15 Poetry And A Proposal
Bea blushed again and again, keeping her face averted as they descended the stairs, hoping he would not notice her discomposure. He had caught her completely off her guard with that kiss, not even a proper kiss, no more than a peck on the lips, but she could feel the warmth all the way to her toes. She tingled with it, as if she were standing too close to the fire. It was most unnerving.
He had asked her if she had a heart to break, and oh, how she longed to answer him truthfully! Yet she could hardly tell him that his was the kiss which set her on fire. She had promised, and she would keep to her word, whatever happened. She would not pursue Bertram, no matter how tempting. For the moment, her primary target must be the amusing Lord Grayling, and if she could inveigle a kiss from him, then she would be able to make a choice.
And yet… if only it could be Bertram! He was not handsome like Walter, nor was he powerful like Lord Grayling, a man who walked with a sort of swagger that was more than mere aristocratic haughtiness. She had seen enough of that at Marshfields to understand the arrogance of the nobleman. The baron had that, true enough, but he also exuded a physical presence that she could not quite explain, yet it made her a little uneasy. Whereas Bertram was as comfortable as her old walking boots, which were worn and misshapen, but raised her spirits every time she put them on. Which was a very odd comparison, now that she thought about it.
There was no time to consider the matter further, for as soon as they reached the breakfast parlour, she was surrounded by Bertram's friends, all talking to her in Latin, and she had to concentrate to answer them with her limited vocabulary. They professed themselves delighted to hear that she was to join them for the meeting that morning.
"An excellent day to choose," Mr Fielding said. "Embleton's poetry is glorious — you will not find better, even in Horace."
Bertram took exception to this slur on his favourite, and the conversation rapidly became too difficult for Bea to follow. Once breakfast was over, Bertram escorted her courteously to a prime seat in the old chapel, right in the front row. With a grin of triumph, Fielding was quick to take the seat beside her, but since she was positioned on the end of the row, Lord Brockscombe and Lord Thomas were obliged to sit behind her. The rest of the seats filled up, but Bea was the only lady present. One or two of the gentlemen frowned as they saw her, but the marquess smiled and waved as he passed her by.
Bertram began almost at once, standing at the front with an assurance she had seldom seen in him. He was a self-effacing man as a rule, but here he conveyed a quiet authority which commanded respect. The audience fell immediately into silence as he spoke, and listened intently.
She could understand little of it. She caught the marquess's name once or twice, and ‘poeta', which was easy to translate, but after that, it was only an occasional word. It hardly mattered. She had Bertram's warm voice to listen to, and the cadences of the poems themselves, each one different from the one before, the words hovering in the air like the notes of a musical piece, weaving themselves into a magical whole. It was wonderful, and Bertram read with such feeling that she almost felt she could understand the meaning from his voice alone. Sometimes, at the end of one or other piece, she would be moved almost to tears, and a soft sigh ran round the room from the gentlemen. But no one spoke or clapped or made any sort of noise
After a while, Bertram stopped reading and said something directly to the audience, and at once they began talking amongst themselves, but that, too, was in Latin and beyond her comprehension.
Mr Fielding turned to her. "Did you make anything of that, Miss Franklyn? Embleton is an excellent poet but convoluted, sometimes."
"I did not understand any of it, but I very much enjoyed listening to Bertram's reading. What is happening now? What is everyone talking about?"
"We will form small groups and discuss the poems — the metre, the structure, the word choices and so on. It gets rather technical."
"There are no more poems to be read?"
"No, although one or two might be read again at the end. I am afraid this part of the meeting will not greatly interest you. Should you care to return to the other ladies now?"
She pulled a face. "Embroidery is very tame by comparison, but I had better go and find my mama, and see if she has any duties for me this morning."
"Then allow me to escort you."
Mr Fielding offered her his arm, and although she could find her way perfectly well, she had no wish to appear rude, so she smiled and placed her hand on his arm.
"Shall we walk around for a little while?" he said, as soon as they had left the chapel. "It is pleasant to stretch one's legs a little after sitting in one attitude for so long."
Bea never minded a walk in fine weather, for she had always plenty of energy which sitting about with books or embroidery did nothing to dissipate, so they walked out into the colonnade and thence into the summer warmth of the southern garden. She laughed and turned her face to the sun in delight, but her moment of happiness was cut short.
"Miss Franklyn, oh, dear Miss Franklyn!" Mr Fielding spun her round, seizing her roughly by her arms so abruptly that she gave a squeak of alarm. "Forgive me, but I must speak or I shall burst! From the moment I first saw you, I have been your devoted slave, and I know I have no great title or fortune, nothing to set my claim above others who might also be drawn to you, nothing but my very great admiration and affection… my undying love and devotion… and a house, as snug a parsonage as you could wish for, and a sufficient income… it is not much, I know, and quite unworthy of you… I am unworthy, but your father encouraged me to—"
"My father encouraged you?" she cried, this revelation startling her into utterance. "Why?"
"Why?" He licked his lips, a frown crossing his face. "Well… he said… he said… he wished me well in the endeavour."
