The Baron and the Bluestocking (14 page)

“Blakeley . . . Blakeley. I have never heard of the fellow.”

“He is the son of a woolen manufacturer.”

Lord Delacroix had turned into the park. His silence was eloquent.

“If you are going to come to Chipping Norton, my lord, you must realize that we do not have the sort of society that you are used to.”

He gave her a half smile as he slowed his horses. “You shall make it worth my while, I am certain.”

The words, though kindly said, suddenly filled Hélène with trepidation.

{ 13 }

AFTER LUNCHEON AT GRILLON’S HOTEL, Shrewsbury delivered Lady Virginia to Rose House and thought about calling upon Hélène. He had been prepared to see her at the museum in company with Delacroix. Deciding that he must put last night’s dance away in the back of his mind, he had nevertheless been thankful when Delacroix had proposed the expedition to the British Museum that morning so that he could see the schoolteacher. On the other hand, he had disliked the confidence the other man had of garnering Hélène’s assent to accompany him. Therefore, he had been cheerful to see her in the company of Lady Clarice, instead.

Now he wished to call upon her, to see those deep eyes settle on him with that wondrous look they had worn during the waltz the night before. Stopping in the middle of the road, he asked himself aloud, “To what end?” Did he want to encourage a relationship which could advance no further? Did he want to indulge himself at the risk of bringing ultimate pain to both of them?

Hélène was becoming a friend, though they still disagreed on most subjects. But the woman who would stand at his side as he forged his career in the Lords and raised his children would not be a hard-edged feminist who had no proper moral standards, believed herself to be the intellectual equal of a man, and was one of eight impoverished children of a country vicar! She herself admitted she had no idea how to go on in Society.

The obvious choice for him at this point in his life was Lady Virginia or someone like her. It distressed him somewhat that Lady Virginia believed him to be courting her. However, at this time of year there was not a new influx of debutantes or other women whom he had not already met.

He turned about and headed for Brook’s. For the first time in several days, his thoughts turned to Sophie. She would have made the perfect wife, hostess, mother. She was petite and endearing, unlike the bolder, plumper Lady Virginia. Sophie had had ideal connections—his friends Ruisdell and Deal had been her brothers-in-law, both concerned in the causes he embraced. Lady Virginia, on the other hand, was a Tory and not overly interested in anything he held dear.

The devil take it! Here he was at his list-making again! He had clearly
not
been surprised by love! Frank was right about him. He was too fastidious.

He turned about again and headed for Blossom House. When at last he arrived, he was told by Bates that Miss Whitcombe had gone riding in the park. Christian decided after all not to leave a card, and turning about again, successfully reached Brook’s, where he remained for the rest of the afternoon and evening. One could always rely on one’s club to offer comfort in times of mental strain.

*~*~*

He woke with Hélène in his head. In his dream, she and Sophie had been laughing at him, but he could not remember why. It came to him as he lay there that there were ways in which the two women were similar. Though quiet, Sophie became a woman of great passion when she played Beethoven or Mozart on her violin. Until she had fallen in love with Frank, the violin had been her life. It had represented an escape from an unhappy childhood.

Hélène’s passion for education for women had been born of an unhappy time in her life, as well—when she was left with no income following the death of her father. She was as passionate about her cause as Sophie was about music. And he had observed Hélène as a teacher. She was a wonderful model for her pupils. Through the school that he himself had founded with Sophie’s approbation, Hélène would do much good in her life.

Both women had passion and purpose. Next to them, Lady Virginia seemed shallow and silly.

Rising, he washed and was shaved and dressed by Lathrop. He did not even wait to breakfast before riding to Blossom House. He did not know why he was going. Compelled by an unusual sense of urgency, Christian only knew he needed to see Hélène before she left the house.

Bates answered the door.

“Would you kindly let Miss Whitcombe-Hodge know that I have called?”

The butler said, “She and Lady Susannah left this morning bound for Chipping Norton, your lordship.”

Gone! The blow struck him with unexpected force. Confound it! Leaving Bates standing in the entrance, he turned about and went back down the stairs, mounted his horse and took off down the street. London was suddenly empty.

