Come Be My Love Read online

  I busied myself with a piece of fruitcake, which had seemed quite delicious the moment before he arrived but which suddenly had all the allure of sawdust and stuck in my throat in much the same manner.

  I had never seen Lady Poindexter greet her son with quite the same degree of warmth with which she greeted her nephew.

  "My dear Darius. This is an occasion. But I had not ex­pected you so soon. We only just despatched your invitation to Thursday's engagement party, did we not, Alexandra? But of course you must know Geoffrey's affianced bride, for the Cox-Nevilles live close to Charteris."

  Darius greeted father and mother, but before he could speak, Geoffrey, who had been closely watching his mother's all-too-obvious pleasure on seeing her nephew, interrupted, "But are you not going to congratulate Alex and me, Darius?"

  "I read of your engagement in this morning's Times."

  "And you came all this way to congratulate us in person. We are honoured, are we not, Alexandra?"

  I seemed to have lost control of my tongue; I nodded, glad to be relieved of speaking by Lady Poindexter.

  "Now, Darius, come and sit beside me and tell me all of that latest happenings in the House. How is Liverpool react­ing to Huskisson's latest budget—I've always thought him quite an incompetent prime minister. I'm sure you must agree."

  Father's face flushed with annoyance, and Darius hastened to intervene. "Mr. Cox-Neville, I am quite sure, does not share that opinion, aunt, and as a Tory he is as much entitled to his convictions and his party loyalty as you or I."

  "Oh, I had not realized that you were a Tory," Lady Poindexter exclaimed as if knowing that fact about father made everything else about him understandable.

  "I am indeed, ma'am. Your son tells me he has no politi­cal leanings, however."

  "That is true," Lady Poindexter mourned. "Geoffrey is totally oblivious on that score."

  "And my cousin is not here to discuss politics, are you, Darius? You came on the matter of my engagement, yet I have yet to hear you say two words together on the subject. You must allow him to do so, mother, for it is so seldom I hear Darius congratulate me on anything."

  When he did not reply immediately, Geoffrey prompted, "But you did come to congratulate me, and Alex, too, of course, didn't you, Darius?"

  Again he was slow in replying, until all eyes were upon him. "It was very sudden, was it not? You said nothing of it when last I saw you, Alexandra. When was it decided?"

  "Ages ago, really," Geoffrey interceded. "But we could say nothing until mama had been consulted, and Alex's papa, too. At the risk of appearing bold—though I think it may now be known by all—Alexandra confessed that I was behind her coming to London in the first place."

  "I see." Darius's voice was cool and distant.

  My shock at Geoffrey's outright lie must have been ap­parent because he added quickly, "You don't have to worry, Alex. I divulge no secrets that I have not already disclosed to your papa. Now that our engagement is known, I felt no longer compelled to remain silent."

  Darius looked directly at me. "Then this was not a matter suddenly decided upon?"

  I was again rescued from replying by Lady Poindexter.

  "This poor man has been here almost a quarter of an hour without an offer of tea. As Sydney always says, what is life without tea! Alexandra, dear, would you pour it?"

  Darius followed me over to the tea table and murmured as I lifted the heavy silver teapot, "I must talk to you, Alex-alone."

  I looked around at the assembled company. "It's im­possible."

  "When I leave I am going to wait in the copse near the gate. I shall wait there until you come. I must see you."

  He left, over his aunt's protests, some half-hour later. Geoffrey saw him out and was oddly pensive when he re­turned. I wondered whether he could have overheard Darius asking me to meet him, and I waited before announcing that I was going to get some air before dinner.

  For a moment I thought that Geoffrey would join me;

  then he stretched his legs before the fire and yawned. "A nap is more to my liking."

  His eyes were closed before I left the room.

  XXIX

  I could see his tall figure waiting long before I reached the copse of elders near the main gate, and my heart beat faster at the sight. I had been foolish to come, I told myself, yet when he gripped my hands and led me over to the stone bench, I could recognize only joy at being able to talk to him away from the others.

