Simply Perfect

Joseph’s yearning to see Lizzie again was like a gnawing physical ache. Every day he had been on the verge of riding over to Lindsey Hall. He had restrained himself partly because he would have been unable to think of an excuse to see her even if he did go there, and partly because he owed it both to Claudia Martin and to Portia—not to mention himself—to stay away. But it was only partly of Miss Martin he was thinking when the carriages from Lindsey Hall arrived all in a cavalcade together on the afternoon of the picnic, and half the guests at Alvesley and almost all the children stepped outside onto the terrace to greet the new arrivals as they began to spill out of the carriages. Soon there was a noisy, shrieking melee of adults and children, the latter darting about among adult legs in search of comrades and potential new friends and addressing one another with the sort of volume they might have used if they were five miles apart. Joseph, who was out there too, spotted Claudia Martin as she climbed down from one of the conveyances. She was wearing a cotton dress he had seen before in London and her usual straw hat. She was also wearing a severe, almost grim expression, which suggested that she would rather be anywhere else on earth than where she was. She turned back to the carriage to help someone else down. Lizzie! All decked out in her best white dress with her hair tied high behind with a white bow. He hurried forward. “Allow me,” he said, and he reached up into the carriage, took his daughter by her slender waist, and lifted her down. She inhaled deeply. “Papa,” she murmured. “Sweetheart—” The dog jumped out and ran around them, barking, and Molly ca me down the steps behind him. “Thank you, sir,” Lizzie said more loudly, lifting a mischievously smiling face toward his. “Are you the gentleman who walked to the lake with us last week?” “I am indeed,” he said, clasping his hands behind him. “And you are…Miss Pickford, I believe?” “You remembered.” She giggled—a happy, girlish sound. And then other girls came spilling out of the carriage, and one of the older ones took Lizzie by one hand while Molly took the other. They bore her off to another carriage, which held the remainder of their number with Miss Thompson. Joseph looked at Miss Martin. It seemed somewhat incredible that he had kissed this stern woman on two separate occasions and that he loved her. Yet again she looked the forbidding, quintessential spinster schoolteacher. And then her eyes met his, and it was incredible no longer. There were depths behind those eyes that drew him instantly beyond the surface armor she had put on to the warm, passionate woman within. “Hello, Claudia,” he said softly before he could frame an altogether more appropriate greeting. “Good afternoon, Lord Attingsborough,” she said briskly. And then she looked beyond his shoulder and smiled. “Good afternoon, Charlie.” Someone was tugging at the tassel on Joseph’s Hessian boot. He looked down to see Wilma and Sutton’s youngest, who proceeded to lift both his arms in the air. “Uncle Joe,” he commanded. “Up.” Uncle Joe obligingly stooped down to pick him up and settle him astride his shoulders. The empty carriages from Lindsey Hall were moving off to be replaced by other carriages bringing children and adults from neighboring homes. Ten minutes or so later a veritable army—to use Gwen’s analogy—of children was making its disordered way toward the picnic site on a wide expanse of lawn beside the lake to the right of the house, the older ones rushing ahead, toddlers riding shoulders, babies bouncing or sleeping in arms. They might all be deafened by the noise before the afternoon was over, Joseph thought cheerfully. Lizzie and Molly and the older girl were skipping, he noticed. 17

It was very brave of the Earl and Countess of Redfield and of Lord and Lady Ravensberg to have organized a picnic on such a grand scale just the day before the anniversary celebrations, Claudia thought as the afternoon progressed. For of course, parents had come as well as children. There were probably at least as many people milling about the lawn west of the house as there would be in the ballroom tomorrow evening. It would have been very easy to avoid the Marquess of Attingsborough amid all the crowds if they had not both been keeping a careful eye upon Lizzie. It was unnecessary to be overvigilant. Lizzie, shadowed by Horace but not needing him as a guide, was having the time of her life. Lady Redfield, the Duchess of Anburey, Mrs. Thompson, and a few of the other older ladies, who were sitting together on chairs that had been placed beneath the shade of a group of trees, would gladly have taken her under their wing and indeed did draw her down to sit with them for a few minutes. But she was not forgotten by everyone else. Soon Molly and a few other girls drew her away to introduce her to David Jewell, who had been openly delighted to meet some of his old school friends again and tell them all about his life in Wales. They took her with them to sit by the lake for a while. A few of the gentlemen organized a