Lady Roma's Romance

“When will you allow me to take you away from all this? When are we to run away over the border, m’darling?” Bret gave the elderly woman his most charming eyebrow wiggle and most amusing leer.

She laughed, as he’d hoped, the lines of pain in her forehead easing. “I’ll order the coach at once, sirrah.”

“I wouldn’t hear of it. I shall whistle up a team and a chaise. Naturally, you’ll pay for it.”

“Naturally. Are you truly so penniless, Bret?”

He smiled again, devil-may-care. The conversation had taken the serious turn he’d not wanted. But when someone cared for you, as did his Aunt Brownlow, it was difficult to keep the cups and balls spinning all the time. “I have only three talents, m’darling. Soldiering is closed to me,” he said with a rueful tap of his right knee. “Brewing ales isn’t socially acceptable as you know.”

“No, indeed,” she said with a slight shudder running through her ample frame. “No one minds if a girl with trade in her background marries well, as I did.”

“But for a man, it is a different tale,” Bret said resignedly. To leave behind the world he knew to sink into even an honorable trade was unthinkable. More than that. It would be a disgrace that would taint his entire family. They would have no choice but to cut the connection. His family wasn’t all he might wish—too many stiff-rumped and high-nosed creatures for his taste—but they were all he had.

“What is your third talent, Bret?” she asked, leaning forward amidst her welter of shawls and cunning wraps.

“Why, lovemaking, my dear. I’m wounded that you could not guess it at once. I shall have to continue to improve my technique.”

“And where did you come by this faculty? Not in the army, I know.”

Bret chuckled warmly. “Bless you for your innocence, sweetheart. But you are right; ‘tis a natural gift. The only thing my father had to leave me.”

“I want to speak to you about that. Your uncle never thought it fair that his only sister had been cut off without a penny when she married—” He stopped her with an upheld hand from traveling again over well-trodden ground.

He’d joined the army directly he left college and come through ten years of engagements without so much as a scratch from a spent ball. He’d stayed amazingly clean and always landed on his feet, thus earning himself the nickname of “Cat” Donovan among his intimates. Then his horse had been shot from under him. Sometimes, in dreams, he still saw the ground rising to meet him, rough and rocky. Poor old Highlander had rolled in his agony, grinding Bret’s leg against those rocks. The scars had healed, but he could no longer support long hours in the saddle without his knee twisting out of alignment with exquisitely painful results. Perhaps he should have taken the staff position he’d been offered, but it smacked of charity and that he would not accept.

“It’s the very devil to be both poor and proud,” he said lightly. “I shall recommend to all my friends that they choose one or the other.”

His aunt laughed, as she always did when he spoke to her as a friend and not a revered relation. “You should tell them not to be so proud that they refuse all help. There are those who would gladly aid them and not think of it as charity.”

“You’re too kind, best of my aunts. Tell me, what do you think of this new doctor? More sympathetic than the last, I hope.”

But she refused this subject of usually exhaustive fascination. “You may well laugh at me, Bret, but I’ve been evolving a little plot in my mind.”

“Have you, sweetheart?” He poured a fresh cup of tea and brought it to her. “Tell me all your plotting. Omit no detail, however slight.”

“I wasn’t going to mention it, knowing how you feel about meddling old fools.” Now she forestalled him with a raised hand. Bret submitted with a rueful shake of his head. “And perhaps it isn’t such a very good plan. I debated with myself all last night about it, for you know how I can never sleep more than a few hours. I had quite made up my mind not to mention it at all until I saw what day it was.”

“Thursday?” Bret said, out of his depth.

“No, dear. The twenty-fourth of September. Even then, I couldn’t be certain until your knock sounded at just the very hour... the very minute.” She choked a little, and tears sprang up into her speedwell blue eyes.

Bret reached out to clasp the lace-mittened hand amidst the shawls. “I’m sorry, Aunt Brownlow. I didn’t know. Father wrote me about Elliot, but he gave me no details beyond the bare facts. I don’t think I ever heard precisely what day it had been.”