He took a gallop to Richmond and back, his thoughts a jumble of Sophie and Hélène and Lady Virginia. Why had Hélène left early for the country? Would Sophie like her? How had he come to be in such a muddle with Lady Virginia? What were Delacroix’s real intentions regarding Hélène?

Finally realizing he was hungry, Christian decided he would call on his mother. When he arrived, she was reading her mail.

“Christian, darling!” She rose and received his kisses on her cheeks. “You look a bit wild. Is everything all right?”

“I have just had a morning gallop to Richmond. Any chance of breakfast?”

“Simmons has just cleared away.” She rang the servant’s bell. When Sims appeared, she asked, “Could you please bring Lord Shrewsbury some kippers and toast? He missed his breakfast and is hoping we’ll feed him.”

“I will see to it, your ladyship.”

While waiting, Christian picked up the
Morning Post
that was lying on the table, read the headlines without taking them in, then put the paper down. He paced around the table.

“How did you make the acquaintance of Lady Virginia?” he asked.

“Let me see . . .” The baroness wrinkled her forehead as she thought. “It was at the Deardens.’ A tea. Yes, it was a tea at the tail end of the Season. A garden tea. She was a friend of Sarah Dearden’s in boarding school. You know, the eldest gel. At that time, I believe dear Ginny had just come up from Dorset. Just out of mourning.”

“Do you know anything about her family? Her mother, her brother? Why had she never been up to London before?”

His mother hesitated. “Are you serious about the gel?”

“I do not have the least idea. She seems a comfortable sort of person, but I realized I really know nothing about her background.”

“Well, her father was an unpleasant character. He thought it Ginny’s role in life to stay at home and take care of him and her mother. She did not ever get about much, even in Dorset. It was because I felt so sorry for her that I took her up as a friend.”

“What of her mother? Are you her friend, as well?”

“She always fancies herself too ill to go about, unless it is with Lord Delacroix. She is fairly smitten by her son. I have the notion that she does not think much of poor Ginny.”

“She sounds sadly neglected,” Christian said.

“Not entirely. She and her brother are devoted to one another. She thinks the world of him. It is very affecting. I do not think I have ever seen siblings as close as they are.”

“Hmm.” Shrewsbury sat down and rapidly disposed of kippers, toast, jam, a boiled egg, and a slice of ham. When he was finished eating, he said, “Would you mind telling me why you introduced us? I had the feeling you thought we would make a match of it. Yet nothing you have told me marks her as someone I would seek out for a wife.”

“Oh, Christian! You are far too nice in your tastes. She is a very good gel. No vices that I can see. Ginny would make you very comfortable. Not like that Sophie with her dramatics.”

Shrewsbury felt a lash of anger whip through him. “Sophie Edwards would have been just the wife I desire. I want more than someone to make certain I have my cocoa and slippers at night. Sophie is a woman with interests in her own right, things she feels passionate about, people she feels passionate about.”

“Well, it is my opinion that passionate people can be very uncomfortable to live with.”

Her words drove a shock through him. He rarely disagreed with his mother. How could she have misread him so badly? He said, “I think you do not really know me at all, Mama.”

“I know you are very conventional in your personal tastes. You may be progressive politically, but I doubt you would like much drama in your personal life. Take this schoolteacher, Miss Whitcombe-Hodge for instance. I have heard that she is a Radical. She would not be a comfortable wife.”

Confound it! Shrewsbury thought of his criticisms of Hélène. Was that not his own assessment of what life with her would be like? Too full of drama? But there had to be a middle ground. Curse it if he’d marry a girl whose salient characteristic was that she had spent her life in rural Dorset looking after her parents.

“I would expect my wife to have interests. Political interests in particular, so she could be a competent hostess.”

“I am certain Ginny is malleable. Eager to learn. She is very fond of you, you know.”

“I want more than fond, Mama. I want my wife to have some life to her. Some vigor. Some enthusiasm.”

“Those things are the province of a mistress, son. An exciting wife would pall, believe me.”

