Come Be My Love Read online

  "I don't doubt that," I commented drily, remembering the occasion.

  "Dearest Alex!" Darius smiled ruefully. "What you must have been through. It need not, indeed it should not have hap­pened. I followed your trail to London, but once there it was lost completely. You left the Swan in a hurry; no hackney driver that I could find had carried you anywhere. All my enquiries on stagecoach runs going north were without avail. Yet even so I went to Northumberland to see Paul. I did not ask for you when I discovered you were not there and that he had not heard of your disappearance. I knew of your closeness to one another and how he would worry, as I was worrying. I told him that I was on my way to see Francis Jeffrey in Edin­burgh and had broken my journey. On my way back I stopped to see Sydney at Foston. I knew that he had taken to you and you to him that time at Holland House. Knowing of his em­pathy and understanding, I thought you might have gone there. I talked to him. He has a daughter much your age and was filled with sympathy. But his advice to me was to go home, to wait. He was convinced that you were sensible—that though you are impetuous, you would do nothing foolish, nothing unworthy. In that brief meeting how much he had learned—more, I realize, than I in all the years I've known you. Sydney was right, for it was not long after I had returned to London I caught that glimpse of you. And now, here you are."

  I could not help but be affected by his concern, yet he would have done as much for his sisters, and that was how he thought of me, while to me he had never been a brother.

  "Now that you know where I am, what my name is, will you tell father?"

  "Not if you do not wish him to know, though I think it hard that he should not know you are well, more so for your mother. That, however, must be your decision."

  He was right, of course. I had long pondered how I could ease mother's mind without alerting father of my where­abouts, yet I knew her to be so thoroughly dominated by him that she would be unable to keep any intelligence I might send to herself.

  "Your father once told me that the harebell stands for submission. My mother is like that harebell; she submits to my father, she submitted to her father before him, she has never known a life of her own. But now, for the first time, I have, and it is dear to me. I am my own mistress. I support myself on money I earn, money honestly earned. I can go or stay as I please. I can make my own decisions; I can stand by those decisions knowing them to be ones I myself have chosen to make.

  "No, Darius, I cannot tell my mother where I am. I would it were possible to relieve her anxiety, but if mother knows, then father must know. If father knows he will force me to return, to marry Howard Ramsey or, if my exploit has dis­couraged him, it will be some other man of father's choosing."

  "Yet your father could not force you to marry if you were already married," Darius said slowly.

  "But you know I am not, nor under the protection of one who would stand up to father."

  "You are not married, Alexandra, not yet. Yet it is possi­ble that before you inform your father of your whereabouts, you could be married."

  "To whom?" I asked sharply.

  "To me. That is, if you would wish it."

  I felt the colour drain from my cheeks at the words—the very words I had so long awaited, words I had always wanted to hear, words of which I had dreamed. Yet on hearing them, rather than elation my response was anger: anger and resent­ment that those words came so late. My silence clearly per­turbed him.

  "I'm sorry, but I do not, perhaps, express myself well."

  "On the contrary, you express yourself admirably on the floor of the House. It was my wont in times past to extract your speeches from the newspaper and keep them in my diary."

  "I meant that I do not express myself easily with mem­bers of your sex. As I have told you before, I am a politician. At times such as this I would wish to be a poet or to have your command of words."

  "You seemed at no loss for words with a certain lady one night in the library. I believe I recall some very pretty state­ments, thoroughly worthy of a poet, even a play on words-bare skin on bearskin or something of the sort."

  "The play, as I remember it, was the lady's," he replied tersely.

  "The play, it seemed to me, was being enjoyed equally between gentleman and lady."

  Darius flushed. "It is thoroughly unfair of you, Alex, to bring up that incident at this moment, but since you have, I can only repeat what I have said before: the lady is my good friend and has been for a long time. To deny there has been intimacy in that friendship would be a falsehood, one of which you would be only too well aware . . ."

  "And if I were not, would you deny it?" I countered.

  "Quite honestly, Alex, I really don't know. To boast of it is to malign the lady. We are both adults; we have both been free and have not harmed others by seeking solace in each other, but it has been little more than that, on my part at least. I have had no thought to remarry, until now."

  "And now, why do you ask me now?" I demanded.

  "Because I wish to marry you. Ever since John died your place in my affections has changed, I cannot exactly say how or why. You have always been dear to me, but you grew dear in quite another way. While I was in Italy so often my thoughts turned to you, wondering what you were doing. When I searched for you I remembered every line of your face, every expression—and then I found the letters you had written to me, the ones you put away in the desk. I knew then that you needed me, and I need you."

  Had it not been for his mention of Crumpet I believe I would have succumbed completely, but remembering his cold­ness to his child hardened my heart.

  "I meant to burn those letters. In truth they were not so much written to you as for background material for a novel I thought to write." It was a cold, callous lie and I saw him flush as I spoke it.

  "They were addressed to me," he said quietly.

