Come Be My Love

  COME

  BE

  MY

  LOVE

  by

  Diana

  Brown

  ST. MARTIN'S PRESS

  New York

  Copyright © 1981 by Diana Brown

  For information, write: St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010 Manufactured in the United States of America

  Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data

  Brown, Diana.

  Come be my love.

  I. Title.

  PR6052.R58943C6 823'.914 81-5737

  ISBN 0-312-15090-3 AACR2

  Design by Manuela Paul

  CLS 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  First Edition

  For my mother—

  with love.

  Come live with me and be my Love,

  And we will all the pleasures prove

  That hills and valleys, dales and fields,

  Or woods or steepy mountain yields.

  Christopher Marlowe

  The Passionate Shepherd to His Love

  PART ONE

  Wiltshire

  Moonraker

  Good even, good fair moon, good even to thee;

  I prithee, dear moon, now show to me

  The form and the features, the speech and degree

  Of the man that true lover of mine shall be.

  —Sir Walter Scott,

  The Heart of Mid-Lothian

  I

  I fell in love with Darius Wentworth when I was twelve.

  Even now I remember that day in late summer—unusu­ally warm. Paul, my brother, and I had been playing by the stream that skirted the west boundary of my father's property, Seton Place, separating it from Charteris, the great estate of Lord Bladen, Darius Wentworth's father. The Wentworths, along with other powerful Whigs, had been raised to the peerage during the reign of William and Mary, at which time the head of that family had adopted the title Baron of Bladen. Charteris had, however, been in their hands long before it became a barony. It was the most extensive estate in our part of Wiltshire and was much renowned for the classical beauty of its Palladian mansion, which owed its design to Inigo Jones. It boasted a library unequalled in southern England, though on that summer day such a stuffy place was of little interest to me.

  Paul and I had been playing French and English, and I had had to be Napoleon departing for Elba to Paul's vic­torious Wellington. Still I preferred Paul's company to that of my sisters even when at last I refused to be Napoleon any­more, the raft we had constructed for his exodus from Europe being decidedly flimsy, and Paul became absolutely repulsive with Sylvester, his pet frog, threatening to stuff him down the back of my dress. Finally I seized the poor creature from his grasp and threw him into the stream, thinking him better off there than left to Paul's uncertain devices. Paul, who was a year older than I and had a considerable advantage in size, caught hold of me and was about to throw me in after Sylves­ter when a voice called out, surprising both of us.

  "Whoa there, young Cox-Neville, what are you about? Don't you think it's about time you started to treat a lady with some respect, even if she is your sister?"

  Paul dropped his grip on my arms and flushed. I did also. I had never been called a lady before. In the uproar we had been making, we had neither of us heard Darius Wentworth ride up on the other side of the stream. We both knew him, of course, though our families were not close because of what father always called the Bladens' damnable Whiggery, but I think it was the first time I really saw him.

  He sat, reining his chestnut mare, his long, muscular legs encased in white buckskins and gleaming brown leather boots, a coat of nut-brown superfine enhancing the square set of his broad shoulders, his long face with its classic Wentworth nose and deepset grey eyes lit by a half-smile. I wondered for an instant if Sylvester had been changed into a prince, a most usual happening in fairy stories. I was suddenly aware of my own muddied exterior; my hands were covered with slime from the banks of the stream and my face, I suspected, was not much cleaner.

  Paul recovered his composure somewhat, enough at least to reply, "But she threw Sylvester into the stream." "Sylvester?"

  "Yes, Sylvester. He's my pet frog, or was—now I'll never find him."

  "I think it is for Sylvester to find you, and he will if he really wants to. Sit down quietly where you last saw him and perhaps he'll come back to you. There are times, though, when a loss may be a gain. I doubt very much that your mother would want Sylvester in her drawing room, and I've a strong suspicion that he may be much happier where he is."

  With that he turned to me. How clear and direct was his gaze, yet I detected a trace of laughter in his eyes.