"Yes, but why? Why would he imagine I would marry you?" Anger and surprise made her abrupt. "I was betrothed to Viscount Birtwell, Mr Fielding, when he was Viscount Birtwell and heir to the Earl of Rennington, and I broke that engagement when he would no longer inherit. I have no objection to you personally, for you are as agreeable a man as I ever met, but why would I marry a clergyman, no matter how snug the parsonage may be? And frankly, I am not accustomed to snug houses, sir. They sound most disagreeable. I am very sorry if you have harboured unrealistic hopes, but I should very much prefer to live in a house with a dozen bedrooms, at least, and a gallery long enough to hold a ball in comfort."
He stared at her, his face drooping with chagrin, and she stepped backwards so that he was forced to release her. Her arms throbbed — she would have hideous bruises there, she knew it! Still, she could not but pity him.
"I am sorry, Mr Fielding, but I cannot possibly marry you." When he still said nothing, she went on, "I shall go to the saloon and find Mama."
She half expected him to come running after her, or to say something, anything, but he stood transfixed as she turned and walked away from him. When she entered the colonnade and looked back, he was still standing there as if rooted to the spot.
Anger sped her steps through the multitude of passageways to the saloon. How dared he offer for her! He was not even on the list. Lord Brockscombe, Lord Thomas Medhurst and Lord Embleton — those were her targets, together with the possible outside bet of Lord Grayling. But definitely not Mr Fielding! Her fortune and her stepmother's connections meant that she could at least expect a title. What gave Mr Fielding the right to offer for her, and as for Papa—! What on earth was he thinking, to encourage the pretensions of a man like that?
Had she inadvertently encouraged him? She had certainly been open and friendly with him, just as with Bertram's other friends. It had not occurred to her to do otherwise, but she had never supposed him to be a suitor. Not that there was anything wrong with him beyond the lack of a title, she supposed. And the parsonage… she shuddered. She could not see herself living in a parsonage, and doing good works about the parish as a dutiful vicar's wife.
She was so engrossed in her own thoughts that she failed to see her stepmother at the top of the service stairs.
"Beatrice? Wherever have you been? I have been looking for you."
She jumped, and executed a hasty curtsy. "Oh! I beg your pardon, Mama. I was just coming to find you."
"Have you been out walking? Remember to conserve your strength for the ride this afternoon."
"No, I was attending the gentlemen's meeting."
"The gentlemen's meeting?Whatever are you doing mingling with… with intellectuals?"
"Why should I not? I am learning Latin, so—"
"Learning Latin?Beatrice Franklyn, how many times must I tell you that this wild behaviour just will not do. Ladies do not learn Latin. French, perhaps. Italian, certainly — most respectable, although one only needs a very little, to carry off a song, and you have already achieved an adequate degree of accomplishment there. No further book learning is necessary after leaving the schoolroom. You will only addle your brain, and give any rational gentleman a disgust of you. You are to give up all thought of learning Latin, do you hear me?"
"Yes, Mama," she said miserably, dipping a curtsy.
"You will go to the saloon at once, and spend the rest of the morning in useful occupation. I shall expect to see two additional roses on your tapestry before you leave for your ride."
"Yes, Mama." Another curtsy, and she was permitted to creep away to the saloon, find her work basket and take up the hated tapestry.
There was no one else in the saloon, but she dared not abandon her task, in case she should be forbidden from the ride that afternoon. So she stitched diligently until Harper came to fetch her to change into her riding habit. Her spirits lifted at once, for she would have Bertram's company for a few hours, and she could ask him some questions about the ablative, which were puzzling her rather. That would not contravene her stepmother's prohibition, would it? It was not book learning, merely talking, after all.
Such anticipated treats rarely materialise, however, as she should have realised. Time after time her hopes had been raised and then dashed. The glorious success of a season in London, the spectacular marriage into the nobility, even the acceptance into her stepmother's exalted family — none of it had come to pass. The Bucknells had never liked her. They had smiled to her face and sneered at her behind her back. Then there were the trivial mishaps of everyday life — the new bonnet that disintegrated at the first drop of rain, the silk that had looked so fetching in the drapery but made her look bilious, or the planned outings that had to be put off because of inclement weather. Life was one long succession of disappointments.
Here was another such, for instead of Bertram and the pleasures of the subjunctive, she found herself lifted into the saddle by Lord Grayling, who sprang onto his own horse and positioned himself alongside her as their group trotted away from the stables. Well, that was a pleasure of a different sort, and the ablative could wait.
At first, they spoke only of the warmth of the afternoon sun, and the welcome shade of the limes along the drive, as his highly strung horse danced and pranced along, with many a toss of his fine head. Then there was a narrow lane to be negotiated before they came to more open country and could spread out a little. The baron controlled his mount without effort and then adjusted their progress, she noticed, to put a little space between the two of them and the other riders in the group. Bertram was now some way in front with his friends and Miss Grayling. Behind them, the duke and the marquess were escorting Miss Hutchison and the nervous Miss Pikesleys, their pace slow. Mr Fielding had not come out at all.
