The Imaginary Gentleman (34 page)

“My dear Evalina, why did you not write? I would have come to escort you,” said Edward, going to her. He raised her hand to his lips.

“And miss your surprise?”

The countess gave the girl an approving look. Her own peerless beauty was unchallenged as ever but the girl's looks delighted her: marriage, and the knowledge that went with it, had enhanced her attractions.

Laura watched her brother and his wife together, and saw at last how perfect Evalina was for him. Without knowing the cause, she saw that there was some subtle beginning of maturity in Evalina's feelings for Edward. That degree of imbalance in their abilities would never have suited Laura, but she understood that another kind of union could benefit Edward in ways she herself could not imagine. She saw that, already, her brother's wife began to know him in ways a sister or friend could not.

T
HERE WAS A LIGHT BREEZE
blowing up the street from the sea the next morning, when six people emerged from the inn to take a stroll before breakfast.

It seemed difficult to hit upon a destination that pleased all the ladies. Laura wanted to walk on the Cobb; Mrs. Bell wished to quietly enjoy the view of the harbour; whereas Mrs. Morrison declared she had been desperate to view the Pinney ever since seeing Laura's sketches of it. The gentlemen had no choice but to offer their protection each to one lady.

The captain and his bride quickly disappeared from view, arm in arm, perfectly in step with one another. Evalina had learnt already to avoid tangling her skirts with Edward's cane.

The baronet stood with Mrs. Bell near the Assembly Rooms, not far from the steps that led to the beach.

“Do you wish to go down upon the sands?” He gestured towards the beach.

Mrs. Bell seemed on the point of speech, but remained silent.

“Let us stroll along here,” he said. “In truth … I care not where we walk.”

“Nor I,” said Mrs. Bell.

They took two or three turns up and down, and Sir Richard drew her hand into his arm, leaving his hand upon hers. They descended the steps, Sir Richard giving her the most careful support. They walked along the damp sand and shingles not far from the water, and stopped. He looked back, noting the tiny imprints left by her boots, alongside his boat-like dents in the sand. He was moved to the core. He bent down to peer beneath her bonnet. She raised her head ever so slightly.

“Oh, Mrs. Bell!” he burst out. “What will you think if I say that I love you—with all my heart? What will you think when I beg you to be my wife!”

She tried to speak, could be seen to struggle for the words.

“Such condescension on your part would be unparalleled …” he said.

“Sir Richard,” she said faintly.

He faced her squarely but, in the struggle between hope and despair, she could see that desperation was already extinguishing his ambition.

“
Dear
Sir Richard …”

His face appeared to swim downwards through her tears.

“I accept, with gratitude and … and affection!”

“You love me?”

“How did you not know it? The countess has been laughing at me … this age.”

“For how long?”

The lady thought to tell all, but even a woman of her limited experience in the realm of love had sufficient grasp of policy to withhold from him the whole truth. Eventually he might learn that she had loved him since the moment he first permitted her to commence the sweet labour on the banners. However, she would only impart this information after she discovered that his own passion was of at least equal antiquity.

“What does time matter!” she said, allowing romance to do the work of candour.

“It matters not one whit!” He held the little hand nestled on his arm for a few moments, until the sight of children rushing by alerted them to the fact that they were not quite alone.

They wandered back up the street and into the delightful byways of Lyme, where they might hope to meet no one of their acquaintance. There they began the long procedure whereby every past look, every word, must be milked of its significance. Both wondered how soon that ceremony might take place that would transform the poor curate's widow into Lady Morrison, of Oakmont Manor.

 

From away on the Cobb, Laura looked across the little bay at the distant figure of her cousin. Something in the baronet's posture spoke
of supplication and she laughed. Mr. Templeton's eyes followed hers and he said, “The baronet is not wasting his opportunity, think you?”

“What know you of the matter, sir?”

“It takes no great penetration to discover their secret,” he said.

“Even without the ‘extraordinary exhibition' noted by my sister!”

Mr. Templeton held up his hands like paws, and adopted the expression of puppy-like devotion he had seen upon Sir Richard's face when he looked upon the lady of his heart's choice. Laura burst into a parody of Mrs. Bell's giggles, only to be caught up in laughter of her own, a wave of delight at her release from every dark mood and doubt that had plagued her for two long months. Joy was shot through with wonder at how close she had come to losing all. They laughed, for a moment only, before seriousness began to overtake them.

“You know that I love you,” he said.

Laura made a brief sound, between a gasp and laughter. She did not answer.

“You know not how well,” he said.

“Do not speak so here!” she said, teasing.

He understood her at once, but said, “Not on the Cobb? It is a little risky, certainly, where we need to take care of our footing.”

“I listened to you once by the sea at Lyme, sir, and you did not keep your promise.”

“What will it take to convince you that I am no phantasm?” he said.

Mr. Templeton took her gloved hand and held it pressed against his heart. She acutely felt the touch, their nearness.

“You are real, certainly. Just come to me in another place altogether, then I will believe you.”

“Ah, another place? I prefer to secure you before we go there. I fear you may like me less away from the seaside.”

“Now you tease me,” she said, smiling.

“I offer you the whole of our lives to punish me for it.”

“I shall take advantage of the opportunity for vengeance.”

“So you will marry me?”

She nodded, curtly, her hand still held against him, and she looked away, before saying, “With great happiness.”

Her joy was so keenly pitched, she scarcely trusted him with it, but gazed across the bay, which had reflected so many of her moods. On this day, its sparkling cold waters danced to the call of the gulls, the essence of the air was purified by salt—which tasted oddly sweet on her lips. The touch of his hand enfolding hers tingled along her arm, and filled her with warmth. The sensation of his gaze on the side of her cheek was drawing her to turn to him. She did, and they stood there, together, sure-footed atop the breakwater, which angled precipitously down to the sea.

To my wonderful family—my thanks. I cannot enumerate all the ways in which you support and encourage me. To my fine sons, James and Matthew, my appreciation.

For their valuable comments during the writing of this book, I would like to thank Jeanne Sayers, and fellow writers—Irina Lemaire, Alexandra Alt, Stephen Davenport, Mark Owens and Carole Stevenson.

Michelle L. Zafron, at the University of Buffalo, earned my heartfelt gratitude in going beyond the demands of duty in directing my reading on medical theories of the era in which my book is set.

My friends at the Jane Austen Society of Adelaide helped me in many ways with their knowledge and encouragement. Madge Mitton, especially, has been just a call away with answers that I can trust.

At Random House Australia, I thank my publisher, Jeanne Ryckmans, and editors, Sophie Ambrose and Nicola O'Shea, for all their understanding and help.

Helen Halstead was born in Adelaide, South Australia, in 1950, and works as a teacher. In 2004, Helen achieved success when she self-published
A Private Performance
, a sequel to Jane Austen's
Pride and Prejudice
. This was published to acclaim by Random House in 2005.
The Imaginary Gentleman
is her second novel.