Elizabeth Mansfield (2 page)

"No. My great-grandfather's style of painting was, I suspect, not nearly so skilled. The painting I'm looking for is probably softer, with less contrast between light and shadow. And the subject, I'm told, is fair-haired, not dark. I saw at once that this is not the right painting. I waited only to apologize to you for my intrusion. Now that I've done so, I have only to thank you and take my leave." He bowed and walked swiftly to the door.

Kate, realizing with a shock that she'd let loose a tirade over nothing, felt her cheeks grow hot in humiliation. She'd made an utter fool of herself!

At the door, he turned back to face her again. "I only wish to add, ma'am," he said, an unmistakable gleam of amusement in his eyes, "that even if I'd had any doubts of the ownership of that painting, seeing you would have dispelled them. The face of the girl in the shawl shows a
remarkable
resemblance to your own. Good day, ma'am." And he was gone.

Kate gaped after him, her emotions in a turmoil. Why, the dastard had insulted her! He as good as called her arrogant!
“The face shows a remarkable resemblance to your own,'
indeed! That blasted bounder! And then he'd run off like a craven, without waiting a moment for her reply. It was infuriating! She wished more than anything to have come back at him with a sharp rejoinder. Especially if she could have thought of one.

TWO

Percival Greenway, Esquire, was down on one knee again.

Kate eyed him with barely concealed impatience. She was sorry she'd permitted the butler to admit him. It was bad enough to have to make conversation with him while seated opposite the
Girl with Persian Shawl
(the painting that she'd barely noticed all these years but that had suddenly become a source of irritation to her), but to have to endure another of Percy's offers was the outside of enough. No matter how firmly she'd expressed her refusal of his two earlier declarations, Percy seemed unable to take her seriously.

She rose from the sofa. "Please, Percy, not again," she said, turning away from him.

"Can't you allow me to finish?" Percy demanded as he stumbled to his feet.

"No!"

Percy, apparently unperturbed, responded merely by bending over and brushing the dust from the knee of his britches. The meticulous care with which he did it filled Kate with disgust. Why, the mawworm was showing more concern for his britches than for her response!

She stalked across the room to the window. Outside, a heavy rain was pelting down, blurring her view of the woods beyond the lawn. Only this morning, before the ordeal with Lord Ainsworth, she'd gazed out of these windows upon a very different scene. The autumn landscape had delighted her eyes. The rays of the morning sun, slanting through the trees, had painted the misty air with golden streaks and given the dying leaves a russet glow. But all too soon, the clouds had thickened, darkening the sky much as the visit of Lord Ainsworth had darkened her mood. Then the rain, making a curtain of tears that muddied the colors of the landscape, had turned the gold-and-russet leaves—and her spirit—to a lackluster brown.
Blast Ainsworth,
she thought,
and blast this rain!

To make matters worse, with the rain had come the persistent Percy Greenway. Now she had to put up with another awkward interview—a repetition of his tedious marriage offers. It was the last straw!

Percy came up behind her. "I've written a poem this time," he said, putting a hand on her shoulder. "Perhaps the wording will make my addresses more appealing."

She turned and faced him, impatience battling with pity within her. She had no wish to cause him pain.

He was an old friend, after all. His family estate marched with hers on the north border. They'd been playmates through all their childhood. She, having no brothers or sisters, had been grateful to have him as a companion. But after he'd gone off to school and then to Cambridge (from which he'd been sent down after only a year), he'd returned a different fellow—more shallow and trivial than she remembered. Though tall and fairly presentable in appearance, he'd turned into a veritable fop. The high points of his collar, the shocking colors of his waistcoat, the overabundant curls of his hair were absurd enough to dismay her, but his conversation was worse. It was filled with the latest on-dits and gossip of the London ton, proving what a fribble he'd become. She took no pleasure in his company these days. But he seemed not to notice the change in her attitude toward him.
How,
she wondered,
can I make him understand?

