by Mary Balogh
“My former governess, who lives with me, is only forty-two years old,” Cassandra said. “Far too young to go as far as Richmond for a picnic alone with a gentleman of the same age—or so she believes. When Mr. Golding came calling yesterday afternoon to ask her to go, she hesitated, though she clearly wanted to say yes. And so Lord Merton offered his services and mine as chaperones.”
They all laughed—at the very moment when the Earl of Merton himself and Mr. Huxtable, angel and devil, walked past the bakery window. Cassandra’s heart or stomach—or something—turned over. There was a very young lady on Lord Merton’s arm, the one with whom he had danced the opening set at his sister’s ball, and his head was bent to listen to what she said. He was smiling down at her.
A young woman who must be her maid was walking a few steps behind them.
It was not jealousy Cassandra felt. It was … Oh, it was the knowledge that she was nominally his mistress, that she had spent two nights with him in her bed, that she had enjoyed the experience far more than she cared to admit, that she had both seen and felt his gorgeous body against hers.
They were thoughts that had no business leaping to mind like this.
He wanted to be her friend.
It was with someone like that very young lady that he belonged. She was laughing at something he said, and he was laughing back at her.
It was with her he belonged. Not with Cassandra. He was youthful and carefree and charming and filled with light.
She ought not to have allowed him to try to turn their failed affair into friendship.
Ah, but he was so …
He was so lovely.
“Oh, there are Stephen and Constantine,” Lady Sheringford said, and at the same moment Mr. Huxtable saw them and said something to the other two, and they all looked through the window and smiled. Lord Merton raised one hand to wave.
He said something to the young lady, but she shook her head and after another moment or two took her leave and continued on her way, her maid closing the distance to walk beside her. The two gentlemen came into the bakery and approached the table.
“Is this how ladies stay so slender?” Mr. Huxtable asked, one eyebrow cocked in irony.
“No, of course not,” Lady Carling said. “It is walking about shopping that does that, Mr. Huxtable. Besides, it is only Belinda who has had a cake. The rest of us have been very good and very self-denying. Lady Paget, I noticed, did not even put sugar in her tea and only the merest splash of milk. Do pull up two chairs and join us.”
But Cassandra was feeling inexplicably breathless. She did not belong in this family group. Besides, it was time to take Belinda home. Mary would be worrying.
“You may have our chairs,” she said, standing. “Belinda and I must be going.”
Belinda got obediently to her feet, looking up at the Earl of Merton as she did so.
“I got a new doll,” she said.
“Is it a doll?” he said, looking astonished. He went down on his haunches beside her. “I thought it was a baby. May I see it?”
“It is a her,” she said, drawing the blanket away from the doll’s face. “She is Beth. Elizabeth really, but that is too big a name.”
“Beth suits her better,” he agreed, touching the side of one finger to the doll’s cheek. “She must be very cozy in that blanket with you to rock her. She is fast asleep.”
“Yes,” she said as he smiled at her.
Cassandra swallowed awkwardly and was convinced that everyone must have heard. There was a look of open tenderness on his face, yet he was an aristocrat looking at a servant’s child. Her illegitimate child. It would be very easy indeed to come to care for him, to come to trust him when experience had taught her to trust no man, especially the gentle ones.
Nigel had been gentle …
Lord Merton got to his feet.
“Allow me to walk the two of you home,” he said, looking at Cassandra.
How could she say no without causing something of a scene before the interested gaze of Lady Carling and his relatives?
“That is not necessary,” she said. “But thank you.”
“Do enjoy the picnic this afternoon,” the countess said.
“Picnic?” Mr. Huxtable said, his dark gaze locking on Cassandra’s. “Am I missing something?”
“Lady Paget’s companion is going on a picnic to Richmond with a gentleman friend, Constantine,” the countess explained, “and Stephen and Lady Paget are going with them as chaperones.”
“Fascinating,” he said, his eyes still on Cassandra, his eyebrows raised. “Chaperones?”
Cassandra bent to help Belinda wrap the doll more tightly in the blanket. She kissed the child on the cheek and took her free hand in hers. But when they were outside, Belinda stopped, handed the doll to Lord Merton without a by-your-leave, and took his free hand so that she walked between them, attached to each.
He carried the doll in the crook of his arm, meeting the glances of several passersby with a look of sheepish amusement.
It all seemed horribly domestic to Cassandra, almost as if the doll was real and both it and Belinda were her children—or theirs.
Was he genuine after all?
Ah, but how could one possibly know?
Were there such pure beings as angels?
And what was she doing consorting with one if there were?
Alice was excited about this afternoon, though she would not have admitted it even if she were stretched on the rack. Alice had always been a mother figure to Cassandra, more than just a governess and companion. She had always been an emotional rock of stability. During the past ten years she had perhaps kept Cassandra from losing her sanity. But now Cassandra felt guilty over the fact that she had never really thought of Alice as a woman. Alice had been very young—not even twenty—when she first came to live with them. Even when Cassandra married, Alice was only in her early thirties. And yet all these years she had never had a beau, never had a chance for marriage or personal happiness.
