Come Be My Love Page 22

  I wanted to tell him about the boy outside, but as I began to speak the world grew dim. The last thing I saw was the black and white tiles of the hall floor coming up to meet and enclose me, strangely soft and welcoming.

  From a canopied bed, under a soft eiderdown, I looked out on a plethora of pink and white rosebuds. They were everywhere—on the walls, on the jug and washbowl, on the eiderdown, even on the nightgown I was wearing.

  I wondered if I could be in heaven. My body seemed oddly formless, weightless. I looked down at my hands lying idly on the bedcover. There was a strangely white, translucent quality about them. I must be dead, but was this heaven or hell? It was warm, which indicated the latter, but none of the sermons I had heard had ever led me to believe there could be pink and white rosebuds in that place. Though my life had not been without blemish, St. Peter must have taken pity on me and allowed me into heaven. But if I were dead, why did I think in the same manner as when I was alive? Why did I start to reason as I had always done? And heaven or hell, surely I couldn't be alone. Where was everybody?

  I tried to raise myself onto my elbows to look out of a nearby window, but I had no strength. I fell back and lay still for some moments before attempting to move again. By rais­ing my head slightly from the pillow, I could see rooftops, many rooftops. Where were they? I closed my eyes and tried to think, but I could remember nothing.

  A door creaked and I opened my eyes to see a plump, rosy-cheeked lady, somewhat past her prime, dressed in a pink-and-white-striped morning dress.

  "Oh, dear, you're awake at last. Alistair and I have been so worried. I must admit we were afraid you would die, and we had no idea who you were or where you came from. It would have been awful to put you into an unmarked grave."

  I nodded in agreement. The idea of being in any grave, now that I had discovered I was alive, was most unpleasant.

  "Well, don't tire yourself trying to talk now. We must get some nourishment into you first."

  I shook my head. I had no hunger.

  "Oh, but you must," the lady insisted. "We'll never get you out of that bed and find out who you are unless you eat something and get some strength. Just a thin gruel, that's all. I think you can manage that. I'll send it up with the maid and I won't trouble you until you've eaten it."

  With difficulty I did manage to swallow the gruel, but then I immediately fell back into the pillows and went back to sleep.

  I don't know how long I slept, but when next I awoke I was ravenously hungry. The lady I had seen previously came back, and soon a meal was brought to me on a tray; eggs, bread and warm chocolate, all of which I devoured under the lady's watchful eyes as she sat by the window with some hand­work in her lap, to which she applied herself from time to time. I could see questions in her eyes and was determined to answer them as well as I could once she had explained to me where I was.

  When the tray was removed, she began.

  "Now, my dear, if you'll forgive my curiosity, Alistair and I are most anxious to know your name and where you are from. We've been harbouring you for almost two weeks now, and we fear someone may be looking for you, someone who is concerned about your whereabouts."

  "But could you please first tell me who you are and where I am?" I asked in bewilderment.

  "Of course. I'm sorry, but I thought you knew. I am Mrs. Alistair Hillaby. My husband is the publisher of Sum of Glory and The New Cassandra, novels you authored. The manuscripts were sent to him anonymously, so we had no way of knowing who had written them. It was quite a predicament for us, I can assure you."

  It was the mention of my books that brought back every­thing to me—Linbury, father, Howard Ramsey, Darius. So I was in London at my publisher's house, exactly where I wanted to be. I felt greatly relieved. I knew, though, that no matter how kind the Hillabys had been to me, I could not reveal to them my true identity. I had no desire for father to be informed of my whereabouts.

  "You must have thought my arrival odd," I said at last. "I travelled to London from a . . . a small village in Northum­berland." This was Paul's county but it seemed sufficiently remote. "And I felt it wiser to adopt male attire for the jour­ney. One hears such terrible tales of young women being ac­costed in London. My luggage was stolen and I was cheated out of most of my ready money," that was true, for I had suddenly remembered the odious little man at the Castle in Marlborough, "and I found myself penniless, with nothing to show for myself except a small package that contained some of my work, mostly poems."

