Marjorie Farrell (6 page)

“I am beginning to. But if we are both agreed the connection will not do, then what
do
you suggest? That they continue to see one another?”

“Yes. They are both intelligent, and are of course aware already of the conventional reasons against the match, hence the secret betrothal. They no doubt expect an argument…although I doubt Jeremy would have expected the countess to go quite this far…”

The viscount had the grace to blush. “You think if we accept their betrothal, they will eventually call it off?”

“I think if we surprise them by not objecting, and if we support each other in acting as though this were agreeable to both families, by the end of the summer they will realize themselves that it is impossible. If they are treated with respect, perhaps they will be able to hold on to the friendship and let go of the romance.”

“Are you sure they will come to see their situations are too different to make for a happy marriage?”

“Up until now, they have been together only here, away from the eye of society and their families. Jeremy is quite unspoiled, and Miranda has never been exposed to the superficialities of the
ton
.
She is an unusually lovely and intelligent young woman
—even if I say it, who shouldn’t—but she would not be comfortable at balls and routs. I think if we bring Jeremy’s family and friends more into our world and you invite Miranda and me into yours, they will come to share their elders’ opinion. At any rate, while I can’t be absolutely certain this will happen, I
know
forbidding them each other’s company will only make them long for one another more.”

“I am convinced,” Sam replied after some minutes of silence. “My task will be to convince the countess!”

“I don’t envy you that. But you can assure her I want this match even less than she does.”

“I must confess, and I don’t wish to be offensive, your attitude surprises me, Mrs. Dillon. Most mothers would be eager to see their daughters move up in the world, and to go from being Miss Dillon to the Countess of Alverstone is not something to be taken lightly.”

“I quite agree,” Mrs. Dillon said coolly. “It is not something to be taken lightly. And now,” she continued, “we must decide how best to begin our strategy.”

It was clear to the viscount that Mrs. Dillon was not about to reveal to him the grounds of her objection, which apparently were strong. And so, for the moment, he put aside his curiosity and listened to her plans.

“You must have the countess speak to Jeremy further about this. Perhaps she could convince him that a secret betrothal is insulting to Miranda and that she is in favor of an announcement, so long as he can convince you. We could plan an outing on the Heath, and then you could invite us to whatever seems appropriate. But we have to have them in company enough so that Miranda’s unsuitability is made clear.”

“I begin to feel diabolically interfering,” Sam confessed.

“How so?” Mrs. Dillon lifted her eyebrows and looked straight at him. “You were quite prepared to buy or bully me off.”

“Yes,” he admitted. “But that was before I had made your acquaintance. Now that we have met, I worry we will cause pain both to your daughter and to my godson. If we forbade the connection, it would be a severe but at least a swift and direct blow.”

“Yes, but I want them to come to the decision themselves.”

“You are so sure they will?”

“I am certain that when Miranda and Jeremy become more aware of the differences between their backgrounds, they will no longer wish to rush into marriage.”

“Well, let us hope you are right,” Sam said as he rose to go. “I must take my leave. Thank you for the tea and the advice. We will, no doubt, be seeing more of one another.”

Mrs. Dillon stood in the door as Sam rode off, and when he looked back, he saw her move into the garden, her back to him as though she had forgotten his existence. Had he watched longer, he would have seen the self-possessed Mrs. Dillon sink down on the lawn against one of the apple tees and lean back as though she were seeking support from an old friend.

The viscount decided to stop at Mount Street on his way home, in order to forestall a visit from Lavinia. He had no doubt he could convince her that her suspicions of Mrs. Dillon were mistaken, but decided to claim their plan as his own, since the scheme could sound as though it were a way for that imagined harpy to worm her way into the family.

Sam could not have put into words the reasons he trusted Mrs. Dillon. The most obvious, of course, were her appearance and demeanor. She was not vulgar. In fact, he was convinced that she must have come from a good family, for she had refinement, natural dignity, and had spoken to him as an equal. Perhaps she herself had made a bad marriage, he thought. She had been very careful not to enumerate her objections to the match. But he believed they were there, and intended to convince Lavinia.