  "They were addressed to you by the same foolish girl who threw herself at your feet in besotted admiration, in the ab­surd infatuation she had held for you since childhood. She came to you in desperation, thinking you her saviour, and you turned from her. Had you come to her for anything, anything at all, she would have moved heaven and earth to get it for you—but not so you. You sent her home, to the place she had run from, back to the suitor she found so objectionable, while you dallied with—with your good friend."

  "I had no idea that Althea—that Lady Brentwood was coming to Charteris, but since she did I could scarcely discuss your predicament in her presence. I went to Seton Place as soon as I possibly could."

  "But it was not to propose marriage, was it?"

  "In all honesty, I must admit it was not. I came to help you. It was when I knew you were gone, when I searched for you, especially when I read your letters, which told me, more than your spoken words, of your love . . ."

  "You don't know what love is, Darius. Your attitude to Crumpet shows you are incapable of love, unless it is for some­one who no longer exists—you can love a memory but not a person with human foibles. You had no time for Alexandra Cox-Neville, and now you are proposing to someone who does not exist either, to the very chic, talented, sought-after Ara­bella Marlowe. Such an imaginary woman is to your liking apparently, but Arabella Marlowe refuses you. She does not choose to marry."

  His face had turned pale as I spoke. "I seem to remember Alexandra Cox-Neville foreswore marriage also."

  "She did and she does. You said earlier that you thought I was under the protection of some powerful lover; and later that I needed you. You believe, just as father does, that with­out a man's protection, a woman is helpless. That is not so. I have proved it is not so. Father, even if he should find me, will never make me go back. And I don't need you, Darius, I shall never ask for your help again."

  Even as we faced one another in open adversity, watching his eyes grow dark, his grave expression, his hands clenched, I knew I could not put from me in so short a time one who had so long been the centre of my existence. But if I lied when I said I did not need him, the time would
come when that would be so. I was determined to be free. My brain had de­cided it; my heart must follow.

  "I trust . . ."

  "Please, Alex—Miss Marlowe, say nothing more. You have made your position perfectly plain. It is well that you did so, for it puts an end to the matter. I assure you I shall never reopen it."

  The finality of his words momentarily overwhelmed me, so that though he rose from his chair, I made no move to follow.

  "If I may make one last comment . . ." he said.

  "Yes, yes, of course."

  "This microcosm of London that has embraced you I know well. I am a part of it. It is fickle. I must warn you that what it loves today, it may either ignore or, worse yet, detest or denigrate tomorrow. Your host, your publisher, Mr. Hill­aby, is a provincial. He may know the world of publishing; he does not, however, know the world of London society, the world into which you will be thrust, whether you want it or not, after last night. Be on your guard. You are a woman of great sense—more than that, of great common sense, that least common of senses. I am sure that you will use it well."

  "Society's acclaim will never go to my head."

  "You are quite unlike others of your sex. But so I have said before, I believe."

  The tension between us softened, and I felt unaccount­ably glad. I saw he was about to leave and I would have made to detain him but the door opened and a maid entered.

  "Oh, I'm sorry, ma'am. I didn't know you was here. I've come for the plants."

  "Later, Mary," I said quickly, but before she closed the door Mrs. Hillaby appeared.

  "Dear me, Arabella, I didn't know you had a visitor. Go along, Mary, I've told you so many times you must not in­terrupt."

  "Yes ma'am." But while Mary left, Mrs. Hillaby made no motion to do so.

  "You remember Lord Bladen, Mrs. Hillaby," I said reluctantly.

  "I called to tell you how much I enjoyed your reception of last evening."

  "It was nothing, nothing at all." Mrs. Hillaby's dismissal of the event belied the commotion in the hall beyond as some­thing quite large and heavy fell with a thud. "Oh dear, oh dear. I'm afraid I must leave you. I think I am needed."

  "I was on the point of departure myself, Mrs. Hillaby. Miss Marlowe and I had quite finished our discussion." He turned and bowed to me. "I shall remain an admirer of your work, Miss Marlowe, though I must reiterate an earlier-voiced criticism: you should not underestimate the passions—the sen­sitivity of men, which are equally as profound as those of the fairer sex."

  Then he was gone.

  I ran to the window to watch his tall figure descend the steps to his waiting chaise. Tim was there, and I saw Darius stop for an instant and say something to him. He reached into his pocket and handed Tim a coin before taking the reins from his groom. A flick of the whip and the horses sprang to. He left without a backward glance.

  XXII

  As Darius had predicted, following the Hillabys' reception and the attribution of Sum of Glory and The New Cassandra to my authorship, Arabella Marlowe became the darling of fash­ionable London, the highly sought-after prize of all those host­esses who made it their life's work to provide their guests with the latest and the very best of everything. The echelon of so­ciety into which we were thrust was previously unknown to the Hillabys, and they found it difficult to hide their awe of it. I felt much like Lord Byron when he wrote, after the publica­tion of Childe Harold, "I awoke one morning to find myself famous." Unlike Byron, however, the excitement caused by that fame soon grew thin, for I saw, perhaps heeding Darius's warning, the emptiness of a society that must feed itself con­tinuously on the rage of the moment, the unusual, the bizarre. It was not me they toasted; they scarcely made any attempt to know me, nor were they impressed by any literary talent I might have possessed. It was primarily because Lady Olway boasted that I had charmed her guests that I immediately became the pearl of Lady Amhurst's drawing room, followed by being guest of honour at the Countess of Dene's ball. The Hillabys revelled in the new scene, but though I accepted the invitations it was more for their pleasure than my own, for I hated the scandal and I eschewed the gossip that surrounded me in those fashionable halls. I longed for the stimulating exchange of ideas of those Thursdays at Hans Place, but none was to be found. I could scarcely utter three words together before a positive tide of aimless comments from my admirers washed them away. Even those Thursdays at Hans Place were spoiled for me, though not for the Hillabys, by the invasion of the smart set who now claimed them as their own.