She shook his hand from her shoulder. "Putting the wording into rhyme will make not the slightest difference," she told him bluntly.

He stepped back, offended. "How can you tell if you haven't heard—
?
”

Kate, weakening at his hurt expression, shrugged in resignation. "Oh, very well," she murmured, "go ahead, if you must. But I assure you my answer will be the same."

Percy brightened, took her by the hand, and led her back to the sofa. Then he drew in a deep bream, clutched his hands to his breast, and began to declaim:

"My love is of a birth as rare
 

As is for object strange and high;
 

It was begotten by despair—"

Her burst of laughter cut him off.
"Upon impossibility,"
she concluded for him.

"Oh, damnation!" he cried in chagrin, sinking down on the sofa and dropping his head in his hands. "You knew it!"

"Everyone who reads poetry knows it," Kate said between gurgles of laughter. "How wonderful that it is
you
who've written so famous a poem! Is Andrew Marvell your pen name?"

He glanced over at her, pouting. "How was I to know you knew it? And by heart!"

"Did you think I would not?" Her laughter dying, she shook her head at him. "Marvell is one of my most favorite poets. And if you'd read it all through you'd have understood his meaning is the opposite of your intention."

"I did read it through. I memorized the whole. I just didn't understand it."

"Didn't you? It's lovely, really." She sighed, and her eyes turned misty as she began to recite her favorite lines:

" ‘As lines, so loves oblique may well
 

Themselves in every angle greet,

But ours, so truly parallel,
 

Though infinite, can never meet.’

You see, my dear, he's saying that love is a longing that can't be fulfilled."

"Oh, is
that
what he means?" poor Percy asked in chagrin.

"Yes. And to try to pass his poetry off as your own is too ridiculous, Percy, even for you. That trick might work with one of your tavern wenches, but not with anyone who reads."

He scowled in self-disgust. "I should have guessed it wouldn't work. But Kate, don't you realize I'm at my wit's end? I don't know how to convince you to accept me."

Kate patted his knee. "Give it up, Percy. There is no manner of speech, no rhyme, no rhetoric of any sort that can possibly change my mind."

"I don't understand you, Kate." He turned to face her squarely. "You're well past the age of consent, are you not?"

"You know I am."

"And there's no other fellow who's captured your eye—or your heart, is there?"
 

"No, there is not."

"Then why not me? Am I so very dreadful in appearance?"

"Don't be a coxcomb. You know perfectly well you're top-of-the-trees."

That made him preen a bit. "Well, yes, I
have
been told I'm a right cool fish."

"No doubt by someone who admires gaudy waistcoats and shirtpoints up to the cheeks," Kate taunted, unable to help herself.

He stiffened. "You, Kate Rendell, have no appreciation of town fashion."

"If you're an example of it, no, I haven't," she retorted.

"I suppose," he muttered, "that you think me a complete fool."

"No, I don't think that at all. Except in your foolish persistence in offering for me."

"But I can't help it." He grasped her hands in a tight hold. "I love you to distraction. Have for years. And you're fond of me, I know you are. Damnation, woman, why won't you have me?"

"You have
me
at wit's end, Percy." She wrenched her hands free and glared at him. "This obstinate resistance to my refusal is more than my nature can bear. You've been a good companion from childhood, yes, but I've been telling you for years that you can never be more than that to me."

"How do you know you won't change?" he asked, looking at her pathetically.

"You must take my word that I know my own mind."

"I won't take your word. You cannot know the future. You may very well change your mind one of these days. I can coax you into it."

At that her patience snapped. She jumped to her feet. "Percival Greenway," she said icily, "if you cannot accept the fact that we'll never be lovers, I shall have to tell Havers to bar you from the house! And that's my last word on the subject."

Percy pulled himself up. "Very well," he pouted, "if that's your last word, it will also be mine. Positively!" With an exaggerated bow, like an actor in a drama, he flounced to the door.

His melodramatic stride made such a comical contrast to the clownish exaggeration of his costume that Kate felt a spasm of laughter rise in her throat. She tried not to let it escape. "Good day, sir," she said with a tiny gurgle, returning his bow.

