Come Be My Love Read online

  From Great Stanhope Street I had gone to Geoffrey's lodging in the area of St. James's to await him there. I had ignored his landlady's disapproving stare when I had de­manded admittance. My already tarnished reputation was of little importance.

  Geoffrey swung the jewelled fob from his waistcoat back and forth, idly watching its progress.

  "You will do something, won't you?" I pleaded once again.

  "Not much I can do, Alex. Darius makes his own deci­sions, always has. It's his lookout. If he's made a ramshackle business of it, I can't be blamed nor can I stop him. To be quite frank with you, I'm not at all sure I would, even if I could."

  "But he's your cousin. The same blood runs in your veins."

  "I reminded him of that once. It didn't seem to impress him, as I remember—infuriated him, more like it."

  "But he would do as much for you, Geoffrey, I know he would."

  "Would he?" He regarded me quizzically. "I doubt it. But he won't have to anyway, for I'm not so doltish as to go around challenging people to duels over nothing. Wilmott may be considered a bit of a roué, but he's not that bad a shot."

  "Oh, Geoffrey!" I wailed. I pulled at the edge of Darius's handkerchief, which I still clutched in my hand. "Something must be done to stop it, and done tonight."

  "You conducted yourself sensibly, Alex. No blame can be placed on you. Why do you come to me to plead for a cousin who has shown no regard for me?"

  His eyes were fixed intently on mine. I somehow knew that on my reply depended the outcome of the whole terrible affair.

  "Because—because I cannot live with the life of a man on my conscience."

  "A man?" He raised his eyebrows. "The life of which man is it that inflicts your conscience?"

  "Either of them; it makes no difference. If either of them should die, or—or if either should be wounded—maimed— either Sir Clarence or Darius, it makes little difference—it would be on my conscience. Can't you see that?"

  It was a lie, yet only partly a lie. I could in no way suffer as much for Wilmott as I would if harm were to befall Darius, and yet it was not wholly a lie. Duelling was man's foolish way of settling arguments for which women chose subtle and far less drastic measures. I wanted no one to come to grief because of my actions.

  "If we can't stop Darius, couldn't we prevent Wilmott from showing?"

  "And be called a coward? Hardly his touch, Alex."

  "But Geoffrey, he's your friend. You could talk to him. If he were to write an apology to Darius, he could put it down to his humour, to the fact that he'd partaken too freely of the champagne, that he had meant no harm by his remarks, that he was sorry if they had been misconstrued, that he was heart­ily sorry for the whole business—as I am sure he is. Then Darius could hardly insist on fighting him."

  "But why should he say any of that?"

  "Because you ask him to."

  "And why should I ask him to do any such thing?"

  "Because I ask it of you."

  "I see."

  In the long, tense silence that ensued, Geoffrey's eyes were peculiarly alert and assessing as they held mine.

  "I see," he repeated at last. "Perhaps something can be arranged. Perhaps I can reason with Wilmott."

  "Oh, Geoffrey, I knew that if anyone could do anything it was you." I breathed freely for the first time since that chilling scene at Lady Framingham's.

  "But if I am willing to do this for you, there is something you should be willing to do for me in return, something I've long wanted—ever since I first met you, in fact."

  "Anything, Geoffrey, anything."

  "I want you to marry me."

  The silence that followed these words was painful in its intensity. I was bewildered. I could not understand why my marrying Geoffrey should be a condition in preventing a duel between his friend and his cousin. I could not understand why he wanted it, for though he might have hinted at some serious inclination, I had never believed it. I did understand, however, that on my answer depended Darius's future.

  "I shall, of course, marry you, Geoffrey, if that is what you wish."

  "In that case I shall speak to Wilmott."

  "Tonight?"

  "Tonight."

  He got up and took my hands. Very slowly and very deliberately he bent down and kissed me on the lips. Perhaps because I was tired and dazed, I could feel nothing when he kissed me, neither pleasure nor revulsion; nothing.

  "I'll go and speak to Wilmott now. And tomorrow we'll leave for Maplethorpe so that mother can meet you."