  "Alexandra, I simply couldn't believe it when I read of your engagement in this morning's paper. I had to come to see whether it was really so. I knew of your friendship with Geof­frey. I was aware that you liked him, but the idea had never occurred to me that your liking went beyond friendship, that you would ever contemplate marrying him. He said earlier this afternoon that it was a decision of some long standing, yet you never spoke of it."

  Rather than comment on Geoffrey's untruth, I replied, "We have spoken together little of late, Darius, certainly of nothing near to the heart of either one of us."

  "I suppose not, and yet it saddens me that you would not mention to a friend of many years—more than a friend—a matter of such import."

  "It did not seem so once before. Then you did not show as much concern."

  "You will always consider that I let you down over Ramsey, won't you, no matter what I may say of my inten­tions to the contrary."

  "It's past, Darius, it's all past. Ramsey is married to Netty, I hear, and is very happy, so it would seem that all is for the best."

  "And you," he demanded. "Are you happy?"

  "I am sure that I shall be," I answered quietly.

  "Yet I am not sure of that, not at all sure. That is the reason that I asked to talk to you—alone. It was impossible to say anything inside. Had I known how things stood between you and my cousin, I should have spoken earlier."

  He stopped and then stood up, his arms crossed, his fists clenched, and was silent for a moment before continuing.

  "What I have to say is not easy for me to say, nor will it be easy for you to hear, yet say it I must. I owe it to you.

  "I have tried to warn you before of my cousin. You have called him kind and considerate—if that were so I would not fear, as I now do, for your future happiness. Geoffrey is—how shall I say it—he is a man to whom nature has been kind, yet he has consistently refused to recognize that kindness. In real­ity he wants for nothing—aspect, health, money, estate—yet always he wants something more, something he thinks he lacks without knowing exactly what it is. He has always had a com­pletely absurd and utterly unwarranted jealousy of me and anything that was mine or—or anything that he thought I desired. Whatever it was, he sought to make it his and then destroy it.

  "I recognized this tendency of his quite early in life. I used to come often to Maplethorpe until I saw how much my aunt's kindness to me embittered him. I tried to befriend him, to show him that there was no reason to be envious of me, that I wished him well, yet I believe he took my offer of friendship for patronage; anyway he rejected it. More than that, at every turn he carried on a campaign of slurs, spite and resentment against I know not what. My friends paid little heed to him. I cared even less, for his malice harmed him far more than it ever harmed me, until—Philomena."

  "Philomena?" I questioned. "But what harm did he do to Philomena?"

  "After my marriage, Geoffrey seemed to change. He came often to the house we occupied on Grosvenor Square. Phi­lomena found him amusing. She was young, she wanted to be entertained, they shared many of the same tastes. At that time my interest in politics was awakened, and Philomena found many of my companions stuffy and boring, whereas Geoffrey moved in those circles that amused her."

  "But there was nothing wrong with that, surely. After all, he was your cousin. You say they shared similar tastes. Was it wrong that they should be friends?"

  His face was tense, his mouth set in a tight, straight line. When he spoke the words came slowly, with difficulty.

>   "Philomena died in giving birth to Geoffrey's son."

  I gasped. "You mean that—that—"

  "I mean that John was not my son, but Geoffrey's."

  "No, Darius! No! You could be mistaken."

  "I am not mistaken. I wish I were. John was Geoffrey's son, not mine. He made sure that I knew it."

  If I was not convinced of the truth of what he told me by his voice, his set face, I remembered Lady Poindexter's story of her husband's death of lung congestion—a hereditary disease Geoffrey had escaped. But Crumpet had died of lung con­gestion!

  "So that was why you were so—so . . ."