cricket game after tea for any children who were interested, and a number of Claudia’s girls joined in as well as David. Molly would not play and Lizzie could not, but they stood for a while, Molly watching and explaining to Lizzie what was happening. And then there was an extraordinary moment when Lady Hallmere—the sole lady involved in the game—went in to bat. She made a great show of settling herself in before the wickets and blocked two of the balls bowled at her by Lord Aidan Bedwyn while her team cheered and his jeered. But before he could bowl to her again, she straightened up and looked consideringly at the two girls. “Wait,” she declared. “I need help. Lizzie, come and bat with me and bring me better fortune.” And she strode over to Lizzie, took her by the hand, and led her back to stand before the wickets while Claudia caught Horace by the collar and held him back. Lady Hallmere leaned down to explain something to the girl. “Yes!” Agnes Ryde cried as she awaited her turn. “Lizzie is going to bat. Come on, Lizzie!” For the moment there was a suspiciously Cockney flavor to her accent. Claudia watched with a frown as Lady Hallmere nestled in behind Lizzie, settled all four of their hands about the bat handle, and looked up at Lord Aidan. “Right, Aidan,” she called, “bowl us your best. We are going to hit it for a six, are we not, Lizzie?” Lizzie’s face was bright with excitement. Claudia turned her head briefly to see that the Marquess of Attingsborough, who had been tossing a never-ending line of very young children up in the air one at a time and catching them, was watching intently. Lord Aidan came loping in halfway down the pitch before bowling the ball very gently at the bat. Lady Hallmere, her hands clasped over Lizzie’s, drew back the bat, missing the wickets behind it by a hair, and swung at the ball, hitting it with a satisfyingly loud crack. Lizzie shrieked and laughed. The ball soared into the air and straight into the outstretched hands of the Earl of Kilbourne, who inexplicably failed to catch it but fumbled it awkwardly and eventually allowed it to fall to the ground. But Lady Hallmere had not waited for what had seemed like an inevitable out. She had grabbed Lizzie about the waist and gone tearing down the pitch with her and back again to score two runs. She was laughing. So was Lizzie, loudly and helplessly. Their team cheered wildly. The marquess was laughing too and applauding and whistling. “Oh, well done, Miss Pickford,” he called. And then Lady Hallmere bent down to kiss Lizzie’s cheek, and the Duchess of Bewcastle came to take her by the hand and lead her off to participate in another game. Claudia, still standing there watching, caught Lady Hallmere’s eye, and for an uncomfortable moment their glances held. And then Lady Hallmere raised her eyebrows, looking haughty in the process, and turned her attention back to the cricket game. That had been a gesture of pure kindness, Claudia was forced to admit, however unwillingly. It was a somewhat disturbing realization. For most of her life, it seemed, she had hated and despised the former Lady Freyja Bedwyn. She did not even want to think now that perhaps the woman had changed, at least to a certain degree. You bear a long grudge, Miss Martin. The duchess was forming a number of the smallest children into a circle. She set Lizzie between two of them, joining their hands, and took her own place between two other children to play ring-around-the-rosy. “Ho,” the Marquess of Attingsborough called just before they began, running up with a small girl riding on one of his shoulders—he was hatless, and she was clinging to his hair, “let us in too.” And he swung the little girl to the ground and took a place between her and Lizzie, who set her hand in his and turned her face up to him, looking as if all the sunshine had poured into her being. He beamed back down at her with such tenderness that Claudia was amazed everyone did not instantly know. The group circled about, chanting and then all falling down on cue in shrieking delight before scrambling back to their feet, joining hands, and beginning the game all over again. Except that Lizzie and her father never did release hands. Instead they fell and laughed together while Lizzie positively glowed with excitement and happiness. Claudia, standing watching with Susanna while Anne, holding young Megan in her arms, stood with Sydnam, cheering for David, who was up to bat in cricket, felt very close to tears though she was not at all sure why. Or perhaps she was, but there was a confusing number of causes and she did not know which was uppermost. “Lizzie is a delightful child,” Susanna said. “She has become everyone’s pet, has she not? And is not Joseph a good sport? He has been playing with the younger children all afternoon so far. I am so sorry he is going to marry Miss Hunt. I thought perhaps you and he…But never mind. I still have high hopes of the Duke of McLeith even though you have refused him once.” “You are a hopeless and impractical romantic, Susanna,” Claudia said. But it was very hard to imagine the Marquess of