  Geoffrey had been as good as his word. There had been no duel.

  I had sent word to Tim to go to Great Stanhope Street and let me know what happened. He had followed in his usual surreptitious pillion fashion as Darius and his seconds had made their way in the cold morning light to Hampstead Heath. There they had waited what Tim said was an eternity before a coach drew up to deliver a letter, a letter that seemed to annoy Darius as much as it relieved his seconds.

  As they went to climb back into the coach, Darius had spied Tim clambering up behind the coach.

  "You're a ubiquitous fellow. Come along and have some breakfast with us," he had said.

  "Did he ask who sent you?" I demanded of Tim.

  "No, but 'e asked a lot 'bout wot I wanted to do."

  "What did you tell him?"

  "Now I learned a bit of this reading stuff I sort of like it. I mean, I wouldn't mind knowing a bit of sums and things."

  "You shall, Tim, you shall."

  My parting from Tim was more difficult than from the Hillabys, who, still recovering from the previous evening, were, I felt, almost anxious to see me go.

  I was too relieved since the catastrophe had been averted to care. I could now recall Lady Bladen's last words without flinching, for at least I had not been the cause of Darius ruin­ing his life. I preferred not to consider how much I had been spurred to action by Lady Brentwood's vow that she would accompany him if he were to be forced abroad. No, my long-lasting passion for Darius was over—finished perhaps before it ever began. It had never been a mutual passion. It never could be with the ever-present ghost of Philomena and the all-too-earthly presence of Lady Brentwood. The whole thing was finally at an end. I would be married. I had no idea why Geoffrey wanted to marry me—it was not love that prompted it, of that I was sure, yet it didn't matter. It would be a suit­able match, for I never wanted to love again.

  Marriage would free me completely from father. I sup­pose it was that knowledge that prompted me to write asking my parents to join us at Maplethorpe without the slightest trepidation. Geoffrey had insisted that the engagement be for­mally entered into before the announcement was published, and I appreciated his compunction in wanting father's ap­proval first. There could, however, be little doubt of his receiv­ing it—a baronet who, despite his complaints of his mother's tight hold on the purse strings, was not exactly impoverished, and though he was not a Tory, neither was he a Whig; he was completely apolitical. Besides, if it came to father's ears that I had published novels, worse yet, poems he would certainly conclude unbefitting for a daughter of his to have written, he would be only too grateful that I had found a gentleman who would have me.

  XXVIII

  Lady Poindexter was large where Geoffrey was slender; she was forthright where Geoffrey used charm; she was plain, even careless in dress where Geoffrey was never to be found, even in the morning, in anything less than immaculate attire; she was more at ease with her dogs and horses than she ever was with her son. Her qualities, however, endeared her to me: her frankness and, too, the fact that in feature she so resembled her brother, who had been my dearest friend. That liking in­creased especially when father arrived, blustering and bellow­ing at my conduct—not that father did not have reason to complain, for if I did not considel that I had been wrong in fleeing from home, I had been at fault in never letting them know my whereabouts—Darius had reminded me of that. On that account Lady Poindexter did not oppose father, but she wa
s quite firm in pointing out that what was past was past, that it was useless to dwell upon it, that we were joined to­gether for a happy occasion, that she was delighted in me as a daughter, that she hoped father would become acquainted and similarly delighted in Geoffrey as a son. If she said this last with the merest sniff, it was a sniff to be audibly repeated by father as he became acquainted with Geoffrey, for Geoffrey had summoned from London his solicitor, and after father's arrival they were closeted together to discuss the matter of a marriage settlement.

  Though I had no wish to support father, I felt forced to speak to Geoffrey about his persistence over financial matters.

  "You know that I have money of my own, money from my writing. It will be yours as well as mine when we marry. We need nothing from father."

  "Indeed we do. I have found out to the penny what he gave with your eldest sister. Why should he do one jot less for you?"

  "But why does it matter now? I thought you wanted to marry me for myself. I am not nor have I ever purported to be an heiress."