  "So lacking in feeling toward the child. I'm afraid so. I had no right to treat him as I did, whatever the circumstances of his birth. I have thought of that so often since he died— though it does little good now, I suppose. I have prayed for forgiveness, just as I asked him forgiveness at the end, when it was too late to make amends. You were right, Alexandra, so very right in criticizing my harshness. You have been instru­mental in making me see so many things in a new light. I used to be so sure of myself, so sure I was right. It is you who have made me stop to examine my words, my motives."

  "But I did not know . . ."

  "You could not know, nor would you now know, for I was resolved that no one should ever know of it. The only reason I tell you now is because you plan to marry. Before you take that step you must know the kind of man that Geoffrey is."

  "What you have told me is a terrible thing, Darius, and yet. . ."

  "You are going to say that such things happen and you are right, such things do happen. Had it been a case of love, even of wild infatuation, I might not have forgiven per­haps, but I could have understood. I know, however, it was not love, nothing like that, not on his part; it was cold and deliberate." His voice quivered slightly as he finished, "It was certainly not love on Philomena's part either."

  He would always worship her and be convinced of her innocence whatever she had done, I thought angrily. I remem­bered how he had reacted the time I had worn her dress. It had reminded him too deeply of her loss. What must it have cost him to confess to me that she, that paragon of all that was perfect, had been unfaithful. He would never have it that she could love anyone but him.

  "I don't believe that Geoffrey loved Philomena. It was from spite that he acted—just as I believe spite is behind his marriage proposal to you. I don't believe he loves you only because I believe Geoffrey is incapable of love for anyone ex­cept himself, if that self-indulgent feeling is deserving of being called love. He thinks to harm me by marrying you."

  "But how could our marriage possibly harm you?"

  "Perhaps he thinks that I—that I want you. As I told you before, he pursues anything he thinks I desire."

  There was a rustling in the leaves behind me, a breeze wafting through the stillness of the afternoon air. Did he de­sire me? He had not said he loved me, but then that was a passion he had held only for Philomena. Was it possible that Geoffrey had seduced Philomena maliciously because she was his cousin's wife? And his proposal to me: that had surprised me. Was it possible that he thought Darius wanted me? Did Darius really want me?

  His face was expressionless as he continued. "I think I can understand what prompted Geoffrey's proposal, but what I cannot understand is why you accepted him. You told me once you wanted independence. You had the means to be independent. It mystifies me. Why did you accept him, Alex? All the way from London I've asked myself that. Was it really a matter of long standing between you?"

  "That last night I saw you—"

  "The night of the Framinghams' ball, the night Wilmott insulted you?"

  "Yes, I—"

  I turned abruptly. The rustle of the leaves was not caused by the breeze after all.

  "So this is where you are, Alex. I've been searching for you this past half hour. And you still here, coz—I thought you well on your way back to town by now. Such serious faces—what can you two have been discussing? For a young states­man who has just triumphed in a situation that could well have spelled his doom, and for a young lady on the brink of entering the ardent arms of matrimony, I find such doleful looks hard to understand. Won't one of you, pray, enlighten me?"

  I flushed in guilt for being found in what must appear a clandestine meeting, for all I had just been told. It was Darius who replied.

  "Alex and I know one another possibly better than do you and I, Geoffrey, although we are cousins. For many years she has been a part of my life, indeed almost a member of my family. For that reason I asked her to come here to talk to me. I wanted to be sure of her feelings, to know that there was no reason other than her own choice prompting her decision to marry."

  "You think no woman can want me freely, by her own choice, don't you, Darius?" Geoffrey's eyes glinted angrily. "Women may dog your heels and vie for your favours, but not mine. Well, it is not so. I thought I had already convinced you of that."

  Rooks cawed in the branches of the elders above, their raucous cries exacerbating the tension below. I thought only of ameliorating that tension by suggesting we all return to the house.

  "No, I am going back to town, but before I do so only tell me, Alex, that this match is your choice, your desire."

  From Darius's earnest entreaty I turned to Geoffrey's flushed young face. Darius had offered me no alternate choice, only the opportunity to break an engagement so abruptly en­tered into. I had given Geoffrey my promise, yet the rest of my life lay in the balance. Was it not independence I had desired?