Attingsborough and Miss Hunt being happy together. Although she had come to the picnic, Miss Hunt had kept herself aloof from all the children and their activities, sitting somewhat removed from everyone else with the Earl and Countess of Sutton and two guests from Alvesley whom Claudia did not know. And Claudia could not help remembering the marquess’s telling her at Vauxhall that Miss Hunt thought kisses foolish and unnecessary. He looked more handsome and charming than ever frolicking with the very young and beaming happily at his daughter. He deserved better than Miss Hunt. And then Charlie came strolling up to stand with her and Susanna. “I doubt I have ever seen so many children so blissfully happy all at one time,” he said. “Everything has been very well organized, has it not?” Indeed it had. In addition to the numerous games before tea and cricket and ring-around-the-rosy after, there was a game of statues in progress, organized by Eleanor and Lady Ravensberg. The Countess of Rosthorn was giving an archery lesson to a few of the nearly grown-up children. The Marquess of Hallmere and another gentleman were giving boat rides. A few children were playing their own private game on the bank of the lake, watched over by the older ladies. A few others were climbing trees. Some babies were being amused by parents or grandparents. No guests showed any sign yet of wishing to take their leave. “Claudia,” Charlie said, “shall we take a stroll along by the lake?” Her presence at the picnic site was unnecessary, Claudia thought, looking about. There was plenty of supervision for all her girls. Susanna was smirking her encouragement. And she needed to get away, if only for a few minutes. Indeed, she wished she had not come at all. It had been obvious to her for most of the afternoon that she might easily have stayed away altogether. “Thank you,” she said, “that would be pleasant.” And it was too. She enjoyed both the walk in sunshine and picturesque surroundings and the company. During the past few days she and Charlie had become friends again. As well as reminiscing about their childhood, he talked a great deal about his life as Duke of McLeith. She talked about her life at the school. They shared ideas and opinions. The old easy camaraderie had returned to their relationship. He had made no further reference to his marriage proposal at Lindsey Hall. He was, it seemed, content to settle for friendship. Children did not tire easily. When Claudia and Charlie returned from their walk after half an hour, there was still a vast crowd of them milling about the large lawn area, involved in some game or another while adults participated or supervised or sat watching and conversing with one another. It was a relief to Claudia to notice that the Marquess of Attingsborough was missing. And it was an annoyance to discover that he was the first person she looked for. The next person was Lizzie. Her eyes searched everywhere twice before she came to the conclusion that the child was simply not there. Her stomach performed an uncomfortable flip-flop. “Where is Lizzie?” she asked Anne, who was close by with Megan. “She is holding Harry,” Anne said, pointing toward Susanna—who was holding Harry herself while Peter squatted beside her chair, his hand resting on the baby’s head while he smiled up at his wife. “Oh, she was holding Harry.” “Where is Lizzie?” Claudia asked more urgently of no one in particular. “The blind girl?” Charlie asked, cupping her elbow with one hand. “Someone is always looking after her. Don’t worry.” “Where is Lizzie?” “Morgan is letting her hold the bow and arrows, Miss Martin,” Lady Redfield called. But Lady Rosthorn, Claudia could see, was shooting an arrow at a target while an admiring group of young people looked on—and Lizzie was not among them. She must have gone somewhere with her father. “Oh,” the Dowager Countess of Kilbourne said. “I believe she went for a walk with Miss Thompson and a group of other girls from your school, Miss Martin. May I commend you on the girls? They all have excellent manners.” “Thank you,” Claudia said, sagging with relief while Charlie squeezed her elbow solicitously. And indeed she could see now that Eleanor was missing from the crowd too as were a few of her girls. Lizzie had gone walking with them. Horace must have gone too. Charlie guided her to an empty chair, and even as she seated herself she could see the Marquess of Attingsborough making his way back to the picnic site with Miss Hunt on his arm. The Earl and Countess of Sutton and another couple were with them. Lizzie was not, of course. But just as Claudia was beginning to relax, chiding herself for becoming so frightened when Lizzie had a dozen or more chaperones to watch her, she could see Eleanor and her group returning from their walk to the east of the house. Eleanor, Molly, Doris, Miriam, Charlotte, Becky—Lord Aidan’s daughter—an unknown girl, another, David Jewell, Davy—Becky’s brother… Claudia got to her feet, searching the group more intently as it came closer. Lizzie was not among them. “Where is Lizzie?” No one answered. “Where is Lizzie?”