  "Alexandra, of course I want you for yourself, you know that. But don't you see that now is the only time to get any­thing from your father? Nothing will be forthcoming later, perhaps when we really need it. It is only what is due to you that I demand. It is yours by right, and I shall insist upon it."

  Insist he did, and his insistence won the day.

  "A very pretty young man you've chosen, Alexandra; pretty astute," father raged. "He'll make a pauper of me. I suppose that's what you want."

  "You did not have to agree to his demands," I replied.

  "Did I not! Did I not indeed! He showed me this. I'm lucky to have you married at all after this."

  Father thrust at me a copy of Love's Breath, and I could not prevent a gasp. He had to know of my writing eventually, something I knew would bring out his direst rebukes on scrib­bling women, but I would have wished he had not learned of it with that particular work.

  "That a daughter of mine should stoop to scribbling at all, but that she should produce such—such disgusting verse—I should never be able to live it down if my friends learned of it. I can only hope they will never make any connexion between you and this—this," contemptuously he turned to the title page, "this Arabella Marlowe. Nothing short of blackmail, designed to impoverish me."

  "I hardly expected you to understand or appreciate my writing, father."

  "Trouble is that I—and everyone else I expect—under­stand a damned sight too well, my girl. When you left home I thought perhaps it was because Ramsey had—had pressed you too hard, that that was why you ran away. Reading this, I doubt it. It was simply your willfulness, for Netty had nothing to complain of in him. I even suspect that Ramsey wasn't forceful enough with you. That'll not be the case with this pretty young man you have chosen for yourself. Only good thing to be said for him is that, unlike the rest of his family, he's not a Whig."

  "Netty? Father, what has Netty to do with Howard Ramsey?"

  "Why, she married him not a month after you left him in the lurch, didn't your mother tell you? Fortunate thing, for it embarrassed all of us to be left with a jilted suitor. And a very good match it is, too, already about to bear fruit."

  Mother had not mentioned it in the tearfulness of our meeting. She had held me at arm's length to examine me before pulling me to her and hugging me so hard I thought all the breath must be forced from my body.

  "My dear daughter—Alex! How often I have lain awake thinking I might never see you again, and here you are, so well, so elegant. What a relief it is, truly!"

  "Mother! Mother!" Tears poured down my face. "I am so sorry I did not send word to you, truly I am, but I thought I should be forced back, forced to marry against my will."

  "And here you are, marrying a gentleman of your own choosing. You are fortunate."

  I hesitated for an imperceptible moment before agreeing, "Yes, indeed."

  "I am glad for your sake, Alex, for now I am convinced you could never accommodate to a situation not of your choosing, as has Cassy."

  "How is Cassy, mother?"

  "Very well. Her match with Mr. Pomeroy is most satis­factory. They have adjusted well to one another. Cassy is a neat, careful housekeeper, and he . . . he is much improved. She has almost cured him of that rather curious tendency he had of moving rather rapidly from one subject to another in conversation—I don't know whether you noticed it."

  "I did, mother," I replied rather drily. "And Paul, how is Paul?"

  "He is quite settled into the parish. He doesn't write often but when he does his letters are full of schemes he wishes to carry out to improve the lot of impoverished parishioners. There are times when I fear he may be a little too innovative for his rector, yet they seem to be getting along well now that Paul is engaged to his daughter, Dolores."

  "Paul-engaged!"

  "Yes. Dolores is such a pleasant-sounding name; one doesn't hear it too often."

  "It means sorrow," I said, half to myself.

  "Well, dear, it may, but I'm quite sure she is not at all sorrowful from what Paul tells us. But we shall see for our­selves soon, for he is to bring her to us before they marry. Your father insisted on it."

  As matters stood, there were times when I felt it was my name that should have been Dolores, for though it could be said that a successful conclusion had been reached—for with the announcement despatched to the Times and the Morning Post, Geoffrey and I were officially engaged—in the midst of plans for the engagement dinner and the wedding to be held at St. Mary's in Linbury, I felt oddly detached, strangely emp­tied of emotion.