  "As for you, Miss Cox-Neville, let's see, you're Henrietta, aren't you?"

  "No," I answered quickly, annoyed at being mistaken for my younger sister, "I'm Alexandra."

  "Alexandra, of course, how could I forget such a beautiful name. Perhaps you should go home and change that dress. You're awfully muddy and wet, and even though it's warm today, I don't doubt you could catch a chill."

  I nodded silently, for no words I could think of seemed worthy of reply to such a paladin. He raised his riding crop in salute and spurred his horse to a trot, then a gallop. I stood transfixed watching his departing figure, imagining myself Queen Guinevere to his Launcelot.

  "Come along," Paul ordered from the bank of the stream. "Come on, Alex, don't just stand there—help me find Syl­vester."

  "You heard what Mr. Wentworth said, Paul: you are to treat me like a lady and I am to go and change my dress."

  "Oh, that stuff! Do hurry, Alex, you threw him in. He'll come to you. Please!"

  "Well . . ." I hesitated. It was too fine a day to go home. "Since you said please." My haughty tones were remin-iscent of my eldest sister, Eugenia, for whom I cared little but who had a triumphant way of putting people in their place with a word or sometimes just a glance.

  I spent the next hour wading in the stream until I came upon a frog who looked remarkably like Sylves-ter, and I pre­sented him to Paul.

  "That's not Sylvester. I don't see that little brown spot Sylvester had behind his left ear," he complained.

  "Frogs don't have ears," I decided, for I wanted to go home and think about my hero. Seeing Paul about to argue, an argument that might continue indefinitely, I hastened to add, "And even if they do, that spot was probably mud and it got washed off in the stream, just as you'd better wash off the mud behind your ears before mother sees it. I'm going home anyway, so if that's not Sylvester, you must find him yourself."

  With that, I took off, holding my sopping skirts high above my ankles, bounding across the buttercups in the mea­dow and through the trees in our pear orchard until I came to our rambling greystone house, at which point I slowed to a more sedate pace in case anyone should be watching.

  I went in through the kitchen, not wishing to run into mother, who would, I knew, appreciate the state of my dress even less than she would appreciate Paul's muddy ears, and asked Alice to bring me up some warm water.

  "Been horseplaying in the stream again I see, Miss Alex," she sniffed.

  "I have not." I lifted my head haughtily without looking at her. "I just sort of. . . fell in," and I ran upstairs before she could say anything else. Alice was my friend; Eugenia said I was far too familiar with her, but I liked Alice far more than I liked Eugenia. Of course, I liked almost everybody more than I liked Eugenia, even though she was my sister.

  I washed and then I changed into my best white muslin dress, the one with the blue satin sash. Then I tied up my thick chestnut hair with a blue ribbon; as I did so I could not help wishing it were not quite so curly but resembled more Eugenia's sleek locks. I stood back and gazed critically at t
he results in the looking glass.

  My eyes were almost exactly the same brown as my hair; mother called them expressive, but I thought they were too far apart for beauty. They were large; that I liked. But so, too, was my mouth. There was nothing of the rosebud about that. I smiled at myself and it became positively expansive, not at all what I wanted even if it did make me look very happy. I wondered whether repeating "true blue" over and over to my­self would help. I tried but I felt so silly I burst out laughing, my smile broader than ever. Thank goodness my teeth were white and even, since so many of them showed when I laughed. My eyebrows were the next focus of my criticism. Why were they not thin and arched instead of thick and straight. Oh, dear!

  I turned to see as much of myself as I could in the oval mirror. I was tall for my age, and my figure was just beginning to develop. Yes, I decided, hands on slim waist, I would proba­bly have quite a nice shape, and perhaps that would offset my overly wide smile and the fact that my nose tended to turn up ever so slightly. I pushed the tip down to straighten it. I would be much prettier if only my nose were as straight as Eugenia's. I sighed. There was nothing I could do about it.

