Lady Roma's Romance (16 page)

He pursed his lips. “I should say she is very pretty. Such a speaking countenance, if you understand me. She doesn’t say very much, or perhaps I chatter so that she can’t squeeze a word in. She’s a delight.”

Though she could not imagine her taciturn father “chattering,” his excitement tonight prompting more words than she usually heard from him in a fortnight, she could well imagine that a very quiet girl might prompt him to fill in the silences himself. Certainly, if he found her as sympathetic as he said, he might want to say things to her that long silences with his daughter would not call forth. Roma suppressed a pang of envy. “What do you talk about?”

“Art.”

“Art? Roman art?”

“Yes, that as well. She’s a fine artist. Her watercolors are charming. Her sketches capture so much of the person, if you know what I mean. I think I will turn the smaller of the morning rooms at Yarborough into a studio for her. It gets only northern light as you know, and no one wants to sit there except in high summer.”

“That’s true,” Roma said. “Remember how Great-grandfather’s tame artist used it when he had that portrait done of Great-grandmother.”

“Yes. I shall write to Mr. Brayle and set the conversion in train. Perhaps add that door to the knot garden that we have discussed so often. Paints and such are rather smelly, I believe. Ventilation will be important. Sabina said something about wanting to work in clay as well. She’s remarkably talented.”

“I believe you. Let me write to Mr. Brayle, Father. I know where the plans are that that architect drew for Great-grandfather when he toyed with the idea of having an artist permanently installed.”

“Yes, excellent. I shall leave it in your hands, Roma.”

“Thank you. I should be very happy to do something for my new stepmother.”

Lord Yarborough frowned. “Do you think you should call her that? She’s so young...”

“I know. I believe she’s only a year or two older than . . . than Mrs. Martin. But she will be my stepmother, Father, whether I call her so or not.”

For the first time, his happiness seemed to dim a trifle. Roma instantly set out to restore it to its former gleam. “And just think how all your friends will envy you, Father. None of them will have so charming and lovely a bride.”

“No, that’s true. Arnold Magerthy did marry quite a young creature a few years ago, but no one could call the marchioness lovely or charming. Has the disposition of a daylight owl and... Well, I don’t want to be ungentlemanly, but it was known Magerthy’s father had run through every farthing and her father had more money than Plutus. Magerthy at least will envy me.”

This thought seemed to cheer him in a way that was quite unlike her genial parent. “Oh?”

He shook his head and looked knowing. “Something that happened at Eton,” he said. “Not for your ears.”

“I see.” She left him to his thoughts and memories while she contemplated her own future. Roma had planned to mention to him what Dina had expressed when surprised in the arms of Mr. Morningstreet. Though she did not anticipate his lordship actually taking any action in the matter, she would have been glad of his advice. However, she would not bring up such a sordid business now and risk spoiling his joy.

“Shall I call on Miss Keane in the morning? It seems the right thing to do.”

He bent down and kissed her forehead. “You always know what to do, Roma. You remind me very much of your mother.”

“Thank you,” she said, surprised by the tears that leapt into her eyes. He so rarely mentioned her. “I wish I remembered her.”

“You have only to look in the mirror, my dear. You have her eyes, her coloring, but...”

“But?”

“You haven’t her fears. She was always frightened. Loud noises ... she couldn’t bear thunder or shooting. The whole time we were in Italy, she was worried about earthquakes or bandits or the quality of the air. The number of times I had to get up to investigate a strange noise, regardless of the fact that we had half a dozen strong menservants to protect her in case of burglary. Life frightened her, I think. It doesn’t frighten you.”

“I learned from you, Father.”

He smiled at the compliment but turned it aside. “No. I’m not interested enough in life to be worried about it. Perhaps I will be now, but I think it’s something in you. Even when you were very small, none of the things that frighten children seemed to worry you. You held your nurse and governesses in affection. You never flinched from insects or large dogs. Even when you learned to swim, you proceeded without a qualm.”

“Not an outward qualm at any rate.”

“Had you inward ones?”

“No,” Roma had to admit. “Is it an admirable quality in a girl not to be afraid?”

“Very admirable, my dear.”