  "Yes, I know, my husband has those. He read them and with great interest. You must not think him inquisitive. It was merely that he had hoped they might divulge your identity, but they gave little clue except . . ."

  I looked at her sharply. I could not remember writing my name on them. I tried to think. "Except what?" I asked at last.

  "Except—well, the stories are good, but from the poems we think you may have had an affair of the heart—and an unhappy one."

  I leaned back into the pillows and closed my eyes. I tried not to think of Darius. I preferred not to. I refused to. Instead I concentrated on a name, a name I knew I must soon supply to this pink-and-white lady in this pink-and-white room. Could I, I wondered, keep my first name—I liked it—and invent an­other family name? But I was afraid that an association might be made in future. No, unfortunately Alexandra would have to go. If I were a character in my own book, I wondered, what would I call myself? Verity—truth—I liked that. But I was not telling the truth. Besides, I felt the signet ring on my left hand, the ring Darius had given to me with its engraved initial A. No, Verity would not do at all. Althea! I shuddered as the name came to my mind. Why did it upset me so? Then I remembered the Countess of Brentwood; it was her name. I certainly would never adopt a name of hers. Arabella! That was it, but Arabella what? Arabella Black, Brown, Grey . . . no, they were so common they sounded fictitious. I thought of authors and poets I liked and suddenly a line by Christopher Marlowe ran through my head, "Come live with me and be my love and we will all the pleasures prove . . ." It contained the very sentiments I had hoped to hear pour from Darius's lips that last time. Instead—but that was all past now. I was being reborn.

  "Arabella Marlowe," I said with a note of finality, open­ing my eyes.

  Mrs. Hillaby, who had returned to her needlework, per­haps thinking I had gone back to sleep, gave a slight start. "I beg your pardon, dear."

  "Arabella Marlowe—that is my name."

  "Oh, I see, Arabella Marlowe of Northumberland. And where in Northumberland would that be?" she enquired with genuine interest.

  "Arabella Marlowe of Willowbrook, Northumber-land," I replied firmly. I had no idea whether such a place as Willow-brook existed in Northumberland, but I gave it rather than Paul's parish, in the event enquiries might be sent.

  "Well, Miss Arabella Marlowe—it is Miss Marlowe, I take it?"

  "It is, indeed," and always will be, I added to myself. "Well, Miss Marlowe of Willowbrook, Northumberland, welcome to London."

  PART TWO

  London Sunflower

  But one, the lofty follower of the sun,

  Sad when he sets, shuts up her yellow leaves, Drooping all night; and, when he warm returns, Points her enamour'd bosom to his ray.

  —James Thomson,

  The Seasons: Summer

  XX

  It was the London of the literary world to which the Hillabys now introduced me, the world of Scott and Southey, Landor and Crabbe and Lamb and myriad others of whom I had read but never thought to meet. It was a world I adopted with delight and zest.

  Many was the time I thanked Sydney Smith in my heart for directing my footsteps to Mr. Hillaby as a publisher, for he had been scrupulously honest on my account. From the Sum of Glory I found I had amassed over one thousand pounds, a veritable fortune. With The New Cassandra on the stands, Mr. Hillaby assured me of even better prospects. For one who had thought herself penniless, it was a miracle.

  If I regarded Mr. Hillaby as the sou
rce of my newfound fortune, he was no less delighted with me. Neither he nor his wife could do enough for me. Indeed, Mrs. Hillaby mothered me beyond any mothering I had ever received.

  There had been great speculation on the identity of the lady who had written my anonymously published novels, they being variously attributed to Mary Shelley, Lady Caroline Lamb, Susan Ferrier and others. When I was sufficiently re­covered, Mr. Hillaby, who had been pestered for the author's name, was anxious to present me so I might acknowledge my work and lay all rumours to rest.