He heard it and stood stock still. "You know, Kate," he said after a pause, his voice suddenly free of affectation, "though you're very easy to
love,
you're quite impossible to
like.
Positively!"

Kate stared after him, her mouth agape. Had he really said what she thought he'd said? She got to her feet and took a step after him. "Percy! What—?"

But he'd stormed out of the room. The sound of his footsteps was already fading as he clomped down the hall. The sound of his angry voice, however, continued to echo in the air.
Impossible to like
... that was what he'd said. Those were his very words. Could they be true? Was she really not likable?

She sank back down upon the sofa, her eyes fixed on the empty doorway. For the second time that day, she'd been given a cruel set down. And it wasn't even noon!

THREE

Kate stalked into the sitting room where her mother sat close to the fire. "Mama," she said, dropping down on the hearth in front of her, "what's wrong with me?"

Lady Isabel, who'd been stitching away at her embroidery frame, stayed her hand. "Oh, dear, are you ill, my love?" she asked, her eyes showing more curiosity than alarm. Her ladyship was not one to fly into hysterics without sufficient reason. "Headachy? Feverish?"

"No, no, nothing like that. I'm quite well. Physically, anyway. What I mean is... is there something wrong with my character?"

"Your character?" Lady Isabel peered at her daughter in confusion.

"Yes, Mama, my character. My temperament. My nature."

"I don't know what you mean, Kate. You are a sensible, moral, entirely admirable woman. There's nothing
at all
wrong with your character." And with a dismissive wave of her hand, she resumed her sewing.

Kate studied her mother with some irritation. The woman had not turned fifty, yet she'd become completely absorbed by stitchery, an occupation befitting a much older woman. It was a passion that affected everything about her, even her appearance and the way she dressed. To Kate, it made her mama appear more grandmotherly than motherly. An enormous lace cap covered her hair, which—if she'd permitted anyone to see—had not a strand of gray. Her gown was a plain blue round-gown, which was bad enough, but what made it worse was the apron that covered it. It was a special apron Mama had designed herself. Its bodice was partitioned with a row of small pockets, each one bearing one skein of colored embroidery thread. A placket over her left breast was punctuated with needles of various sizes. Special magnifying glasses were perched on her nose. Was there any wonder that she appeared to be decades older than her years?

The needlework itself would be considered quite artistic, Kate supposed, by those who cared for such things, but to Kate it hardly seemed worth the enormous effort. The work required not only huge amounts of time but very complicated paraphernalia. There were not only skeins of thread to be untangled, needles constantly to be threaded, and the fabric stretched over an elongated rectangular frame, but Mama had concocted a four-legged, wheeled cart on which to carry her work. She made a ludicrous appearance pulling the clumsy thing behind her wherever she went!

What Kate didn't understand was what induced her mother to do all this. The entire household was already overstocked with her needlework. How much more did they need? Every upholstered chair had an embroidered doily on its back. Every room had at least three framed examples of her art. Every bed in all seven bedrooms sported a number of embroidered pillows. When would she decide that she'd created a sufficiency?

Kate sighed. "Must you keep sewing, Mama, when I'm trying to get a thoughtful answer from you?"

"I gave you a thoughtful answer. I said there's nothing wrong with your character."

"That was not a thoughtful answer. That was a mother's answer."

"But I
am
your mother. How else can I answer?"

"You can try to be a bit objective, can't you?"

"It's hard to be objective about one's own flesh and blood." Between stitches, Lady Isabel threw her daughter a quizzical look. "What made you ask such a strange question, my love?"

"The matter came up today," Kate replied glumly. “Twice!"

"A matter regarding your
character?"

"Yes, and the assessments were not at all in agreement with yours."

The needle stopped again. "Are you saying that someone found fault with you?"

“Two someones. In one morning."

"Who on earth could possibly find fault with your character?" her mother asked in perfect sincerity.