Baroness in Buckskin (20 page)

She took a step backward and stared at him. “You intend to let me marry Richard, then, without lifting a finger to stop it?”

“As a man of honour, I can do nothing else,” he pointed out, then added gently, “Everything I am and have I owe to Richard. It was he who sent me to university, who gave me a position when my education was complete. I cannot betray him after all he has done for me. You would not want the sort of man who could.”

“And what of me, Peter?” she pleaded. “What about me?”

His expression grew wooden, and so did his voice. “As Lady Ramsay, you will of course command my loyalty, just as Richard does.”

She stamped her foot and made a little noise of protest rather like an outraged kitten. “What do I care for your loyalty, when I want your lov—”

He put his hand to her mouth to stop the word he dared not speak, or hear spoken, aloud. “Don’t say it, Susannah! You know you must not. If I thought for one minute that Richard would mistreat you, if I believed he would be unkind to you, I would stop at nothing to save you from such a marriage. But I know he won’t. He will give you no cause to regret marrying him.”

“As a wise man once told me, ‘the lack of cruelty, even the presence of kindness, is no substitute for—’ ”

“Surely you cannot mean to compare your lot with that of a slave!” Peter protested, half laughing at the absurdity of hearing his own words thrown back at him in such a context. “As Richard’s wife, you will have everything you could possibly wish: a stately home, a high position, an ancient title, a lavish income, clothes, jewels—”

“Oh, everything,” Susannah agreed bitterly. “Everything except you. But no, that’s wrong, isn’t it? I shall have you, too, living under the same roof, my husband’s devoted employee. I shall have to see you every day and sit down to dinner with you every night, knowing that my feelings for you are reciprocated, but can never be acted upon. If that is your idea of a brilliant future, I don’t think much of it.”

“That much, at least, we will be spared,” he assured her. “I shall remain at Ramsay Hall for the wedding—I must, for Richard has asked me to attend him at the altar—but immediately afterward, I shall set out for America. I am to administer your property there in Richard’s name.”

She took a step backwards, and stared at him with stricken blue eyes. “You—you’re leaving?”

“Under the circumstances, I think it best.” His lips contorted in a travesty of a smile. “It will be a little like being with you, you know, living in the house where you grew up, riding over the acres where you played as a child.”

She looked away so that he might not see her rapidly filling eyes. “If you feel that way, I wonder that you are so eager to be rid of me.”

“On the contrary, it is the most difficult thing I have ever done. But as for my being rid of you, Susannah, there is no danger of that. I shall see your face in every hill, in every tree, in every new colt born in the spring, and in every stalk of corn that ripens in summer. You are a part of me, my dear, and I could no more be free of you than I could cut out my own heart.”

She was sobbing in earnest now, and he took her in his arms and held her close, knowing all the while that he should not, that every moment they remained thus only served to make the inevitable parting all the more painful. And yet still they stood there, she clinging to him while he murmured words that he could never afterwards quite recall. And if the words sometimes gave way to kisses pressed against her coppery curls, surely he could not be blamed for snatching what crumbs he could as sustenance against the long years of famine that stretched out before him.

A mighty pain to love, it is,

And ’tis a pain that pain to miss;

But of all pains, the greatest pain

It is to love, but love in vain.

ABRAHAM COWLEY,
Anacreon

It was a very subdued Susannah who returned to the house a short time later. As she crossed the hall toward the stairs with her shako in her hand, she was hailed by Jane’s voice coming from the direction of the drawing room.

“Susannah, is that you? Thank heaven! I had wondered what had become of you.”

“Yes, it’s me,” Susannah said, accurately if ungrammatically. “I didn’t mean to worry you. I—I went riding.”

“I can see that from your costume,” Jane said, smiling up at her from the sofa, where she sat reading a book with her injured ankle resting on a footstool. “How very becoming that habit looks on you! I knew that shade of bottle green would be just the thing.”

“Thank you.” Susannah stood awkwardly in the doorway twisting the brim of her hat in her hands. “Was there something you wanted of me?”