  Geoffrey, perhaps aware that I was wavering, took my hands in his. "I need you, Alex, really I do."

  It was more than Darius did.

  "I promised to marry you, Geoffrey, and I shall."

  "I should never underestimate you, cousin. No woman can ever resist being needed."

  "I never bear malice," Geoffrey said, putting his arm around my shoulders. "We shall look forward to seeing you at our wedding, shan't we, Alex?"

  "Of course."

  Our eyes met for a moment before he strode away with­out another word, yet I was left with the feeling that there was more he wanted to say.

  Geoffrey was cheerful as we walked back to the house. "Love is really in the air." He took several deep breaths, smil­ing in satisfaction. "Anyone'd think it was still spring. I even seem to hear bells—wedding bells."

  "Our wedding will not be for a month yet."

  "Oh, I realize that, and Darius's I suppose may even be after ours. Isn't it funny how one wedding spawns another."

  "Darius's wedding!"

  "Why yes, I thought that was what you two were talking about."

  "No, he said nothing of that."

  "That's odd, I thought he would have done. After all, he said you were like a member of the family."

  "But who is it—who is he to marry?"

  Of course, I knew before Geoffrey said the name that it was Althea Brentwood. So at last she had what she had always wanted.

  Geoffrey beamed. "We should have a double wedding— what do you say, Alex? Don't you think that would be fun, the four of us together before the altar at St. Marys—Darius and Althea, you and me—quite an event—keep that rector on his toes making sure that he united the right pairs. It wouldn't do to join you and Darius by mistake, would it?" He laughed heartily at his jest. "Don't you think it a good idea, Alex?"

  The idea made me feel as I had felt when I had been forced to act as bridesmaid at Darius's wedding to Philomena: utterly sick.

  "Well, what do you say, Alex?" Geoffrey persisted.

  In his jovial mood he seemed only very young, not in the least spiteful or malicious. And whether Darius had been right in his assessment of his cousin's character or whether mis­taken, was it of any significance now that Darius was to marry? My marriage to Geoffrey would be satisfactory, for expecting so little from him, I would not be disillusioned.

  "Weddings are private affairs, Geoffrey. I am quite sure that Darius and Lady Brentwood will wish theirs
to be as intimate and private as we wish ours to be."

  "Ah, but you're wrong there, Alex. I wish the whole world to know of our wedding, and as many as possible to be there to witness it."

  XXX

  There was an exquisite blue-and-white Worcester tea service from Lady Poindexter, and my parents presented us with a silver tray engraved with our linked initials, a generous gift after all father's complaints of the expense of the wedding. A covered Wedgwood bowl from Aunt Maud was displayed alongside a Staffordshire porcelain platter decorated with a raised-leaf-design border from the Ramseys. Sir Clarence Wilmott sent crystal champagne glasses with his acceptance of the wedding invitation Geoffrey had insisted on extending to him; Darius sent a chiming mantel clock in a red-and-gold lacquer case with his refusal. I felt much relieved that he would not be at the ceremony.

  The whole family assembled to celebrate the event. All of my sisters were in varying stages of pregnancy. Eugenia, possi­bly as befitted the oldest, was closest to term; though normally in confinement at that time, she had insisted on coming to Seton Place more for the chance of amusement than to see me. She spent most of the time complaining but that, too, had always been, for Eugenia, a form of amusement.

  Netty's term was not quite as advanced, and, this being her first child, she was not as thoroughly disgusted with woman's role in the reproductive process as was Eugenia. Since Howard had purchased the Belden mansion, not far from the George Ramseys' property, Fern Hall, scarcely a day passed that they were not in one another's company. They were, as she constantly informed me, best of friends. This did not prevent them from running to me with little tales of one another, but that was, I suppose, part of friendship as they understood that relationship. No doubt they talked about me together behind my back, for I was sure that the amount of attention being bestowed upon a black sheep irked both of them.