Lizzie had been feeling blissfully happy. She had come to Alvesley with eager anticipation, knowing that her papa was staying here. But she had not expected too much. For one thing, she did not want her new friends to stop liking her, and they might if they knew that she had a rich father who loved her. And so she was going to have to be careful not to give the game away. But she knew too that her papa would not want openly to acknowledge her. She knew that she was the bastard child of a nobleman and an opera dancer—her mother had made that very clear to her. She knew that she could never belong in her papa’s world, that she must never openly appear there. And she knew that he was about to marry a lady, someone from his own world—something her mother had always said would happen one day. She had not expected too much of the picnic, then. She had been happy just to have him lift her down from the carriage and to hear him cheer for her when she hit the cricket ball with Lady Hallmere’s help. Her cup had run over with joy when he had come to play ring-around-the-rosy with her, as he had done sometimes when she was a little girl at home. He had held her hand and laughed with her and fallen on the grass with her. And when the game was over, he had kept hold of her hand and told her that he would take her for a boat ride. Her heart had been fairly bursting with happiness. And then a lady had spoken to him in a voice Lizzie had not liked and told him that he was neglecting Miss Hunt and she was close to fainting from the heat and he must come up to the house with them immediately and sit in the cool for a while. And he had sighed and called the lady Wilma and told Lizzie that the boat ride must wait until later but that he would not forget. But he would forget, Lizzie decided after he had gone. Or if he did not, the lady called Wilma and Miss Hunt would make sure that he did not play with her anymore. She wanted Miss Martin, but when she asked Lady Whitleaf, who came to take her by the hand, she discovered that Miss Martin had gone for a walk but would be back soon. Lady Whitleaf let her hold Harry, something she had not done before, and she almost wept with happiness. But after a minute or two he grew cross and Lady Whitleaf said she had to go and feed him. Then Lady Rosthorn asked her if she would like to come and examine the bows and arrows and listen to the whistle they made when they were shot and the thumping sound they made as they sank into the target. Miss Thompson asked her almost at the same moment if she would like to go for a walk with a few of the other children, but Lizzie was feeling a little depressed and said no. But then a few minutes later, when Lady Rosthorn and some other people were shooting the arrows, she was sorry she had not gone. It would have passed the time until her papa came back from the house—if he came. And until Miss Martin came back from her walk. And then Lizzie had an idea. It was something that would make her very proud of herself—and it would surely make her papa and Miss Martin proud of her too. Miss Thompson’s group could not have gone very far yet. Lizzie tightened her hold on Horace’s leash and bent down to talk to him. He panted eagerly back into her face so that she wrinkled her nose and laughed. “Go find Miss Thompson and Molly, Horace,” she said. “Are you going somewhere, Lizzie?” Lady Rosthorn asked. She would insist upon coming with her, Lizzie thought, and that would spoil everything. “I am going to join my friends,” she said vaguely. At the same moment someone was asking Lady Rosthorn for help with holding a bow. “And you can find them on your own?” Lady Rosthorn asked. But she did not wait for an answer. “Good girl.” And Horace—with Lizzie in tow—was off. Lizzie knew there were lots of people at the picnic. She knew too that there were constant and constantly changing activities. She hoped no one would notice her go and catch up to her to escort her to join the walk. She could do it on her own. Horace was her guide. He could take her wherever she wished to go. She breathed more easily when the crowd was left behind and no one had hailed her or come dashing up behind her. She even smiled and laughed. “Go find them, Horace,” she said. After a while there was no longer grass beneath her feet but the hardness of a path or driveway. Horace led the way along it rather than across—the hard surface remained beneath her feet. It did not take long for the initial euphoria of the adventure to wear off. The walking group must have had far more of a head start than she had realized. There was no sound of them. Once she drew Horace to a halt and listened and called Miss Thompson’s name, but there was no sound and no answer. Horace drew her onward until she felt and heard hollowness beneath her feet and realized that she must be on a bridge. She groped her way sideways until she felt a stone balustrade. She could hear water rushing below. When they had been coming from Lindsey