“No. Well, that is not quite true. I wanted to tell you that we have heard at last from Monsieur Lavert, the hairdresser from London. He will arrive the day before the ball, so you may surprise us all with your transformation. Antoine has even agreed to give up his own bedchamber to house Monsieur Lavert during his stay—one cannot expect an
artiste
of Monsieur’s calibre to put up at a common inn, you know!—although Antoine makes it clear that he is making a great sacrifice. Indeed, I would not have asked such a thing of him, were Monsieur not a fellow countryman in exile.”

Susannah’s smile was somewhat mechanical. The last thing she wanted to think about at the moment was the betrothal ball—unless, of course, it was the wedding. Hard on the heels of this thought came the recollection of Richard’s suggestion that she might wish Jane to attend her at the altar as bridesmaid. The knowledge that Peter would perform a corresponding service for Richard made Jane’s presence doubly desirable: Susannah could not bear the thought of the hateful Miss Hunsford making calf’s eyes at the man Susannah loved while she herself plighted her troth to another.

“Oh, that—that is good news,” she said with an attempt at brightness. “Actually, there is something I need to discuss with you, as well. The wedding is to be in two weeks’ time, you know, and I—I wondered if you would stand up with me. As my bridesmaid.”

Lost in her own misery, Susannah did not hear Jane’s quick intake of breath, nor did she notice the hand that went instinctively to Jane’s bosom as if groping for the hilt of the dagger plunged there.

“I—I should be honoured,” Jane said.

Susannah mumbled a word of thanks and then excused herself, pleading the need to change out of her riding habit. Left alone once more, Jane pondered the cruelty of a fate that would allow her to stand at the altar with Richard after all—as attendant to his bride. To her horror, the tears she had held back for so long now welled up in her eyes, and she was powerless to stop them. She fumbled for the handkerchief tucked into her sleeve and sobbed silently into it, her shoulders shaking in quiet misery. And it was here that the Aunts found her when they arrived at Ramsay Hall for dinner.

“Jane!” exclaimed Aunt Amelia, hurrying forward to envelop her in a lavender-scented embrace. “My dear girl, what is the matter?”

“The stupidest thing,” Jane said, when she could speak at all. “It is only that, well, we were up so late last night—this morning, really—and I did not sleep well, and have so many things to do before the ball. I am merely tired—nothing that a good night’s sleep will not mend. Pay me no heed, I beg you!”

Aunt Amelia patted her hand consolingly. “Forgive me, my dear, but—well, is it the ball, or what the ball represents?”

“It is true that it represents a great deal of work,” Jane acknowledged briskly, tucking her sodden handkerchief back into her sleeve. “I must ask Antoine if he will be able to obtain enough lobsters for lobster patties, and I must consult with the gardener regarding the floral arrangements—”

“A great deal of work, to be sure,” agreed Aunt Charlotte. “But more than that, it represents Richard’s approaching marriage to that American.”

“Really, Aunt Charlotte, I wish you would not call her that!” Jane scolded. “Cousin Susannah is very nice girl.”

Aunt Charlotte nodded. “A very nice girl whom you would gladly wish at Jericho.”

“You need not pretend with us, my dear,” Aunt Amelia concurred. “We know how you feel about Richard. Indeed, we have always cherished hopes that someday the two of you might wed.”

“Aunt Amelia, you must not talk in such a way! There has never been any question of marriage between Richard and me. I turned down his very generous offer years ago, and he is too much the gentleman to continue to press a suit he knew I did not wish.”

“And you were too much the lady to accept a suit you knew
he
did not wish,” observed Aunt Charlotte with a great deal too much perspicacity for Jane’s peace of mind.

“How I feel for your suffering!” exclaimed Aunt Amelia, groping for her own handkerchief to wipe away her ready tears of sympathy. “I once had an understanding with a young man, you know. But his family’s estate was shockingly encumbered, and he was obliged to marry an heiress instead. I was not without other offers—I was accounted quite a beauty in those days, although you would not think it to look at me now—but I could not bear the thought of marriage to another.”

In fact, Jane had heard this story many times before, and was not at all surprised when Aunt Amelia begged her pardon and quitted the room, citing the need to collect herself in the light of such painful memories. Aunt Charlotte held her tongue until the door closed behind Aunt Amelia, then turned to Jane.