Had she loved Mr. Golding all those years ago? Had she had hopes then? Had she thought of him at all, dreamed of him, perhaps, in the intervening years? Had meeting him again two days ago been a momentous occasion in her life? Was hope now being reborn? Perhaps painfully?
Cassandra felt deeply ashamed that she did not know the answers to any of the questions. But she would do all in her power to see to it that a relationship had a chance to develop now if both parties wanted it and if there was anything she could do to facilitate it short of shamelessly matchmaking.
She looked forward to the picnic for Alice’s sake.
Oh, and for her own sake too, she admitted reluctantly as Belinda told Lord Merton that she had a new bonnet and he declared that he had not seen anything more fetching for a long, long time. She ought not to be looking forward to it. She ought not to allow him to befriend her when it was with young ladies like the one he had been with earlier that he belonged. Young ladies without the emotional baggage she dragged along with her.
But since she was committed now to spending the afternoon in his company, she was simply going to enjoy herself.
It seemed an age since she had last done that.
Had she ever done it? Simply enjoyed herself?
He had promised her joy. He had promised her that there was such a thing as joy.
It sounded altogether more precious than happiness.
And more impossible.
But she was going to enjoy herself.
Oh, she was.
When they arrived at the house on Portman Street, Belinda stood quietly on the doorstep while Cassandra took the key from beneath the flowerpot beside the steps rather than use the door knocker. She opened the door, and Belinda took her doll carefully from Lord Merton’s arm and went streaking off in the direction of the kitchen, shrieking loudly and talking so fast that her words tripped all over one another. But amid the excited jumble, Cassandra did distinguish a few words—pink icing and Beth and buttercups and bonnets and t
wo grand ladies and a white wool blanket and a frill to stop her neck from getting sunburned and a gentleman who had carried Beth without waking her.
Poor Mary must be deafened, Cassandra thought, smiling as she withdrew the key and put it back in its hiding place.
And suddenly a terrible pain smote her, as it did occasionally, always crashing in on her without any prior warning.
She had no living children of her own.
Only four dead babies.
No one to come running to deafen her.
She drew a deep breath through her nose and let it out slowly through her mouth before turning to offer her hand to Lord Merton.
“Thank you,” she said. “But do you see how extravagant I am, Stephen? Do you see how I have spent your money today?”
“To make a child happy?” he said, raising her hand to his lips. “I cannot for the life of me think of a better use for it, Cass. I will see you this afternoon?”
“Yes,” she said, and she stepped inside the house as he went striding off down the street. A man who was charming and amiable and physically perfect. And very, very attractive.
Ah, yes, it would be very easy indeed to care for him as well as to lust after him. And perhaps he was genuine.
Or perhaps not.
She was going to enjoy this afternoon anyway. She had been extravagant with money this morning. She was going to be extravagant with feelings this afternoon.
She had hoarded feelings for so very long.
She was not even sure there were any left inside her to squander.
She would find out later today.
It amused Stephen later in the afternoon to hand Miss Haytor into his open barouche and watch her scurry to seat herself beside Cassandra rather than take the empty seat opposite. Now Stephen had to sit there with Golding. Miss Haytor, he could tell from her rather flustered manner, was very nervous.
Perhaps, he thought, this was the closest she had come to being courted. It was a sad thought. But—better late than never.
Golding too seemed even more agitated than he had yesterday as he supervised the stowing of his large, very new picnic basket onto the back of the carriage. If the basket was full of food, it would surely feed an army.
Golding, dressed formally and smartly, was almost tongue-tied as the journey began. Miss Haytor, dressed immaculately in a dark blue walking dress and pelisse, was stiff and silent.
Cassandra, looking ravishing in pale spring green with a straw bonnet, seemed as amused as Stephen felt, though he guessed there was no malice in the smile she exchanged with him—as there was none in his.
The burden of conversation, Stephen decided, was going to be his for the time being, anyway. But making conversation had never been difficult for him. Often it was simply a matter of asking pertinent questions.
“You were once a teacher, Golding?” he asked as his barouche picked up speed. “And you and Miss Haytor once taught together?”
“We did, indeed,” Golding said. “Miss Haytor was Miss Young’s governess, and I was Master Young’s tutor. But his need of me lasted all too short a time, and I was forced to move on. I regretted leaving. Miss Haytor was an excellent teacher. I admired her dedication and her well-educated mind.”
“I was no more dedicated than you, Mr. Golding,” Miss Haytor said, finding her tongue at last. “I once found you in Sir Henry Young’s study at midnight, trying to devise a method of teaching Wesley long division that he would understand. And my own education was far inferior to your own.”
“Only in the sort of formal education that attendance at university can provide,” he said. “At the time you were far more widely read than I, Miss Haytor. You were able to recommend several books that have since become my favorites. I always remember you when I reread them.”
“That is kind of you, I am sure,” she said. “But you would have discovered them for yourself eventually, I daresay.”