Hall in the carriage earlier, she had heard the wheels rumbling over a bridge—and Miss Martin had confirmed her observation. Was it likely the walkers had crossed this bridge? Was Horace leading her to them? Or had they gone somewhere else? Was she lost? For a moment she felt panic well inside her. But that would be silly. She knew from stories her papa had read to her that heroines did not panic but were very brave. And all they had to do was turn around and go back the way they had come. Horace would know the way back. And once they were close, she would hear the sound of voices. She bent down to talk to Horace, but at the same time she got her foot caught in the leash and tipped over until she was sprawled on the ground. She did not hurt herself. Horace came close to make bleating noises and to lick her face and she put her arms about his neck and hugged him. “You silly dog,” she said. “You have come the wrong way. You are going to have to lead me back again. I hope nobody will have noticed that we were gone. I shall feel very foolish.” But the trouble was that by the time she got to her feet and brushed her hands over her best dress to make sure no grit clung to it and repossessed herself of the dog’s leash, she was not sure which direction she was facing. She let Horace decide. She pulled a little on his leash. “Take us back,” she commanded. It did not take her long to realize that they had gone the wrong way. She could feel the coolness of shade on her face and arms and sensed that it was not just that the sun had gone behind clouds but that there were trees overhead—she could smell them. There had been no trees the other side of the bridge. And then Horace must have seen or heard something off to one side of the driveway and went darting off over rough ground and among the trees—that was soon obvious to Lizzie—dragging her with him. He barked excitedly. And then he was moving too fast for her and she let go of the leash. She found the trunk of a tree and clung to it. She realized, as her hair came cascading down about her face, that she had lost her hair ribbon. It was without doubt the most frightening moment of her life. “Miss Thompson!” she yelled. “Molly!” But she had known some time ago that this was not the way Miss Thompson and the girls had come. “Papa!” she shrieked. “Papa!” But Papa had gone to the house with Miss Hunt. “Miss Martin!” And then Horace was pushing at her elbow with his cold nose and whining at her. She could feel his leash swinging against one of her legs. “Horace!” She was sobbing, she realized as she caught hold of the leash. “Take me back to the driveway.” If she could just get back there, she would stay on it. Even if she chose the wrong way to walk, she would surely get somewhere eventually, or someone would find her. It was not far away. But which way? Horace led her onward, much more carefully than before. He seemed intent upon making sure that she did not collide with any of the trees or trip over any of their roots. But after what must have been several minutes, they had not arrived back at the driveway. They must be going deeper into the woods. Lizzie thought about her story, the first one Miss Martin had written down for her. Panic was hard to hold back. She was sobbing out loud. And then Horace stopped, panting as if in triumph and Lizzie, feeling with her free hand, felt a stone wall. At first she thought that by some miracle they had arrived at the house, but she knew it was impossible. She felt along the wall until she encountered first a door frame and then a wooden door and then the doorknob. She turned it, and the door opened. “Hello,” she called, her voice teary and shaking. She was thinking of witches and wizards. “Hello. Is anyone there?” No one was. There was no answer, and she could hear no breathing except her own and Horace’s. She stepped inside and felt about. It was just a small hut, she discovered. But it had some furniture in it. Did someone live here? If so, perhaps they would come home soon and tell her which way to go. Perhaps they would not be evil people but would be kind. There were not really evil people or witches, were there? She was still sobbing aloud. She was still consumed by terror. She was still trying to be sensible. “Please come home,” she sobbed to the unknown owners of the little hut. “Please come home. Please!” She could feel a bed covered with blankets. She lay down on top of them and curled up into a ball, one fist stuffed against her mouth. “Papa,” she wailed. “Papa. Miss Martin. Papa.” Horace jumped up beside her and whined and licked her face. “Papa.” Eventually she slept. 18