She blinked back the tears. Gently freeing her hand, she took a not-quite-steady sip of tea. “I guessed as much. But you see, that makes it doubly sure. Just as if Elliot himself had led you hither.”

From what Bret remembered of his cousin, nothing could be less likely. ‘Your plotting has something to do with Elliot?” Bret asked, still groping through a fog.

“Of course. If it weren’t the day it is, my plot would never work. After all, you have to meet the young lady, and she never fails to call upon me on the twenty-fourth of September. This must be her now.”

“Young lady?”

He’d quite missed the rap upon the door and the bustle of the parlor maid passing through the hall in his desire to comfort his aunt. Now the maid opened the door, bobbing a curtsy and announcing, “Lady Roma Yarborough, ma’am,” in adenoidal tones.

“Thank you, Landon.”

Bret hardly had time to stand up before an enchanting creature swept through the door. Above the average height, she was slender with it and moved with a grace that hardly seemed of the earth. The high-waisted fashion of the day suited, her. Bret had enough experience to know that no common hand had made her pelisse and gown but an artist working in fabric and thread. When she opened her pelisse’s buttons, the lining of the coat matched the day dress underneath. The soft butter yellow should have clashed with her rich auburn hair, but each complemented the other instead.

Yet everything faded into the background with one glimpse of her face. All the superstition of his Irish great-grandfather surged up in Bret’s soul. Here was the Queen of the Fair People, serene, mischievous, remote as a goddess and sweet as a child, walking into a Bath parlor as if she were any ordinary mortal. She had the translucent white skin gifted to some exceptionally fortunate red-haired girls, and her eyes behind thick brown lashes were a shifting shade of gold mixed with green. Bret knew this because she met his gaze squarely before passing on without a pause to his aunt. The straight, full lips parted in delight.

“Mother Brownlow, how well you are looking!” she exclaimed in her well-bred voice as she stooped to kiss the plump cheek and stroke the lifted hand. “Bath must be working its usual miracle.”

“It’s like you to say that, Roma. I don’t deny the waters are doing me good.”

“You
could not deny it Such a rosy color in your cheeks.”

“Nothing compared to the roses in yours, Roma. I always say you couldn’t find a better example of a real English complexion than yours.”

“May I open the curtains, ma’am? Such a rare day for Bath. The sun is actually showing itself.” She tugged open the heavy green drapes that lent the parlor such an aqueous quality that one all but expected fish to swim past one’s nose. Her hair was even more glorious with the sun burnishing it like copper.

“The sun entered with you, Lady Roma,” Bret said, unable to help himself.

“I confess I do like yellow,” she said as if he’d made some commonplace observation, “though my maid despairs whenever I choose it.” She turned with a smile upon her lips more practiced and polite than the one she’d given her almost mother-in-law. Her posture, too, was less easy as she stood waiting in a pool of sunshine.

Lady Brownlow hastened to perform the introduction. “May I present Mr. Donovan, Roma? He’s my sister’s son—in short, my nephew.”

Though her hand was slender as the rest of her, she gripped his hand in a firm and friendly fashion. He encountered the strong muscles of a horsewoman and realized that he would have felt cheated if she’d lifted a limp wrist or given him only two fingers. “Are you making a long stay in Bath, Mr. Donovan?”

“Some weeks, Lady Roma.” He had himself under control now. The impact of her beauty remained staggering, yet she seemed not to notice the effect she had on him. Perhaps she was too used to men tripping over their tongues whenever she was near to be surprised or flattered when another fell at her feet.

“He’s been good enough to offer to help me sort out this dreadful tangle my affairs are in,” Lady Brownlow said. “He has been trying to convince me that I should prosecute poor Mr. Household.”

“I agree with Mr. Donovan,” Lady Roma said. “I’m sure there are others that ‘man-of-affairs’ has bilked just as he has you.”