He thought of the mother who sat before him. A more comfortable person had never breathed. She had certainly made him and his father happy. But he had no idea what went on in her lovely head. “Mama, you must have some interests that go beyond making me comfortable. We do not even live together anymore. Do you not have anything you are passionate about?”

She looked at him as though she thought him exceedingly peculiar. “I enjoy the odd sensational novel, I suppose. My interest in my garden falls short of passion.” She thought for a moment. “I suppose I am passionate about people. I enjoy my friends. I enjoy Society, which is why I am happy to remain in town all year.”

Shrewsbury gave up his inquiry. Where had he come by his passion for curing the injustices of Society? He knew little about his father. He had died in a carriage accident while Christian was at Eton. He had been a faithful Whig—that much Christian knew.

“Tell me about Father,” he said. “What were his interests?”

“Politics, like you. My interest in people came in handy, as I was his hostess. I am sorry you never knew him well, Christian. You have turned out very like him.”

He felt the pang of loss that had not visited him in a long time. His association with Trowbridge and his family had gone part way toward filling that loss back when he was ten years old and in the school holidays that followed. He had spent many summers at Hanford House, where Sophie and Frank would live if they ever came home from their honeymoon. Again, he was struck by the irony that he and Frank had fallen for the same woman.

“I am becoming melancholy, Mama, and that will never do. Shall we go to the Opera tonight?”

His mother smiled her charming smile. “That would be lovely, darling.”

It was only after leaving her that he put the two pieces together. His mother had said that in her opinion, living with a passionate person was very uncomfortable. Then she had said that he was very like his father. Was Christian not passionate about his politics, his causes? Did this mean his mother had been unhappy with his father?

If so, it should not come as a surprise to him that she wanted for him a comfortable, even-tempered wife. But what if he and his wife were passionate about the same things?

However, Hélène was a Radical, a Utopian, a Feminist. Not for him.

{ 14 }

HÉLÈNE TOLD HERSELF that she was very glad to be back at her post and away from all the conflicting and puzzling emotions she had experienced in London.

Sukey had been an interesting companion on the way back to Chipping Norton. They had discussed Mary Woolstonecraft, whom Sukey had known intimately. “It was her influence that led me to see what peril I would have lived under had I married Devonshire.”

“Peril? What do you mean?”

“He was a great man. But he did not have a concept of propriety or domestic life. Why he even had his mistress living there at Chatsworth in a
ménage a trois!
I am certain that is why Georgie took up gambling and brought their finances to such a pass that he nearly lost Chatsworth. No, I’ve been a sight better off with my beetle collection.”

The conversation brought Hélène to the conclusion that Sukey’s life was an Awful Warning. If Hélène remained single would she become that odd? Did a woman require a husband and family to prevent her from descending into such strange humors?

But then Georgiana, who became Duchess of Devonshire after Sukey refused, was another type of warning. An unhappy marriage could lead to a different kind of peril—an addiction to deaden the misery.

Hélène mentally threw up her hands at the end of the journey. Enough! She was not going to think any further about men or marriage just because of a waltz.

Beth greeted her effusively. “Oh, Hélène, it has been vastly dull around here without you! Did you enjoy your visit to Town?”

“It was a whirl of activity. I hardly had a chance for rational thought. Everyone was exceedingly kind, however.” She opened her borrowed portmanteau. “Look at what the Duchess of Ruisdell gave me.”

Beth’s mouth dropped into an “o.” Holding the gown of silver silk tissue up, she said, “How could she bear to part with this? It is gorgeous.” She held it against herself and waltzed about the room.

“Remember my father was vicar of the duke’s parish. She is very generous, but I believe she feels I am still her responsibility. I accepted these beautiful things gladly, because I had nothing to wear except my school uniform. I did not know I would be attending a ball and Vauxhall gardens.”

“A ball! Vauxhall! Oh, Hélène, you must tell me everything. Did you meet any gentlemen?”

Hélène told her friend about Lord Delacroix but left out any account of Lord Shrewsbury.