Come Be My Love Read online

  Crossing to the small Louis XV desk where I used to write, I took the note from my pocket and was about to lay it there when I started abruptly on hearing my name.

  "Darius!" For it was he, sitting in the high-backed settle where he had been hidden from my view as I entered. "What are you doing here?"

  He rose and came over to where I stood. "I might say that I live here and make the same enquiry of you."

  "I came to leave this note—here, it is for you."

  "From you?"

  "Yes. It concerns Tim. I wanted to thank you for all you are doing for him. He continues to believe I am the one who is helping him even though I told him it is not so. You must let him know that you are his benefactor."

  "He is quite right in thanking you, for without you I should never have known of him, never have done anything for him."

  "That is as may be. Nevertheless it leaves a false impres­sion, one I wish you would correct."

  "I shall if you wish it."

  He stood before me, the note unopened in his hand. "How are you?"

  "Quite well. And you?"

  "Well enough."

  "What brought you . . ."

  "I've thought over . . ." we began simultaneously and then laughed. "You first," Darius said.

  "I was going to ask what brought you to Charteris."

  "I decided it was churlish of me not to attend your wed­ding, for you've been so close to—to all of us. I just sent a note to your father telling him I would attend the ceremony, though I shall have to return to London immediately after and cannot be at the breakfast. I'm sure you understand."

  "Oh! I thought you were not coming," I blurted.

  "Would you rather I had not? I thought I had behaved badly in refusing to be there. I wanted to make amends."

  "No, no. Of course not. Father—everyone will be pleased to see you. Aunt Maud has spoken most highly of you."

  He laughed. "Did she tell you of our political argu­ments?"

  "From what she said she thoroughly enjoyed them."

  "So did I. She's a very determined woman. You take after her."

  I found his fixed gaze disconcerting. "What was it you were about to say just now?"

  "Oh—yes—I've thought about our last talk. I should not have spoken to you of Geoffrey as I did. He is my cousin; he is to be your husband—I was wrong in telling you of the child. That is all in the past now. At the time I thought to intervene for your protection, not believing there might be genuine re­gard between you. Now I think I was wrong and I apologize for speaking as I did, saying those things that might poison your mind against him. I had no right to do so. It is one reason that prompted me to attend your wedding. Geoffrey is my cousin, part of the family. You, too, will soon be part of that same family. There should be no ill feeling between members of a family—at least I want none on my account."

  "Yes, I see." So at last I would be, if not the sister Darius had always thought me, at least some sort of cousin, a family member. It was a light in which he had always seen me. And yet—yet he had loved me once, there, in that room.

  Half to myself, I whispered,

  "Even now

  I know that I have savoured the hot desire of life Lifting green cups and gold at the great feast

  Just for a small and a forgotten time,"

  and Darius took it up and finished,

  "I have had full in my eyes from off my love The whitest pouring of eternal light

  The heavy knife—as to a gala day."

  "Black Marigolds—Chauras—I didn't realize you knew him."

  "It was you who recommended that poem to me—in order to find out what love is."

  "And you did."

  "Yes, I did. As a matter of fact, I came to discover love here—in this room," I stopped, afraid I had said too much. "I must go, Darius; there is a rehearsal this afternoon."

  "A rehearsal?"

  "A wedding rehearsal."

  "I didn't realize one rehearsed for a wedding."

  Geoffrey thought it might be a good idea."

  "Perhaps he's right—a perfectly orchestrated event with no surprises."

  "There can hardly be any surprises for the bride on the wedding day or on the wedding night, thanks to you, cousin."

  We both spun around to see Geoffrey, arms crossed, lean­ing against the open terrace door.

  "So this is how you keep your promises to me, is it, Alex?"

  And I flushed. I had forgotten all about that promise.

  "I did not break it intentionally. I came to leave a letter, not realizing that Darius was here."

  "Letters are simply another way of refusing to part." Geoffrey was smiling as he walked into the room, yet it was a smile totally devoid of warmth.