  I demurred, for I was loath to be the source of any public­ity. My family might not hear of it, but Darius, whom I heart­ily hoped never to see again, was in London, and the figures of the literary world moved in the Holland House set of which he was very much a part. I did agree, however, to join the informal gatherings that met regularly on Thursday afternoon at Hans Place, when poets and writers, known and unknown, met to discuss and dispute whether Sir Walter Scott was a genius or a passing fad, whether Byron was an opportunist or genuinely interested in the Greek cause, whether Cowper's was the poetry of a madman or written during his lucid moments. To be treated as an equal by these men—for apart from Mrs. Hillaby, who fussily arranged for everybody's comfort, I was the only woman present—to have my ideas sought, my opin­ions solicited, was wondrous indeed for one who not three weeks thence had thought herself friendless. There were times I feared it might all be a dream, that I might awaken in my room at Seton Place, confined there for some misdemeanour, unloved, unwanted.

  Apart from the stimulation of my new life, Chelsea in itself was an exhilaration after Linbury. I took long walks each morning, past the Ranelagh Gardens, once so renowned but fallen into disfavour with the rise of Vauxhall on the other side of the river, a solitude filled with ghosts of the past, along Cheyne Walk, sometimes stopping to purchase a Chelsea bun from the celebrated Bun House on Fivefields Row.

  More by coincidence than by design, I usually set out as a crocodile of girls issued forth from the school four doors away from the Hillabys' house on Hans Place. I would follow their progress as they stepped smartly along under the aegis of a dragonlike lady who followed them in short, waddling stride not altogether unlike that of a penguin. One morning I was to discover that I was not the only one to derive amusement from this scene, for behind the gorgon I observed an urchin wad­dling in imitation of her gait. As he strutted past me he winked. It was the wink that brought instant recognition.

  "Hello! Hello!" I cried out to him. His stride faltered, and he looked puzzled. The schoolmistress whose ire he had clearly aroused glanced back with hostility and surprise on seeing the source of her irritation being kindly acknowledged by one whom she had previously greeted agreeably. As she urged her girls on, her stride in its haste became even more penguinlike.

  "I thought I should never find you again. Don't you re­member me?"

  The boy eyed me cautiously.

  "You helped me, don't you remember—the day I came to London, you helped me find Mr. Hillaby's house here on Hans Place. Without you I could never have got here, I know I couldn't. Ever since I've wanted to thank you, to repay you for all the trouble you took."

  Still the boy looked doubtful. I reached into my reticule to pull out a guinea, which I gave him. He stared at the gold piece in his hand perhaps not believing in his luck and for an instant I thought he would run off. Then he turned back and looked closely at my face.

  "Cor!" he ejaculated. "Yer never that shallow pate I brought 'ere. Naw, yer not that rum squeaker, yer can't be!"

  I nodded, laughing. "I am that rum squeaker."

  His jaw dropped in amazement.

  "Come on! I'm going to buy you a Chelsea bun."

  As we walked towards the Bun House, I explained to him some of the circumstances that had led to our meeting. Though I didn't reveal to him my true identity, I told him more about myself than I had previously told anyone else in London. There was an instantaneous bond between us. His name, he told me, was Tim Felder, and he lived in Spitalfields but curiosity had driven him back to Chelsea more than once in an attempt to discover what had happened to the young rustic he had left there.

  After our meeting he came often, never asking for me, simply waiting outside until I took my walk and then accom­panying me. Though I gave him money to buy new clothes, his ragamuffin appearance never changed. He said his father took it from him as soon as he discovered it to buy more gin. Even when I bought clothes myself to give to him, these, too, disappeared to be replaced by his rags, gone, I supposed, to the pawnbrokers or sold to the barrow merchants. He looked shamefaced when he appeared without them but offered no explanation, nor did I ask. All I could do was see that he was well fed while he was with me.

  We made an ill-assorted pair, my threadbare friend and me with my stylish short haircut, which had been necessary to overcome the ragged cropping I had given it, but falling as it did in soft curls around my face, I had to admit it was attrac­tive. And for the first time in my life, I had been able to purchase a completely new wardrobe, all of my own choosing. I chose canary yellow silks, emerald green taffetas, even a daring bright geranium-striped walking dress with flowing pelerine and a saucy straw bonnet lined with that same gera­nium-colour silk, against which my chestnut curls gathered in complementary shading. As we walked we drew many a curi­ous glance, but we were too busy to pay heed. I enjoyed his company and he mine. It was always a disappointment for me when I looked out for his thin, elfin figure and it wasn't there.