“I doubt that,” he said. “With so many books waiting to be read, I often do not know where to start and so do not start at all. I would like to hear what you have been reading in the last few years. Per haps I will be inspired to try something new again that is not merely concerned with politics.”
Stephen met Cassandra’s eyes. They did not smile openly at each other. They might have been caught doing so and might have made the other two self-conscious again. But they smiled anyway. He knew she was smiling though her face was in repose. And he knew he was smiling back.
And even if he misinterpreted her expression, at least she was not wearing her habitual mask this afternoon. She had not been wearing it this morning either. Indeed, this morning he had been unwary enough to feel that he could fall in love with her if he allowed himself to do something so foolish. When Con had drawn his attention to the bakery, it was Cassandra he had seen. He had not even noticed Meg and Lady Carling for a few moments. And when he had walked home with her and the child, he had felt …
Well, never mind. They had been foolish feelings.
Stephen had brought only a coachman with him, and Golding had brought no servants of his own, having had a hackney cab drop him and his basket in Portman Street. When they arrived at Richmond Park after a longish drive, then, the gentlemen carried the basket between them while the ladies walked ahead to choose a decent spot for a picnic.
They found one on a grassy slope some distance into the park beneath some of the ancient oaks for which the park was famous, looking down upon lawns and across at rhododendron bushes with more oaks behind them. In the distance they could see the Pen Ponds, which were always kept well stocked with fish.
A few other people were out strolling, though not very many, and no one else appeared to be picnicking. No one else was up on their slope. As Stephen had hoped, they were to enjoy a quiet, secluded afternoon.
After the two men had set down the basket, Golding opened it and drew out a large blanket—one explanation for the fact that the basket had not been as heavy as Stephen had expected it would be. Golding shook it out and would have spread it on the grass himself, but Miss Haytor hurried to help him, grasping two corners while he held the others. Together they set it down flat, without a wrinkle.
“It is too early for tea,” Golding said. “Shall we go for a walk?”
“But someone may make off with the basket and the blanket while we are gone, Mr. Golding,” Miss Haytor pointed out.
“Quite right,” he said, frowning. “We will not be able to walk far. We will have to keep them in our sight.”
“I am quite content to sit here,” Cassandra said, “and bask in the sunshine and breathe in the fresh air and drink in the sight of so much green countryside. Why do you not walk with Mr. Golding, Alice, and Lord Merton and I will stay here.”
Miss Haytor looked suspiciously at Stephen. He smiled his best smile at her.
“I will protect Lady Paget from harm, ma’am,” he said. “The public setting of the park and the other people strolling here will be effective chaperones for both you and her.”
She was still not quite convinced, he could see. But her desire to walk—alone—with Golding was being weighed against caution.
“Allie,” Cassandra said, “if we have driven all this way merely to stroll together in a tight circle about the picnic basket, we might as well have stayed at home and eaten in the back garden beneath Mary’s clothesline.”
Miss Haytor was convinced. She went down the slope with Golding and then took his offered arm as they turned in the direction of the distant ponds.
“I believe,” Cassandra said, seating herself on the blanket and removing first her gloves and then her bonnet and setting them down beside her, “I have been incredibly selfish.”
“In sending them off walking while we remain here?” he asked.
“In keeping Alice with me all these years,” she said. “She started to look for other employment when I accepted Nigel’s marriage offer. She even went to one interview and was impressed with both the children and their parents.
But I begged her to come with me into the country, at least for a year. I had never lived in the country and was somewhat apprehensive. She came because I was so insistent, and then she stayed, year after year. I thought only of my needs and told her more times than I can count that I did not know how I would live without her.”
“It is basic human need to be needed,” he said. “She very obviously loves you. I daresay she was quite content to stay with you.”
She turned her face toward him. She was sitting with her knees bent, her arms clasped around them.
“You are too kind, Stephen,” she said. “She might have met someone to marry years ago, though. She might have been happy.”
“And she might not,” he said. “Not many governesses are in a position to meet prospective husbands, are they? And her new employers might not have needed her for anything more than imparting a certain body of knowledge to their children. The children might have resented her. She might have been dismissed soon after acquiring the position. Her next one might have been worse. Anything might have happened, in other words.”
She was laughing, her face still turned toward him.
“You are quite right,” she said. “Perhaps after all I have been saving her for this happy reunion with the love of her life. I think Mr. Golding may well be that. Today is not for gloom and guilt, is it? Today is for a picnic. I have always associated that word with pure enjoyment. But there were never any picnics during my marriage. It is strange, that. I did not even realize it until today. I came here to enjoy myself, Stephen.”
He sat with one knee raised, the sole of his Hessian boot flat on the blanket, one arm draped over his knee, the other slightly behind him, bracing his weight. They were sitting in the dappled shade offered by the spreading branches of one of the oaks. His hat was on the blanket beside him.
He watched, fascinated, as she lifted her arms, drew the pins from her hair, and shook it free over her shoulders and along her back. She set the pins down on the brim of her bonnet and drew the fingers of both hands through her hair to release any tangles.
“If you have a brush in your reticule,” he said, “I will do that for you.”