  "May I ask what this promise is?"

  "Alexandra promised she would no longer see you."

  "For God's sake, Geoffrey, you imply more than exists. The letter concerns Tim's schooling, nothing more. There is nothing between us."

  "But it was not always so, was it?"

  "I don't understand what you mean, nor can I under­stand your insinuation of no surprises hurled at me earlier."

  "You know very well what I mean." Geoffrey had lost his smile. "I suppose, though, that it evens the score over Phil­omena."

  Darius's voice was tense and hard as he snapped, "What are you saying?"

  "Geoffrey, we must go—the rehearsal . . ."

  "No," Darius interrupted, "not until Geoffrey has told me exactly what is the meaning of all his implications."

  "One might expect such coyness from a woman." Geof­frey's lip had curled in contempt until Darius reached over to grasp the high rolled collar of his purple velvet coat.

  "I have asked you a question. I expect an answer." Each word was uttered slowly, deliberately, and he shook Geoffrey as he spoke.

  "All right, all right, Darius, but leave go of me first—I'll play along with your game, just as though you didn't know already."

  Once released, Geoffrey stood carefully smoothing down the collar of his coat. "You, Darius, are the lover of Alex­andra's poem. I guessed it to be you and she confirmed it to me only yesterday—isn't that so, Alexandra."

  When I made no attempt to reply, Darius turned to me, asking, "Is that what you said, Alexandra?"

  "Yes," I whispered.

  "Surely, Darius, you are too much of a gentleman to deny the word of a lady." Geoffrey eyed Darius's clearly bewildered face. "It is hardly flattering, Alexandra, but perhaps you should remind the gentleman of the time and place—unless it occurred too often in too many places."

  "No, Geoffrey," I retorted without thinking, "it happened only once and then it was quite by chance."

  Ignoring Geoffrey's mocking "By chance!" Darius put his hands on my shoulders. "Look at me, Alex! Look at me," he commanded.

  Slowly I raised my eyes to meet his.

  "Now tell me when, where this happened between us."

  "Here, in this room," and seeing that he was still be­wildered, wishing to avoid more questions, I added, "It was the night Cr—John died."

  "So—so, that was not a dream after all." His hands dropped to his sides. "Why did you deny it when I asked you?"

  "You were ill and—I thought you did not want it to be so. You seemed so relieved after my denial."

  He walked across to the window, silent for a moment, before turning back to me. "Then you cannot marry Geoffrey. It is not right that you should."

  "Share and share alike—it's all in the family, old boy. I reminded you of that with Philomena."

  It all happened so fast—the sudden approach, the even more unexpected blow which I didn't see coming, nor did Geoffrey, for he staggered under the force of the stinging slap of Darius's open hand across his cheek.

  "That was utterly boorish! Come along, Alex, we're to be at St. Mary's at three."

  "Are you going with him or staying with me?" Darius put the question coldly, even sternly.

  To stay with him—how could it
be possible? There was his engagement to Lady Brentwood, and even if that were not so, there would always be Philomena between us—his anger was because Geoffrey had reminded him of her—I would never wish to share him.

  "Come along, Alex, do hurry. We're late as it is," Geof­frey called from the door.

  "Well? Are you going with him?" Darius asked roughly.

  I hesitated. If only he had taken my hand, if only he had smiled or said that he wished I would stay . . . but his face was impassive. I had been right that day in the churchyard after Crumpet had been laid to rest when I thought that if he knew what had occurred he would feel bound by duty to right what he considered a wrong. I sought no amends.

  "I must go."

  "That is your choice, then."

  I crossed to where Geoffrey awaited me outside on the terrace, but once there I could not prevent myself from turn­ing to look back at him as he stood alone in the vastness of that room with all of its memories.

  "Good-bye, Darius."

  But he made no reply.

  XXXII

  "You're terribly pale, Alex. Are you sure you feel all right?"

  As she spoke Cassy adjusted the Honiton lace overlay where it had become caught on the hem of my white silk dress.