  With The New Cassandra already in its third printing, Mr. Hillaby again broached the subject of the reception he wished to give in my honour. He entreated me to set a date in order that Mrs. Hillaby might send out the invitations. It would, he assured me, not be a formal gathering but more an enlarge­ment of our Thursday at-homes. Most of those invited I would already have met, though there would be others, friends and supporters of London's literary world. He begged me to con­sider it, not to be intimidated by the thought but to allow the reception to take place. Without divulging my misgivings, I could find no valid reason to refuse him.

  Each day with my new wardrobe, my new hairstyle, my new friends, my new interests, I became more completely Ara­bella Marlowe, a flower who turned to London's sun, and less and less that Wiltshire moonraker who had turned only to a sun who had never perceived her. When Mrs. Hillaby insisted I must have a special gown for the reception, though I de­murred that I had more clothes than I needed, I gave in to the luxury of ordering that gown from Madame Fanchon's exclu­sive establishment on Bruton Street.

  Thus one clear, bright afternoon in early March we set off for London's fashionable West End. It was the first time since my arrival that I had left Chelsea, and I felt some qualms that I might meet some acquaintance from that previous London visit. Yet I was sure that if that should happen, with my changed appearance no one would recognize the gauche pro­vincial who had attracted so little comment.

  But there was one encounter on which I had not reck­oned. At Madame Fanchon's, proud that I could afford it, I had chosen a nile green brocade, terribly expensive, terribly extravagant, with its twisted gold thread. As soon as my eye had fallen on it, I knew it had to be exorbitant and I wanted it, perhaps for that reason, yet I hesitated.

  "An excellent selection, Mademoiselle Marlowe," Ma­dame Fanchon had purred. "The Countess of Brentwood was examining this very piece only yesterday. Her taste, I can as­sure you, is unequalled. I told her that if she did not decide upon it then, it would be gone. She will be disappointed, but ladies must make their choice."

  "They must, indeed," I had concurred, determined then to have it, feeling an absurd and childlike satisfaction in rob­bing that lady of something she desired.

  Following Madame Fanchon's advice, a very plain design for the exquisite brocade was selected, after which Mrs. Hill­aby and I quit her establishment to go over to Gunter's to order cakes and sweetmeats. Because it was so fine we decided to go on foot to Berkeley Square, and the
carriage was ordered to await our return.

  I was on the point of following Mrs. Hillaby inside Gun­ter's when I heard my name called. I say my name, yet it was the name I had set aside—Alexandra, a name no longer mine, which I heard. I had no need to turn my head to know who called.

  Darius pulled his phaeton alongside me. I saw him throw the reins to his groom and make to jump down. In that instant my anger at our last meeting overcame me, the humiliation, the rejection I had suffered. Again I heard that soft laugh that had followed me. He had his Lady Brentwood; for my part I wished never to see him again—never. Without a word of greeting, in fact without any recognition of his presence, I turned away from him, passing quickly into a narrow street that ran alongside Gunter's, determined to make my way on my own back to where the Hillabys' carriage stood.

  "Alex! Alexandra! Stop!"

  People turned in curiosity as I raced to lose myself in the crowds on Bond Street. A gang of young blades, taking me, I suppose, for a demimondaine, caught hold of me and held me in their midst. It shielded me from Darius as he passed by searching for me, yet afterwards I had difficulty releasing my­self from their clutches. It was only when with my clenched fist I bruised the cheek of the most obnoxious among them, who tried to force a kiss upon me, informing him in my sharp­est tones that my uncle, Lord Holland, would seek redress for the grievance, that with muttered apologies they allowed me to proceed. By a circuitous route, making sure Darius was nowhere in sight, I made my way back to Bruton Street and the Hillaby carriage. Mrs. Hillaby, already there, was flus­tered and tearful.

  Flushed and out of breath, I attempted to explain that I had felt dizzy and had chosen to walk back to the carriage rather than go inside Gunter's, but I had lost my way.