“Thank you, Father. I very much appreciate your telling me that. I wondered about it.”

He kissed her again and took himself off to bed. She wondered if he’d sleep. Happiness might serve to keep him awake. She knew her own eyes would not close.

Whether or not she’d ever been afraid before, she was afraid now. She had hidden her true feelings about his engagement from her father so as not to burden him with any guilt or worry. Happiness was too fragile a thing to survive a cold reception unchanged. She well recalled that not all approval had been rapturous when she’d announced that she’d marry Elliot Brownlow, a comparative nobody to her grand relations. To several, she’d never been warmer than cordial after enduring their sneering or unenthusiastic remarks.

Among these were several elderly female cousins or aunts with whom, otherwise, she might have considered making a home. The aunt who had assisted at her come-out had retired from London and was living with her married daughter. She could look for no help there.

As Roma saw it, in the light of a single candle, she had two choices. To live in retirement with a companion or to marry. Even if she’d wished to study the Roman remains of England, she could not do so without some sheltering male presence. Besides, she was tired of Rome. She wished Sabina joy of that.

Living quietly had its attraction, but she knew she was too young to enjoy it for long. The thought of a companion, older, wiser, and more settled, had no redeeming qualities at all. She could think of two of her former governesses, well pensioned, either of who would consider an offer to live with her. But considering that she could not visit either for so much as an hour without being put back in the schoolroom, she thought she would rather not.

That left a husband. Roma knew that no other future was really acceptable to her. She wanted to be married. She’d always liked the thought of marriage. Without undue romanticizing, it seemed the state best designed for a woman’s happiness in this world. Though it would be ideal to find one’s spiritual twin beforehand, Roma faced the fact that she hadn’t time to search the world over for her perfect match. Therefore, she would do what countless generations of females before her had done. Marry someone suitable and make the best of it.

She sat down at her desk and drew forward a sheet of letter paper. After a dip in the standish, she drew a sharp line down the middle of the page. One side she labeled “pro,” the other “con.” Then she sat, the ink drying on the nib, while she tried to think of some other names besides that of Bret Donovan.

* * * *

She’d finally forced herself to lie down at about two-thirty in the morning. Her maid came into the room far too soon after. Feeling as if she’d been run down by a brewer’s dray, she sat up, repressing a groan. The scent of the tea Pigeon brought helped to bring her to near alertness. A few sips, a bite of a warm bun, and she was ready to face the morning, though she’d undoubtedly nap later on.

“My lady,” Pigeon said, after opening the curtains and making certain the housemaid had built a suitable fire. “Mrs. Derwent is below. She hopes you’ll be able to give her a few minutes this morning.”

“Is she, indeed?” Roma said. Recalling how bold Dina had been last night, she did not imagine that she’d come in any guilty spirit. Roma wasn’t sure she was prepared to listen to raptures on requited love when her own future seemed to hold no hint of it.

“Yes, my lady. Wilde told me she seemed a trifle out of curl this morning.”

“Tell her she may come up.” She lay back against her pillows with a sigh of resignation. Then she called out, “No, wait, Pigeon. I can’t see her now. I... I’ll call on her later. This afternoon. I shall call on her this afternoon.”

Pigeon only said, “Very well, my lady,” but her expression showed rather more than her colorless voice. It was not like Roma to be less than decisive or to change her mind hurriedly. Roma knew it herself.

Instead of moving briskly through her tasks, Roma dawdled, passing into reverie and daydream where usually she was brisk and efficient. His lordship seemed to be equally bemused, though his thoughts brought irrepressible smiles to his lips while hers were more melancholy in nature.

They arrived at the Keanes’ house with but fifteen minutes to spare in the hour for morning callers. Lord Yarborough showed signs of nervousness, smoothing his hair, touching his cravat, or tugging at a perfectly well cut sleeve as they approached the front door. “I know you will both like and approve Sabina,” he said, a trifle wordier than his wont. “She is everything that is amiable and kind. She has the softest, kindest voice in the world.” “I’m sure she will be all you say and so much more,” Roma said soothingly. She was determined to like Sabina Keane even should she prove more odious than her sister and mother combined.