  I sighed again, then I remembered his comment on my name—Alexandra, such a beautiful name, he had said. It would have to make up for my nose. I had always thought mother's choice of names for us girls had been excellent: first Eugenia, then Cassandra who was always Cassy for short, me, and then Henrietta, my youngest sister whom we called Netty. But mother seemed not to have taken the same pains in choos­ing names for the boys. I thought them all most ordinary-Thomas, Paul and James, the baby. I often wondered whether father had not chosen them, boys being so much more impor­tant to him than girls. None of them had the allure of Darius, a Persian king. I wasn't good at history but I did know that Darius had been conquered by Alexander, though the date I had been required to learn by heart completely escaped me as dates always did. History always repeats itself, our governess said, but she had managed to make it so dull I had never wanted it to until now.

  "Mrs. Darius Wentworth," I said aloud to myself in the looking glass. One day, of course, Darius would be Lord Bladen.

  I took up my journal and wrote in my best copper-plate: "Lord and Lady Bladen request the honour of your presence at a reception in honour of the Prince Regent at 5 p.m."

  I paused, then added "sharp." It wouldn't do to be late for the Prince Regent.

  I leafed through my journal, looking over some of the stories I had written. The next one I wrote would be about Darius. I suspected that all the stories I wrote from then on would have only one hero.

  I wandered over to my bookcase and took down a book of stories about King Arthur's court that Aunt Maud had given me on my last birthday. I had not been overly pleased with it then, for I had wanted the shiny, red top I had seen in Mrs. Stuckney's general shop in Linbury, but now I carried it over to the windowseat and turned to the picture of Sir Launcelot of the Lake, seated upon his horse, bedecked in full armour. Though I had not remarked it before, I now saw that he sin­gularly resembled Darius Wentworth, though Darius was much better-looking. I turned next to the picture of Queen Guinevere, though I suppose I was closer in years to Elaine, the lily maid of Astolat, who had loved Sir Launcelot with a love that was her doom, for it was the queen who had won that knight's love. Unfortun-ately Queen Guinevere looked nothing like me at all, having long, flaxen hair and pale blue eyes and a skin that had never been exposed to the sun as had mine. Nevertheless I started reading the story of their ill-fated love, but it was too sad. Tears streamed down my face at the thought of a love unfulfilled. Mine must never be so destined.

  "There, now, you've gone and caught cold!"

  Alice's accusing tones broke into my reverie and I jumped.

  "Whatever makes you think so?"

  "Your eyes—they're all watery."

  "That's nothing," I wiped them hastily, "I was looking out towards Linbury and the sun got in my eyes, that's all."

  And as if to prove my point, I scanned the outline of our village, nestling between the mysterious beauty of the Saver­nake Forest and the broad expanse of the Marlborough Downs. The most prominent point was the grey tower of St. Mary's, our parish church, which, as Mr. Linnell, our pastor, constantly reminded us, was the most beautifully propor­tioned in England, though all it brought to my mind was Mr. Linnell's intermin-able sermons, which I endured each Sunday with long-suffering forebearance, pinioned as I always was be­tween father and Eugenia and as far away from Paul as was possible. The roofs of the village homes huddled around the church like grey lambs around an enormous ewe seeking to find warmth and comfort. There was little such solace in Mr. Linnell's exhortations.

  Alice, standing behind me, pointed over towards the old Tudor house where our neighbours, the Fanshawes, lived.

  "I know you wasn't out playing with Master Augustus or you'd never have got in such a state. He's a real little gentle­man, he is."

  "And a real sissy! Paul says even I have more daring, and I'm a girl."

  Still I preferred Augustus to Howard Ramsey, who was older but so bossy and overbearing that I could not abide him. The Ramsey estate at Feltenham, some five miles from us, was still known as The Close though they had renamed it Ramsey Manor when they enlarged and remodelled the simple and elegant old house. The Ramseys had become wealthy in some kind of trade that was never discussed. Despite this defect—for father put a great store by lineage—they dined with us fre­quently, for their wealth, ill-gotten though it might be, cou­pled as it was with their staunch Toryism, made them acceptable social companions.