Joseph sat in the drawing room at Alvesley for all of half an hour, conversing with Portia, Wilma and George, and the Vreemonts, cousins of Kit’s. It was admittedly cooler indoors and a great deal quieter, but he was annoyed nonetheless. For one thing, Portia said nothing about feeling faint from the heat and looked a little surprised when he asked solicitously about her health. It had all been Wilma’s little ruse, of course, to draw him away. She would have considered it his duty to pay more attention to his betrothed despite the fact that the whole entertainment had been planned for the children and most of the other adults were exerting themselves to amuse them. For another thing, he had had to break his promise to take Lizzie for a boat ride. He would do it as soon as they returned, but even so he was powerfully reminded that she was always going to have to take second place to his legitimate family, to be fitted in for his attention whenever they did not need him. For a third thing, he had felt like planting McLeith a facer when he had taken Claudia Martin walking. The man was going to wear down her resistance and persuade her to marry him—which conclusion ought to have made Joseph rejoice. It seemed to him more and more as he thought of it that she yearned for love and marriage and a marital home despite all she said about being happy with her school and her lonely existence as its headmistress. But he had wanted to plant McLeith a facer. They made their way back to the picnic site eventually. He was going to take Lizzie boating as soon as possible. It would not seem strange that he do so—a number of the other adults had been entertaining her, making sure that she was involved with various activities and was enjoying herself. But just as they were approaching the picnic site and he was looking eagerly about for his daughter, a voice spoke loudly above all the hubbub of other voices—it was the strident voice of a schoolmistress accustomed to making herself heard above a tumult of schoolgirl chatter. “Where is Lizzie?” Miss Martin wanted to know. She was getting up from a chair beside McLeith’s, Joseph could see. He was instantly more alert. “Where is Lizzie?” Her voice was louder now, less controlled, more panicked. “Good God!” he exclaimed, pulling his arm free of Portia’s and hurrying forward. “Where is she?” A hasty glance around failed to find her. So did another. Everyone had been alerted by the cry, and everyone was looking around and speaking. “She is playing circle games with Christine.” “That was ages ago.” “She is with Susanna and the baby.” “No, she is not. That was some time ago. I had to go and feed Harry.” “Perhaps she went for a ride in a boat.” “Lady Rosthorn took her over to be with the archers.” “She must have gone walking with Eleanor and a crowd of the older children.” “No, she did not. She came with me instead to examine the bows and arrows. And then she went to join some of her friends.” “She is definitely not with Miss Thompson. Look, they are coming back and she is not with them.” “She must have gone up to the house.” “She must have…” “She must have…” All the time Joseph looked wildly about him. Where was Lizzie? Panic seized him and pounded through his veins, robbing him of breath and any chance for rational thought. He was at Claudia Martin’s side without even knowing how he had got there and was clutching her by the wrist. “I have been at the house,” he told her. “I went for a walk.” She stared at him, not a vestige of color in her cheeks. They had left Lizzie alone. It was Bewcastle who took charge of the situation, followed closely by Kit. “She cannot have gone far,” Bewcastle said, materializing from somewhere and standing in their midst with such a commanding presence that they all fell quiet—even most of the children—though he had not noticeably raised his voice. “The child has wandered away and cannot find her way back. We need to fan out—two to follow the lake this way, two that, two to go in the direction of the stables, two to go to the house, two to…” He continued to marshal them all, like a general with his troops. “Syd,” Kit said, “go straight to the stables and look there. You know all the hiding places. Lauren and I will go to the house—we know it best. Aidan, go…” Joseph strode to the water’s edge and gazed out at a returning boat, one hand shielding his eyes. But neither of the two children in it was Lizzie. “Lizzie!” He threw back his head and bellowed her name. “She cannot have gone far.” The voice, soft and shaking, came from beside him, and he realized that he still had a death grip on her wrist. “She cannot have gone far,” Claudia Martin said again, and it was obvious to him that she was trying desperately to get herself under control—a schoolmistress who was accustomed to dealing with crises. “And she must have Horace with her—he is nowhere in sight either. She believes he is able to take her wherever she wants to go.” People—both adults and children—were fanning off in all directions, many of them calling Lizzie’s name. Even the Redfields, Joseph could see, and his mother and father and Aunt Clara were joining the search. He was paralyzed by panic and indecision. He wanted more than anyone to begin the search, but where was he to go? He wanted to go in every direction at once. Where was she? Where was