and fragile as glass. She would be able to watch the glass-blowers, the glass cutters, the engravers, and the painters and know herself in the uplifting company of true artists. She always found it a humbling experience. Whenever she was there, she wondered how she could ever bear to stay away so long.
She was in her room packing the trunk and valise she had had brought up to her dressing room. It was something she always liked to do for herself despite Maude’s protests. But perhaps she was not going to be able to finish. She could hear the arrival of a carriage on the terrace below her window. Who—? No one ever came visiting. Surely it was not him. She did not look through the window, lest he look up and see her. She had no intention of receiving him, though it would not be the best of good manners to turn him away when he had come so far in the rain. If it was him, that was. But there was no one else. If only he had waited until tomorrow, she would have been gone and would not have had to worry about being rude.
It was Maude who tapped on her door and opened it at Wren’s bidding. “Lady Overfield wishes to know if you are at home to visitors, Miss Wren,” she said, looking disapprovingly at the open trunk and valise and shaking her head in exasperation.
“Lady Overfield? Is she alone?” Wren asked.
“Yes, she is,” Maude said. “The earl did not come with her, unless he is stooped down and hiding in the carriage.”
How very foolish to feel a pang of disappointment. But … his sister? Whatever could she want? Had he not told her? “Well, if you said you would come to see if I am home, as I daresay you did,” she said, “she will know that indeed I am here. You had better show her up to the drawing room, Maude, and tell her I will be down in a moment.”
“She was terrified,” he said. “This was something she has never done before.”
“I fear for you,” she said. “I know you are thinking of marrying for money, not for yourself but for the people here whose livelihood depends upon the prosperity of Brambledean. And I know you are kindhearted. But, Alex, she is not the bride for you. Oh, I do try not to interfere in your life. I try not to be the sort of mother who hangs about her son’s neck like a millstone. But—Oh, Cousin Humphrey Westcott was a wicked, wicked man and I do not care what anyone says about not speaking ill of the dead.”
Alexander sat down in the chair closest to the door. He rested one elbow on the arm of the chair and pinched the bridge of his nose between a finger and thumb, his eyes closed. “She has come to the conclusion that we are incompatible,” he said. “She told me so just now before she left. She has realized that as my wife she would be compelled to move beyond the life of isolation to which she is accustomed, and she believes herself incapable of doing it.”
He heard his mother expel her breath.
“I asked her to come to London this spring as your guest at Westcott House,” he said. “I offered to take rooms elsewhere. I thought she might be persuaded to meet a few people, attend a few social functions, get to feel more comfortable around her peers. But she will not, or cannot, do it. She has withdrawn her offer and said goodbye.”
Neither lady spoke for a while.
“And I suppose,” Elizabeth said, “you now feel guilty, Alex.”
He opened his eyes and laughed, though without humor. “Like you and Mama,” he said, “I wonder what happened to her. She will not speak of it. The only emotion she showed came when I broached the subject a little while ago. I believe, though, that this whole experiment of hers has left her feeling a little bit hurt. Perhaps more than a little.”
“But that is neither your fault nor your problem, Alex,” his mother said.
He looked broodingly at her. She was quite right, of course.
“I know,” he said. “But I hate to think I may in any way have been the cause of pain to her.”
“Are you feeling a little bit hurt too, Alex?” Elizabeth asked.
He thought about it. “Her birthmark,” he said, “is just the visible symbol of much deeper pain. I was relieved to see her go, Lizzie, I must confess. It was not a relationship that was developing comfortably. But she is a person, and I got to know her a little. She likes daffodils.” He frowned down at the hands he had draped over his knees. “She calls them golden trumpets of hope but was embarrassed when she said it aloud. Perhaps I would like to be her friend, but it is too late for that. Anyway, a friendship between a single man and a single lady never seems quite appropriate. I am sorry to have clouded your day. What can I do to lift the gloom? Take you both for a walk outside, perhaps?” He smiled from one to the other of them.
“I do believe,” his mother said, “I would prefer a quiet half hour or so lying on my bed. It has been an eventful day. But you and Lizzie go outside if you wish.”
“You may be right, Alex,” Elizabeth said, bending to put her embroidery away in the bag beside her chair before getting to her feet. “It may be impossible for you to reach out to Miss Heyden in friendship, but it is not impossible for me. I should like to call upon her at Withington House, with your permission.”
Their mother sighed but said nothing.
“It is all of eight miles away,” he said, “perhaps more. Are you sure, Lizzie?”
“It is good manners to return a call, is it not?” she said. “It need be no more than that. If she freezes me out, then I shall return here with no real harm done. But perhaps she needs a friend, even if the sort of friendship I can offer can really only be conducted by letter. We ladies thrive upon letter writing, though, as you know.” Her eyes twinkled at him.
Would she freeze Lizzie out? He had no idea. But he felt a certain relief to know that she would have the chance at least of a long-distance friendship—and that she would know that she had not been as thoroughly disliked as she had thought.
“Thank you,” he said.
“And now you may escort Mama up to her room,” she said, “and I will come up too for my bonnet. I am in need of that walk.”
Seven
Wren was making preparations to go to Staffordshire. She had not intended it to be so soon. She loved being in the country during springtime, but, more important this year, she had set herself the task of finding a husband. That project was at an end, unsuccessfully as it turned out, but not every enterprise could succeed. That was one lesson she had learned from her uncle. Failure must be taken in one’s stride just as success must be. If one kept a cool, sensible head and learned from one’s mistakes, the successes would ultimately outweigh the failures. There was always something new and something challenging to look forward to. It was a bit hard to believe at the moment, it was true, for her feelings had been bruised and she had found herself for the last day or two a little broody and even a little weepy. But through this experience she had learned that for her, success was to be looked for alone and in impersonal things, most notably in her business. For that at least, she could be grateful.
A change of scenery would invigorate her and do her an immensity of good, she had decided. She would keep herself busy doing what she loved doing and did well. Being there would enable her to speak directly with Philip Croft, the longtime manager, and everyone else. She would be able to get out into the workshops and marvel anew at the almost magical process of creating vases and jugs and tumblers and figurines out of something as airy and fragile as glass. She would be able to watch the glass-blowers, the glass cutters, the engravers, and the painters and know herself in the uplifting company of true artists. She always found it a humbling experience. Whenever she was there, she wondered how she could ever bear to stay away so long.
She was in her room packing the trunk and valise she had had brought up to her dressing room. It was something she always liked to do for herself despite Maude’s protests. But perhaps she was not going to be able to finish. She could hear the arrival of a carriage on the terrace below her window. Who—? No one ever came visiting. Surely it was not him. She did not look through the window, lest he look up and see her. She had no intention of receiving him, though it would not be the best of good manners to turn him away when he had come so far in the rain. If it was him, that was. But there was no one else. If only he had waited until tomorrow, she would have been gone and would not have had to worry about being rude.
It was Maude who tapped on her door and opened it at Wren’s bidding. “Lady Overfield wishes to know if you are at home to visitors, Miss Wren,” she said, looking disapprovingly at the open trunk and valise and shaking her head in exasperation.
“Lady Overfield? Is she alone?” Wren asked.
“Yes, she is,” Maude said. “The earl did not come with her, unless he is stooped down and hiding in the carriage.”
How very foolish to feel a pang of disappointment. But … his sister? Whatever could she want? Had he not told her? “Well, if you said you would come to see if I am home, as I daresay you did,” she said, “she will know that indeed I am here. You had better show her up to the drawing room, Maude, and tell her I will be down in a moment.”