* * * *

An hour later, more or less, she left her father and Miss Keane to wander through the shaded alleys and sunny walks of Sydney Gardens, themselves and the wonders of man-made nature blurred and softened by a romantic light that emanated less from the autumnal sky than from their hearts.

Having not so very far to go, she decided to walk. It seemed a little odd not to have the pitter-patter of little maidenly feet following her, though in truth Pigeon had rather outsized feet. Not, fortunately, pigeon-toed, however, Roma thought with an inward grin.

Though her visit to the Keanes’ house had not been without a certain strain, her father’s happiness and evident delight in the woman he’d chosen made Roma’s task all but effortless. She had settled upon a plan of action. Nothing would make her deviate from it. So far as the world would ever be able to tell, she approved without a qualm every circumstance surrounding her father’s engagement.

In this resolve, she was aided by Mrs. Martin. Taking Roma aside, she’d spoken with great earnestness, greater, indeed, than any Roma had ever seen in her before. “I believe I have begun to talk Mama around to seeing this marriage my way.”

“What is your way, Julia?”

“Simply that it’s the best possible thing that could have happened to dear Sabina. I knew she wasn’t happy living here, doing the marketing, the flowers, and being a general sort of dogsbody for Mama, but what could I do? Our house is hardly big enough for Mr. Martin and myself, and poor Sabina hasn’t any money of her own. You—er—don’t dislike the match, Roma?”

“Not at all,” Roma said firmly. “I’m delighted. Your sister is all that is charming.”

“Yes, she’s looking almost pretty this morning. Even Mama said so, and as a rule, she’s not one to hand out bouquets. I suppose the truth is that Sabina will be her favorite daughter now.” She gave a tiny sniff, her tone more suitable to a small girl than a grown woman with a husband of her own.

“Imagine,” she added, her laugh short and the toss of her head scornful, “Sabina a countess. I can hardly believe it.”

“She will adorn the role, I’m sure,” Roma said, giving her father a nod and a wink.

“I doubt it. She’ll probably forget where she is and start sketching at the most ridiculous moments. Why, she even drew pictures inside her testament in church until Mama made her erase them all.”

“For heaven’s sake, Julia,” Sabina said, turning her head, her mild tones slightly upraised. “I was seven years old.” She drew a trifle closer to her fiancé on the settee, peering shyly up into his face. Mrs. Keane sat across from them, beaming. She’d seemed almost bereft of words by the honey-fall her least promising child had gathered in.

“Go on about the Pantheon. Did you really walk there?”

“I’d rather walk with you. Will you come with me to the Gardens?”

“Not alone,” Mrs. Keane said. “People do talk so.”

Lord Yarborough only looked at her blankly. It never occurred to him that other people might look on his doings with any sort of opinion, either censorious or acclaiming. It was the sort of unthinking arrogance that gave earls and such a bad reputation. Whatever the Earl of Yarborough chose to do must be correct or he wouldn’t care to do it.

“I’ll go with you,” Roma said. “I should be glad of a little fresh air.”

“Oh, me, too,” echoed the youngest Miss Keane. But in the middle of reiterating how much she’d enjoyed herself last night, she broke into a yawn wide enough to swallow the tea service, pot and all. She muffled it, her eyes wide with surprise at this betrayal.

“A good rest for you,” Julia said. “You’re not used to late hours, baby.”

That was as good a hint to be gone as any. Roma accompanied her father only as far as the end of the street. “I don’t think you need a chaperon, Father. Father?”

He gazed at Miss Keane as if she were a broken piece of pottery that proved Roman occupation in an unsuspected stretch of countryside. Poor Miss Keane was consumed with blushes.

Taking herself quite as much by surprise as either of them, Roma briskly kissed their cheeks and said farewell.

That the meeting with the Keanes had gone so well gave Roma the confidence to face her next interview with renewed determination. Consumed by questions that only one woman could answer, she hurried on down toward the heart of the town, her slippered feet finding the cobbles hard going. Roma mechanically returned the waves and hails that greeted her as she passed, but there was no time to converse. Though arriving without a definite appointment, she knocked sharply at the door.

“Good morning. Is Lady Brownlow at home?”