  Geoffrey was attentive, filled with jubilance at having had his way, and I annoyed at the way in which he had won it.

  "But Alex, your father was bound to discover it anyway," he replied to my complaint of his disclosure. And of course it was true. Yet it was his mother with whom I felt most at ease. When I offered to help her in planning the engagement dinner party, she gladly gave into my care the task of addressing the invitations. My hand faltered as I came to Darius's name.

  "I believe he is away," I lied.

  "Oh, I do hope not, for I see so little of him as it is. I am sure he would set aside other plans to come, for this is a family matter and Darius is a man who thinks always of the impor­tance of the family. We must send him a card. I shall address a letter to him myself."

  I was glad his aunt knew nothing of his challenge to Wilmott, though with her obvious preference for Darius she would very likely have found alleviating reasons for his act.

  "If only Geoffrey were more like Darius rather than his father." She looked up from the guest list she had been study­ing and sighed. "I know, I should not speak ill of the dead and particularly as my husband was never a well ni|n, suffering as he did with that lung condition that killed so many in his family—I always felt it was because of that that he was so . . . so promiscuous, so profligate. I was relieved that Geoffrey es­caped inheriting it, but I am glad I had no other children, for that risk haunted me.

  "I would be less than honest if I implied we were happy together, for he led a rather dissolute life, something I kept from my brother. I sometimes wonder whether it was that or the disease itself that caused his early demise, for I had with­drawn from him completely. He was a thoroughly selfish man, and in his willfulness I fear Geoffrey resembles him too closely. I was delighted, however, to see the good judgement Geoffrey used in choosing a wife. I had not thought he would bring to me a young lady of your good sense. If anyone can manage him, I think it is you. I believe you may succeed where I failed with his father."

  "There is nothing bad in Geoffrey, Lady Poindexter," I assured her. I thought of him as he had been with Crumpet. "He is really kind at heart. I believe he is often misunder­stood."

  She kissed me. "My dear, how lucky Geoffrey is to have you for an advocate."

  Yet Geoffrey's kindness to children did not extend to Tim Felder, for whom I had set aside a sum of money to provide for his education.
In fact, he had been adamant in his opposition to it.

  "We have no money to waste on young ruffians like that. There will be children of our own to educate."

  "I promised this to him, Geoffrey. Our children will have all the advantages that Tim never had."

  "Let's not discuss that little ragamuffin now, when we have things of much greater importance. We will talk of it later, but not now, please."

  He had made to take me in his arms, but the door opened to admit father and the conversation became general. Yet I longed to resolve the issue, for I had discovered that under the terms of the marriage settlement, all the money I had earned would come completely under Geoffrey's control. When I had objected, it had been father who had overruled me.

  "That is entirely as it should be, Alexandra. A woman's fortune should always be administered by her husband. Your mother had no complaints on that score."

  "Don't you trust me, Alex?" Geoffrey had asked me.

  "Of course I do." My reply was a trifle too swift. "I just feel that I should retain some independence, that is all."

  "But marriage is a dual state, not an independent one," he had argued.

  "Exactly," father interposed.

  "Yet your mother retained her fortune, Geoffrey."

  "It is because of that, Alex, that I insisted upon that clause. It was always a point of dispute between them. I don't want that ever to happen to us."

  Remembering his mother's disclosure to me of the unhappiness of her marriage, I thought perhaps Geoffrey did believe that to be the reason, though that was not his mother's opin­ion. Reluctantly I allowed myself to be convinced, though if Tim were to receive the education I had promised him, then Geoffrey must be persuaded. And he would be persuaded—on that I was adamant.

  We were at tea on the day the announcement of our en­gagement appeared in the newspapers, when an unexpected visitor was announced. It was Darius. His eyes were fixed upon me as soon as he entered, though I could scarcely return his greeting. I had not seen him since that night after the incident at the Framinghams', yet he appeared that afternoon far sterner, far paler than he had on that dreadful night.