He was lucky Lavinia was in when he reached Mayfair. Her days were usually filled with shopping and visiting. The butler admitted him with a smile, took his hat and gloves, and said that the countess, who had a mild headache, was recovering and would be happy to receive him. He sent the viscount up to the morning room, where he found Lavinia lying on a sofa, a scented handkerchief on her forehead.

He cleared his throat and she turned slowly, popping up immediately when she saw who it was, and realized, from his buckskins and boots, where he must have been.

“Tell me you have seen her this morning and have come to tell me you succeeded,” she begged.

“You are correct on both counts.” The viscount smiled.

“Oh, Sam, I knew you could handle that harpy. How much did you have to give her?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“She is quite different from what we had imagined, Lavinia,” Sam replied. “And indeed, now that I think of it, we should have guessed. After all, we know Jeremy. We should have trusted he could never have fallen in love with the daughter of the Mrs. Dillon we imagined.”

“Of course he could have. Young men do it all the time,” the countess said, restored to worldly wisdom by the good news. “But why would she agree to give up her scheme so easily?”

“Because there was no scheme, my dear Lavinia. Mrs. Dillon does not want the betrothal any more than we do.”

“You mean she
said
she did not.”

“Hear me out.”

The countess sat back on the sofa and motioned Sam over to a chair. “You look hot and tired, Sam. Do you want me to ring for some lemonade?”

“Yes,” he said gratefully. “Now, let me finish before you get agitated all over again.”

Having rung for Matthew and ordered the drinks, the countess was ready to listen. “Go on, tell me about her. Does she live in a wretched set of hired rooms? What is the daughter like?”

“One question at a time. No, she lives in a comfortable cottage near the Heath, which includes a small piece of land, so she is certainly not poverty-struck.”

“And her daughter?”

“I did not meet her. Although I did see a small portrait of her as a child. If she kept her looks, she must be quite lovely, all blond curls and rosy cheeks. It was a Romney, you know.”

“What was a Romney?” asked Lavinia with some impatience in her voice.

“Oh…the portrait… I suppose it is not surprising that a novelist would come into contact with artists,” Sam mused.

Lavinia dismissed Sam’s observations on the way of life of such oddities as painters and writers and demanded a description of what had occurred.

“Mrs. Dillon did not know of the betrothal. She thought their friendship to be just that
—a bit unconventional, she was willing to admit—but she seemed disturbed by the thought of anything more serious. We both agreed the match would be undesirable. She understood your objections, but did not elaborate on her
own, except to say her daughter was too young and the disparity in background would eventually doom the relationship.”

“It was as easy as that,” Lavinia marveled, “to get her to agree to forbid her daughter Jeremy’s company?”

Sam cleared his throat and took a sip of lemonade before continuing with his story. He knew the hardest part was coming.

“I’m afraid we decided that would not be the way to discourage the attachment, but, in fact, would help to keep it alive.”

“Whatever do you mean?” Lavinia asked.

“I suggested that keeping them apart would be a tactical error. They are so young, and in the throes of a first love. The more obstacles put in their way, the more they will try to overcome them.”

“And what did you suggest, then? That we honor the betrothal and begin to socialize with our in-laws-to-be?” Lavinia asked sarcastically.

“As a matter of fact, that is what we agreed upon,” Sam replied carefully.

“I cannot believe you let the woman manipulate you like that, Sam.”

“Lavinia, just think a minute. Right now, neither Jeremy nor Miss Dillon has had to think much about the outside world. They are friends, then fall in love, all in a sort of vacuum. But do we begin to intrude upon that dream world, visit Hampstead and invite the Dillons here, they will begin to see what a gap there is between them. Instead of firing up their resistance, we let them continue with an informal, unannounced betrothal for the summer. By the fall, they will see for themselves that it will not do.”

When the viscount emphasized “unannounced,” Lavinia could begin to hear him. Perhaps the plan was not so absurd. After all, how could a little miss from Hampstead ever begin to fit in with Jeremy’s friends and contemporaries? And the mother? Well, whatever Sam said about her, she was most likely pushy and grasping at heart.