  "I think I'm scared, Cassy. Did you feel so when you married?"

  "You could not possibly feel as I did on that day. Do you remember how sad we were? It all seems so silly now—at least it does to me—even impossible that I could have been sad to marry Mr. Pomeroy. I know that to you he may not seem the answer to a maiden's prayer, and I'll not deny that those first months together were difficult. He, I think, felt obliged to act the role of the heavy-handed husband, I that of the submissive wife, for those were the roles we both had seen enacted in marriage. But gradually we became our own selves with one another, the selves we had kept hidden from the outside world. We became more honest and much closer to one another than I had ever dreamed possible."

  "How wonderful that you are happy—I knew it as soon as I saw you."

  "I'm very lucky."

  "Mr. Pomeroy is very lucky."

  Cassy smiled. "We're both very lucky."

  "I wrote a book once—how long ago it seems now—about Cassandra, The New Cassandra—you, of course, but based on the Cassandra of mythology, who was given the gift of predict­ing the future though no one would believe her. What do you think lies ahead for me, Cassy?"

  Cassy bent over to adjust the folds of my train and I could not see her face as she replied, "That's hardly a fair question, Alex. None of us knows what the future may bring."

  "You could simply have told me that I should live hap­pily ever after, just as princesses do in fairy stories."

  Cassy straightened up. "Do you think you'll live happily ever after, Alex?"

  "No—I'm not sure—I mean, I don't know."

  "Well, I don't know, either. If anyone had told me on that Boxing Day two years ago that I would be standing here on your wedding day prating about my own happiness, I should have accused them of being mad. It is good that we don't know what the future holds—that was no gift Cassandra received. Rather it was a curse."

  "I suppose you're right, Cassy. You're usually right. I sup­pose that is why I asked you. I wanted reassurance."

  "I'm sure everything will be well with you, Alex." She hesitated. "It's just that. . ." but she stopped midway without completing her sentence.

  "It's just that what?"

  "I probably shouldn't say this, but for a long time, ever since you were quite little, in fact, I've been convinced—or perhaps I've convinced myself—that you were madly in love with Darius Wentworth. He was quite the handsomest man around, and I've always been awfully romantic. When you V were sick in church on his wedding day, I was sure that was the reason, and then you spent so much time at Charteris. When you turned from Howard Ramsey while I had that silly infatuation for him—which was every bit as silly as you told me it was—I thought it was because you loved Darius Went­worth. Now I hope you are going to tell me how silly all of my speculations were." But with one look into my troubled eyes, Cassy sighed, "But I was afraid you would not."

  I was saved from reply by the arrival of Eugenia and Netty, who had stopped to see my dress before going to St. Mary's.

  "Quite lovely, quite, quite," Eugenia murmured, "though I do think I prefer the Cluny lace of my own wedding dress. I had considered Honiton but a fine Cluny is not to be outdone, intricate and more delicate by half than Honiton, though this suits you, Alex, for you were always the more robust in ap­pearance of all of us. I must say, though, you don't look very robust this morning—your face is peaked, very peaked. Pallor in a bride is as it should be, but a little colour in your cheeks would not be amiss. Pinch them if need be, unless you have any alkanet salve at hand."

  "There was no time for a wedding dress for me," Netty mourned, "with everything coming about so suddenly after Alex . . . oh, well, I'm a fortunate woman, and Howard never ceases to tell me how lucky he is that things turned out as they did."

  I kissed both of them and they left, deep in controversy over the length of the train of my dress, one thinking it too long, the other not long enough.

  Mother hurried in. "Do go downstairs, Cassy. I shall see to anything else that needs to be done. Mr. Pomeroy is pacing the floor, sure that you will be late. I've told him the wedding can't take place without the bride, though quite honestly I believe he can't bear you to be away from him for so long."

  Cassy squeezed my hands; as she kissed me, she whis­pered, "You're strong, Alex. You'll be all right no matter what," and she hurried from the room, turning from me in an attempt to hide the tears in her eyes.