“Perhaps I haven’t Amelia’s sensibilities—I never had a proposal of marriage, you know, for I was always far too outspoken to make any man a comfortable wife—but I have often thought Amelia would have been happier if she
had
accepted one of those other offers. There would have been no grand passion, it is true, but it has been my observation that such heights of emotion rarely outlast the honeymoon in any case. In the meantime, she would have had a quiver full of children, and little time to indulge in fantasies of lost love. And now,” she concluded, “if you are quite composed, I think you had best change clothes for dinner. We should not like to keep Richard waiting.”

“No, indeed,” Jane agreed, rising to her feet.

As she changed her day dress for a more formal dinner gown, Jane thought of Aunt Charlotte’s words. From that fateful night at dinner when Richard had first announced his betrothal to their American cousin, Jane had told herself that she could be, that she
must
be, happy living at Ramsay Hall as a beloved aunt (although the relationship would actually be a distant cousinship) to Richard’s children. Her conversation with the Aunts, however, now caused her to reconsider this prospect. It was true that Aunt Amelia seemed happy enough in spite of her earlier heartbreak, but then again, Aunt Amelia never went to London, and rarely travelled beyond the village of Lower Nettleby; she was not obliged to see her love every day with his new wife, to watch as the other woman’s belly grew round with the advent of his heir—a living proof of the intimacy they shared, an intimacy which could never be hers.

Suddenly she knew what she must do. But she would not act rashly; she would give herself time to consider fully the implications of her actions, so that she might make the decision with eyes wide open, never to look back upon it with second guesses or regret. And then, on the night of the betrothal ball, she would at long last accept Sir Matthew Pitney’s suit.

See golden days, fruitful of golden deeds,

With Joy and Love triumphing.

JOHN MILTON,
Paradise Lost

The next week passed in a flurry of activity, but it cannot be said that any of the residents of Ramsay Hall enjoyed it. Susannah’s dress for the ball was delivered, and the final fittings for her wedding gown scheduled. In addition to her usual household tasks, Jane consulted regularly with the chef and the gardener, and met with the musicians who were hired to play for the ball. Peter booked passage on the merchant ship
Mermaid
, which was to sail from Portsmouth three days after the wedding, and devoted the rest of the week to the task of setting his affairs in order and leaving the estate’s books in good condition for his successor. Richard, having no more useful occupation to fill his time, paced restlessly about the house. He had never been taught to be particularly attuned to emotions, either his own or those of others, and was conscious now only of some vague discontent. Having had it drilled into his head from his earliest days that he had a responsibility to his name and his position, he fully intended to do his duty, and expected no less from those around him. To do otherwise would be un—un
English
, and certainly unworthy of a Ramsay of Ramsay Hall. Still, he could not shake the uncomfortable feeling that he was about to make a terrible mistake.

When the day of the ball dawned, the various members of the family hardly knew whether to be sorry or glad. Jane was perhaps the most fortunate, as she was kept busy in the ballroom all the morning, overseeing the footmen as they rearranged the furniture and the gardener’s assistants as they placed half a dozen enormous floral arrangements on pillars strategically positioned about the room. In the afternoon, the first of the out-of-town guests began to arrive, and these had to be shown to their rooms and their comfort ensured. As she instructed the housekeeper to show the newest arrivals to the rose bedchamber, Jane consoled herself (if one might call it that) with the knowledge that this would be the last time such a task would fall to her; in another week, such domestic duties would fall within Susannah’s purview. As the afternoon progressed, Jane dispatched the groom to the village to meet Monsieur Lavert’s arrival on the stage, and to fetch him back to Ramsay Hall in the gig. Finally, after giving Wilson last-minute instructions as to where the musicians were to set up, she climbed the stairs to her own room (leaning rather more heavily on her crutch than had been her wont, as the day’s activity had caused her ankle to throb) to dress for the ball.

She did not ring for her maid at once; in truth, she was not quite certain of her ability to control her emotions, and wanted no one to witness any tears she might shed. She opened the clothespress and looked searchingly at the gowns within, giving a rather wistful glance to the mourning gowns she’d worn after the dowager’s death. Pushing aside such maudlin thoughts, she removed the cerulean blue ball dress which had been delivered from Madame Lavert’s hands earlier that week, Richard having insisted that Jane have a new gown for the occasion. This recollection not unnaturally caused a lump to form in her throat. She swallowed it down, laid the dress gently across the bed, and gave a tug to the bell pull.