  There were within the drawing rooms I frequented groups less vapid than those that surrounded me, groups en­gaged in discussion far more to my taste, but Darius was usu­ally in their midst, and though we met amicably enough, there was a constraint between us. He never sought me out; I could not seek him out. All too often the Countess of Brentwood was at his side.

  When first she had met me as Arabella Marlowe, I had been wearing the nile green brocade she had admired at Madame Fanchon's. She had eyed me scrupulously from my short chestnut curls to my cream satin slippers.

  "Miss Marlowe," she purred sweetly. "It is Miss Mar­lowe, is it not? Darius instructed me not to use your other name, though for the life of me I can't remember it."

  "Such a pleasure to see you again, Lady Brentford."

  "Brentwood," she corrected sharply.

  "Do please excuse my stupid mistake, Lady Brentwood. I always think that it evidences a certain lack of civility not to make some effort to remember names correctly. I should hate you to think me uncivil."

  She scrutinized me again, recognizing in me perhaps for the first time a worthy adversary.

  "Allow me to compliment you on the cut of your gown, Miss Marlowe—exquisite, though the brocade is possibly a tiny bit outré."

  "Yet Madame Fanchon informed me after I had selected it that you had it in mind for yourself. I am glad that you rejected it, however, for the colour needs a more vibrant set­ting. With your pale skin and pale hair, it would not show to advantage."

  "How clever you are with words, dear Miss Marlowe. It is impossible to move today without hearing your praises. But you must excuse me. Darius becomes bored when I am away too long." She crossed the room to where Darius was in deep conversation with Lord Grey and took his arm in a deliberate, possessive manner knowing full well it would infuriate me.

  Though I turned my back on them to join in a discussion of Lord Braverton's wager on his new greys, caring not one whit whether he won or lost, my thoughts were all with two members of the group to whom I assiduously kept my back, and I was sure that the Countess of Brentwood knew it. She better than anyone else, I suspected, could fathom my secrets. For that, if for no other reason, I kept myself as far removed from her as possible.

  Darius was scrupulously polite to me whenever we met. Often I wished him less polite, less restrained, yet we could never regain our old footing; not after all that had passed between us. Often I felt his eyes on me, but when mine chal­lenged his, he turned from me. Not that he was hostile—his open and avid praise of my work was often mentioned—yet the relationship between us was distinctly formal. It lacked its former ease and intimacy.

  The only time I caught a glimpse of the Darius I had known of old was when I was accosted by a dowager duchess who took me for the author of Moral Tales.

  "I do so enjoy your books," she gushed. "They all contain a lesson and a fine one. I insist on my grandchildren reading them. They're as good as a sermon."

  "But, Your Grace, I think you mistake me for . . ." but I was interrupted.

  "I know exactly who you are. I came here tonight ex­pressly to tell you of my pleasure at your work. I have read Ormond and I liked it exceedingly well."

  "Ormond is a fine book, Your Grace, but it is by Maria Edgeworth," I insisted.

  "But you are not Maria Edgeworth?" She frowned.

  "No, ma'am, I am Arabella Marlowe."

  "Arabella Marlowe! Never heard of you. Why do you go around saying that you wrote the Mo
ral Tales and pretending to be an author?"

  "I'm sorry, ma'am, I'm afraid you are mistaken," I began but she cut me off.

  "I am never mistaken, Miss . . . whatever your name is. I shall tell everyone in the room that you are an imposter and not at all who you claim to be."

  She flounced off in high dudgeon, the long plume in her turban quivering in time with the indignation of her quivering chins, and I found myself looking directly at Darius, who, leaning against a pillar, arms folded, had been following the conversation with some relish.

  "An imposter, Miss Marlowe? And the duchess threaten­ing to expose you?" he teased.

  "She took me for Maria Edgeworth," I explained lamely. "I can't imagine why," I added.

  "Neither can I, for you don't resemble a writer of moral tales, though since I have reread your books I find they do have a moral."

  "Ah!" I could not disguise my pleasure. "And what is that?"

  "They are a cry for women's independence. They empha­size inequities that exist between the sexes, inequities which I have never seriously considered. I suppose I have always taken it for granted, as you pointed out to me once, that women should depend on men for their well-being. I never considered that because of that their lives must always remain circum­scribed, narrow. I thought it was what women wished. I real­ize, though, that it is often by necessity rather than choice."