  "You're so pale, Alex," mother worried. "Did you sleep well?"

  Though I had not slept at all, I nodded.

  Mother took my hands in hers. "You're very cold. I do hope you're not going to be ill. Do you remember that awful time when you were a bridesmaid at Darius Wentworth's wed­ding? Your skin felt like this then, cold and clammy. Let me get you some of my sal volatile."

  "No, mother, that won't be necessary. I'll be all right, really."

  "I do hope so, dear." She hugged me close. "I do love you, Alexandra, more I think than you realize."

  "I know you do, mother, and I love you."

  We were both crying when father came in.

  "Really, this won't do, it won't do at all. Mr. Pomeroy is growing impatient, and the carriage is waiting to take Alex­andra and me. Gome along now or we'll all be late."

  Mother kissed me. "I'll send in Alice with a wet cloth for your eyes. You can't go to the altar with them all red."

  It was quiet in the carriage. I stared out at the hedgerows. Occasionally we passed a cottage where the family was gath­ered outside to wave us on our way. Rather than a triumphant journey, it felt to me like a tumbril headed for the guillotine.

  The silence was at last broken by father. "I know that we have not always got along as well as we might, Alexandra. Of my children you have been the most difficult, the most re­bellious. You never hesitated to hide the fact that you found me overly stern and repressive, yet so my father was with me. It is, after all, the role of the father to lead his children as he sees fit. I hope you will agree that not all of my decisions have been wrong."

  No, father, my brothers and sisters are all quite con­tent."

  "And you have chosen your own way. You can blame me for nothing in this match of yours."

  I turned back to watch the hedgerows again, which were now positively racing past, propelling us ever onward towards St. Mary's where everything and everyone—Darius, too-awaited our arrival. Father knows that this marriage is wrong, I thought dully, he knows, and there is no one to blame except myself.

  Before the carriage drew up before the church porch where Mr. Linnell awaited us, father spoke again, clearing his throat as though embarrassed. "I want you to know, whatever you may have thought in the past, that I love you. I have often thought that of
my children I love you most, because you were never afraid to speak and to act on your decisions. You know that I have not always agreed with you, but I have admired your courage."

  "Oh, father."

  As he helped me down from the carriage, he squeezed my hand. "Good-bye, Alexandra Cox-Neville. You will be Lady Poindexter when next I address you."

  I waited in the vestry for the ceremony to begin. Perhaps it would be more appropriate to say that I hid in the vestry, away from father in deep discussion with Mr. Linnell, away from the gaggle of giggling bridesmaids Eugenia had selected for me. My body was cold, icy cold, while my face was oddly hot. My stomach churned as it had on the day Darius mar­ried. The heavy perfume of the tea roses that decorated the altar assaulted my nostrils. I couldn't breathe—I had to have air. I bundled the train of my dress under my arm and slipped silently through the door, not looking right or left, afraid I might catch a glimpse of Darius being shown to the Bladen pew.

  Outside on the south porch I felt a little better until my eye fell upon that white tombstone with its kneeling cherubims marking Crumpet's grave. Though I could not read it from where I stood, I knew its inscription only too well:

  John Frederick Wentworth

  Beloved son of Philomena and

  Darius Wentworth Born 6 April 1820

  Died 17 August 1823

  Though brief his Time on Earth

  He Brightened the World by his Presence.

  At the sight of it I knew beyond any possible doubt that I was going to be sick. Quickly, to get out of sight, I ran to the back of the church, only to meet with the curious stares of a group of waiting coachmen. I ran on, through the church gate, along the path which led from the village until, freed from the sight of everyone except God and the birds chirping gaily in the trees above me, I stopped to wretch, throwing up a horrible green-yellow phlegm, after which I felt relieved, though I could not rid myself of the evil-smelling substance, which had splashed the front of my dress and positively doused its hem. Desperately I wiped at it with the train I still carried in my arms, which, instead of improving the dress, completely ruined the train.