  In the opposite direction the towering outline of Char­teris, with its classical Italianate facade, embel-lished by well-proportioned windows and surmounted by a balustraded roofline, bespoke harmony and perfect form even to my un­tutored eye. It was surrounded by a magnificently landscaped park with spacious, sloping lawns interspersed with giant

  Cedars of Lebanon. To approach it from Seton Place meant encircling its boundary of miles of sward and deeply wooded ridges, but Paul and I knew a shortcut through the woods behind our orchard, and it was by that route that we would raid their apple orchards when we had our fill of our own pears.

  "Are you still friendly with the footman at Charteris, Alice?"

  "You mean Miller?" Alice blushed slightly and busied herself pouring out the water in which I had washed and wip­ing the bowl.

  "Yes, Miller—are you going to marry him?" I was sud­denly avidly interested in their romance, as though a match between our parlour maid and the Bladens' footman would link our two houses.

  "Goodness me, I don't know. A woman's got to be asked. What questions you do put, Miss Alex." Alice eyed me sharply. "Soon be dinnertime. Better get a move on and get out of that fancy frock or you're going to spoil it."

  But when Alice left, I became so engrossed in gazing out towards Charteris and wondering what Darius might be doing there at that very moment that I did not hear the dinner bell and was startled when Eugenia burst into my room, calling for me to come down immediately. Eugenia, at sixteen, was the family beauty, tall and fair, with clear blue eyes. She re­sembled the Queen Guinevere of my book far more than I ever would.

  "Mother will be furious when she sees you wearing your best frock! What on earth did you put that on for? It's not as though we have guests dining with us today. I suppose you got yourself filthy scrimmaging with Paul and had to change and now you've decked yourself up as though you're going to a party. Really, Alexandra, you have no sense of moderation," she railed as we descended the stairs together. Queen Guine­vere would never have sounded so shrill, I decided, but I held my peace and made no reply, only apologizing for my tardi­ness to father and mother as I entered the dining room.

  "If you are quite ready, Alexandra," my father's voice was edged with sarcasm as I took my place at the long table between Paul and Henrietta, "Thomas will proceed with grace."

  Father, to me, was always larger than life, though he was,
in reality, of moderate stature. My misconception may have stemmed from his alarming manner when rebuking us. At those not-infrequent times his bushy eyebrows, which formed a solid bridge across his nose, were raised high above his inor­dinately widened, dark, forceful eyes, and his already red com­plected face took on an even deeper hue, forcing attention on him to the exclusion of all else. He invariably filled me with a sense of guilt, possibly deserved since I was rarely entirely in­nocent of his charges. Little wonder, though, that I had a recurrent nightmare of being chased by a mad bull.

  Thomas, my eldest brother, always placed at his right, promised to grow like father in every way, though he still had a full head of hair and his mouth was of a softer inclination than father's, which was usually drawn in a tight, straight line.

  Eugenia sat to father's left and beside her was Cassandra, two years her junior. Cassy was not nearly as pretty as Eu­genia; in fact most people said she was not pretty at all. She was short and rather plump, and her complexion lacked the lustre that made Eugenia so remarkable, but of my sisters she was my favourite. She was quiet and sympathetic, and she listened and never scolded.

  A sidelong glance at Netty beside me showed that she was in her usual quandary of whether to admire or condemn an older sister who was constantly in trouble.

  My mother occupied her usual place at the end of the table. I think she probably had been pretty in her youth, for she was still rather handsome, with her classical, oval face and her flawless skin. Despite the birth of thirteen children, only seven of whom had survived, her figure was still quite comely, but years of my father's dominance had aged her into a sub­missive posture which ill became her. I glanced up as her soft, sensitive eyes fixed questioningly on my white dress, and I breathed a silent sigh of relief when she made no mention of it as Thomas finished grace, merely passing the bread to James, whom she cherished as the baby of the family and who always sat beside her.