Lady Brownlow clicked her tongue. “He seemed like such a pleasant young man. I wonder what made him act so? I knew his father, and Mr. Household the Elder would never have done such a thing. It seems as if the world is changing for the worse all the time.”

Lady Roma jerked up her chin in an oddly defiant way, but she spoke soothingly. “People have been saying so for more than two thousand years. Father could quote you all the despairing things the Romans used to say. Yet the human race manages to avoid tumbling utterly into the pit.”

“Thus far at any rate,” Bret said. “It seems sometimes as if we must twist like an acrobat to save ourselves, yet we pull the trick off again and again.”

Lady Brownlow shook her head mournfully. “We old crocks shouldn’t spoil your young things’ enthusiasm with our croaking ways. But we know better, having seen it all before. Ring the bell, Bret, and order up more tea for us. You’ll stay to drink a cup of tea, won’t you, Roma?”

“Of course I shall. And longer than that, I trust. I’ve been longing for a good coze about all the latest Bath gossip. London was dull as ditch water. Not even my modiste could relate a single event of interest from the entire Season. Besides, you know how sorry I was to leave here before discovering the answer to our question.”

“What question, dear?” Lady Brownlow looked confused, but entertained. Bret watched the two women with a tinge of approval for Lady Roma’s methods.

“Why, whether General Parkes really intended matrimony by Mrs. Hethbridge, of course. Don’t tell me you forgot? I’ve been searching all your letters for news. You told me about the Galbraith twins, the grocer, and Miss Williams, but not a word about the general. My disappointment was severe, I promise you.”

Bret did as he was told and pulled the bell rope, taking a moment to observe the two women. He was struck by the contrast between the regal daughter of an earl, radiant with youth and health, and the tradesman’s daughter, settled into a comfortable middle age and given to quacking herself for every ill in the calendar. Bret had known his aunt to have unmistakable symptoms of epilepsy, dropsy, and locomotor ataxia all in the same week. It would be a cruelty to laugh at her, however, for a more sympathetic and kindly woman could hardly be found. He was glad to see that Lady Roma’s smile held no hint of condescension. She seemed both amused and pleased by Lady Brownlow’s conversation, though he guessed her interest in an elderly couple’s prolonged flirtation was less than absorbing.

Halfway through their tea, Bret became aware that his aunt’s glances toward him were growing increasingly impatient. He could not imagine why, though not usually slow to gather hints when offered. Lady Brownlow had engaged in a prolonged discussion of all her friends’ foibles and misadventures, urged on by Lady Roma’s masterly perfection in listening. She laughed in the right places and encouraged Lady Brownlow with nods, exclamations, and demands to know “and then ... ?”

Bret enjoyed watching his aunt being drawn out of her ruinous self-absorption. When she gave a razor-sharp impression of an imperious Russian countess who had set the town by the ears last spring, he applauded. “A great actress was lost to the stage when you married my uncle,” he said.

“Pshaw,” she said, giving him a little push.

“I agree with Mr. Donovan,” Lady Roma said. “You could give lessons to Mrs. Siddons. She is no comedienne.”

“I
used to enjoy the theater,” Lady Brownlow repined. “But I never would have thought of setting foot on a stage. My father frowned on such goings-on; even amateur theatricals were low, to his thinking. Though I remember once, oh, when we were still Mr. and Mrs. Brownlow, visiting some of Delby’s fine friends, and nothing would do but that they put on a play. We had six days of soaking rain, I remember. I played the nurse in
Romeo and Juliet.
Some of her speeches were dreadfully coarse, but everyone said I did very well. I didn’t dare tell my father, though I’d been two years married by then!”

“I didn’t know you’d ever acted,” Lady Roma said.

“Well, I never told Elliot everything. Some things a boy shouldn’t know about his mother. Boys are easily disillusioned, you know, and Elliot always looked up to me.”

“He told me you were the finest woman he had ever met,” Lady Roma said softly. Lady Brownlow patted the girl’s hand, then forced a change of mood.