“What do you think, Lavinia?”

“I think it is worth trying. After all, we can always forbid it in the end.”

“I hope it will not come to that. Now, the question is, how do we begin?”

“Since Jeremy has told me, I think that I shall suggest we meet the Dillons. Should our first skirmish be here or in Hampstead, do you think?”

“Why don’t we leave it up to Jeremy and Miss Dillon, Lavinia? Let them begin to cope straight off.”

“Good. I am actually beginning to look forward to this, Sam. It will be amusing to see this Mrs. Dillon humiliated, for I still cannot believe but that she is a good actress and has taken you in.”

Sam only smiled and bowed his way out. A few hours spent with Mrs. Dillon would convince Lavinia more than any protests he could make. He had only to await a visit from Jeremy and an invitation to a prospective family gathering.

After the viscount left, Nora was unable to pick up the pieces of her day. She had intended to finish weeding the cabbages, have a light luncheon, and spend the rest of her afternoon writing. But now…she was not sure what upset her more: the news of the betrothal or the fact that Miranda had kept it a secret.

She and her daughter were very close, and up until now, openness and honesty had been the hallmark of their relationship. And she was not, she hoped, one of those mothers who used their children for companionship. She knew Miranda would one day leave her. In fact, she wished for nothing more than that her daughter would find a loving husband. Although they lived out of the city, Nora’s range of acquaintances was wide, and she had hoped Miranda would eventually form an attachment to some young writer or publisher’s assistant. Hampstead was home to enough artists and writers that her hopes were certainly not unrealistic. But eighteen was far too young. And dearly as she loved Jeremy herself, it was impossible for her daughter to marry him.

I must have been blind not to see this, she thought. Perhaps I just didn’t want to. But they seemed just good friends and I counted on their social distance for safety.

She could not settle in to weeding or writing, so she grabbed an old bonnet to shade her face and set out for a walk on the Heath, her time-proven way of coping with everything from a temporary inability to write to heartache. Today it would need to be vigorous and long, for she was suffering from both. It wasn’t often these days she spent time regretting her past, but this morning’s news had shaken her.

The two-hour tramp calmed her and cleared her mind, so when she returned and found Miranda at home, she decided no time need be wasted in opening up the subject. Her daughter was sitting in the old wicker swing which hung from the larger apple tree. They had never raised it, so that the eighteen-year-old Miranda’s feet dragged as she swung slowly, aware only of the book of poetry she was reading and not the little scuffs of dust which were rising and falling and clinging to her gown, so that it was scalloped brown in front. Nora could not help but smile at the picture. There were ways in which they were alike, and a love of words was one of them. Certainly in appearance they were quite different. Miranda was two inches taller than her mother, and slender, while Nora’s figure was fuller and more solid. Both were pale, but Miranda’s skin had the tone of milk after it has been skimmed, a blue-white, where veins were close to the surface. Her eyes were blue, rather than gray, and her hair, although it had darkened since the Romney portrait, was still blond. It was straighter, much to her despair, and she wore it unfashionably long. She looked delicate and helpless. In fact, she was as athletic as her mother, able to walk for hours, always ready to help in the garden, and loving to dance all night on those rare occasions that they took part in the social life of the village.

As Nora looked at her, she thought: Of course Jeremy has fallen in love with her. How could he not? She stood in front of the swing so she could catch the ropes, and brought her daughter to a halt.

“Mother! I wondered where you were. I thought you had planned to write this afternoon. Here I was keeping myself quiet and occupied so you could work,” she teased.

Nora smiled at her sally. It was amusing now, that negotiation of a balance between mothering and writing, but it had been difficult for both of them in the early years before Miranda could understand why her mother scribbled away and needed to be left alone. Nora could remember saying to the eight-year-old: “I just need one hour, but you must not interrupt.” And then the call, fifteen minutes later, “Mama, Mama, look what I found!” And the immediate “I’m sorry, I forgot.” Nora, at those moments, would be torn between fury at the interruption and awful guilt that she was imposing such restrictions on her daughter. But had she not continued, they would have had nothing…and all in all, Miranda seemed to have survived.