"It was a pleasure to see you at the meeting this morning, Miss Franklyn," the baron said, with a harder than usual tug on the reins to bring him closer to her. "Is it Embleton's odes or the man himself who interests you most, I wonder? I am mortified that you did not attend my own presentation on Seneca, but then a mere baron such as myself cannot hope to compete with a future duke who also writes amorous poetry."
Amorouspoetry? That was an interesting element to the character of a man who seemed uninterested in women.
"I am sure your speech was very interesting, sir, but I could not understand any of it."
"You heard it?" he said, eyebrows raised.
"Very clearly from my position in the chapel gallery, but as I say, I understood none of it, so I did not stay long. Poetry is more interesting to me, with its rhythms. Whatever the subject of Lord Embleton's poems, Bertram read them beautifully."
"Ah yes, the future earl. If it comes to pass, that is."
A strange comment. "Why should it not? Lord Rennington has no legitimate heirs of his own, so his brother will inherit and Bertram after him."
"Perhaps," Lord Grayling said, his eyed hooded. "The earl is still young enough to sire more sons."
"But the countess is not."
"He is not married to the countess, is he? The marriage is invalid, and he has sent her away. If he marries a younger woman, he could easily put his brother's nose out of joint, and your friend Atherton's nose, too. That would be amusing, would it not?"
Bea was struck dumb. It was an idea which had not for one moment occurred to her, but now that it did, she saw all too clearly the plausibility of it. Her stepmother had wondered many times why the Countess of Rennington had left Corland Castle at just the moment when it might be supposed that her presence would be of most benefit to her family. Bea had not been very interested in such speculation — once she had jilted Walter, his family was of no consequence to her. Now she understood the reason for her stepmother's concern.
Lord Grayling's attitude struck her as odd, however. "Amusing? How would that be amusing?"
"Why, it would mean that any lady who set her cap at Atherton, thinking to become a countess one day, would be sadly disappointed."
Bea bristled at his supercilious smirk. "I hardly think any lady so fortunate as to marry Bertram would be disappointed in her situation, title or no."
She spoke louder than she intended, perhaps, for several of the riders ahead of them turned round with curious expressions, but Lord Grayling only laughed. However, when he spoke, his tone was thoughtful. "Indeed she would. Atherton is a fine young man, in many ways, and his wife will be blessed indeed." Then he spoilt the effect by adding mischievously, "I wonder who she will be? Can you think who it might be, Miss Franklyn? You are deep in the gentleman's confidence, so I am sure you have some inkling of where his thoughts lie."
"His thoughts lie mostly with Horace," she said, chuckling.
The baron laughed again, louder this time, so that Bertram again turned round to frown at them. "That is true of most of the gentlemen here," Lord Grayling said, his eyes twinkling merrily. "They may fawn over the ladies in the evening, but it is an absent-minded sort of attention, for their minds race ahead of them to the next talk."
"And yours does not?" she said archly.
"Not even Horace has any power over me when there is a beautiful young lady present."
"So that is why you take your sister about with you, I suppose, to protect you from thoughts of Horace."
"She is lovely, is she not?" he said, smiling fondly at Miss Grayling ahead of them, the delicate feathers of her hat waving as she cantered along. She rode as well as she did everything else, and how unfair to lesser beings that any girl should be so beautiful and so accomplished, too. Lord Grayling leaned across to whisper in her ear, "But it is not she who distracts me from the Latin poets." Before Bea could reply, he had straightened himself and went on in a more normal tone, "Miss Franklyn, my horse is restless, I would stretch his legs a little and there is a very tempting hedge over there. If you permit, the challenge would be amusing to me. You may follow the others through the gate and I will meet you again in the next field."
Without waiting for her reply, he urged his horse into a gallop and tore away across the field to leap the hedge at a low point near the furthest corner. It was bravely done, and Bea could only watch and admire. By the time she reached the gate, which Bertram was holding open, Lord Grayling had already slowed his mount and was coming round to meet her again.
"Showing off in front of the ladies," Bertram muttered as she passed through the gate. "Why can he not go through the gate like everyone else? What were you talking about, the two of you, that so amused him?"
"Everything amuses him," she said. "He is a light-hearted man. Thank you for holding the gate, Bertram."
She urged her horse forward with a smile to meet Lord Grayling, for at that moment his twinkling eyes were far more enticing than whatever crotchets were producing the ferocious scowl on Bertram's face. Besides, the baron had paid her a very pretty compliment, had he not? ‘But it is not she who distracts me from the Latin poets.' Who else could he mean, when he looked at her in that meaningful way?
As she complimented him on his horsemanship, noticing the strength in his thighs and the masterful control he exerted over his spirited mount, she exulted in her success. Now this was more like it! A handsome and charming man, a baron, no less, and giving her clear signs that he preferred her company above others. It was all very promising… very promising indeed. All she had to do was to push him a little into making his offer.
Only the shortness of time gave her any concern. A week, that was all she had left. Would it be enough?