she? And then his heart lurched as he realized what Bewcastle and Hallmere were doing not far away. They were both hauling off their boots and stripping to the waist. And then they both dived into the lake. The implication was so terrifying that it jolted Joseph into motion. “She cannot be in there,” Claudia Martin said in a voice so shaky that it was virtually unrecognizable. “Horace would be running around loose.” He grabbed her hand. “We must look for her,” he said, turning his back resolutely on the water. Wilma and Portia were right there in front of them. “I am very sorry, Miss Martin,” Portia said. “But really you ought to have been watching her more carefully. You are in charge of all these charity girls, are you not?” “A blind girl has no business being here at all,” Wilma added. “Hold your tongues!” Joseph said harshly. “Both of you.” He did not wait to either see or hear their response. He hurried away with Claudia. But where was there to hurry to? “Where can she possibly have gone?” Claudia asked, though clearly she did not expect an answer. She clung to his hand as tightly as he clung to hers. “Where would she have tried to go? Let us think. To join you in the house?” “Doubtful,” he said, seeing Lauren and Kit, also hand in hand, hurry toward it. “To find Eleanor and the others, then?” she asked. “They went past the front of the house while I was there,” he said. “They went toward the little bridge and the wilderness walk beyond.” “They would have seen her if she had gone in that direction,” she said. “So would you. There are four searchers going that way anyway. There is no point in our following them.” They had come to the driveway and stood there in horrible indecision again. Lizzie’s name was echoing from every direction. But there were no cries from anyone to indicate that she had been found. Joseph drew a few steadying breaths. Continued panic would get him nowhere. “The only direction no one has taken,” he said, “is the one out of Alvesley.” She looked to their right, down the long sweep of lawn and driveway to the roofed Palladian bridge across the river and the woods beyond. “She would surely not have gone that way,” she said. “Probably not,” he agreed. “But would the dog?” “Oh, dear God,” she said. “Dear God, where is she?” Her eyes filled with tears and she bit her lip. “Where is she?” “Come,” he said, turning with her to stride resolutely down the driveway. “There is nowhere else left to look.” “How could this have happened?” she asked. “I went to the house,” he said harshly. “I went for a walk.” “I ought not to have let her leave home in London,” he said. “She has always been safe there.” “I ought not to have taken my eyes off her,” she said. “She was my only reason for coming this afternoon. She was my responsibility. Miss Hunt was quite right to scold me.” “Let us not start blaming ourselves or each other,” he said. “She had numerous chaperones this afternoon. Everyone was keeping an eye on her.” “That was the whole trouble,” she said. “When everyone is looking after someone, no one really is. Everyone assumes she is with someone else. I ought to know that from experience at school. Oh, Lizzie, where are you?” They stood inside the bridge for a few moments, looking out in all directions, desperately hoping for a sign of the missing Lizzie. But why was she not answering any of the calls? Joseph could still hear them from where he stood. “L-i-z-z-i-e!” he yelled from one side of the bridge, cupping his hands about his mouth. “Lizzie!” Claudia called from the other side. Nothing. His knees felt weak under him suddenly and he almost staggered. “Do we go on?” he asked, looking beyond the bridge to where the driveway wound its way through the woods. “Surely she could not have come so far.” Perhaps she was back at the lake. He felt an overwhelming need to go back there to see. “We must go on,” Claudia said, crossing the width of the bridge and grasping his hand again. “What else is there to do?” Their eyes met and then for a brief moment she pressed her forehead against his chest. “We will find her,” she said. “We will.” But how? And where? If she really had come this way, would she finally end up in the village? Would someone there stop her and care for her until word could be sent to Alvesley? What if she had turned off the driveway and got lost in the woods? “Lizzie!” Joseph shouted again. He had stopped walking at an amazingly fortunate moment. Claudia turned her head, and then she uttered a wordless exclamation and pulled on his hand. “What is that?” she said, pointing. And as they drew closer to a white streamer caught on a lower branch of a tree, she cried out joyfully. “It is Lizzie’s hair ribbon. She did come this way.” He disentangled it and pressed it to his mouth, closing his eyes very tightly as he did so. “Thank God,” she said. “Oh, thank God. She is not at the bottom of the lake.” He opened his eyes and they gazed bleakly at each other. They had both been harboring the same fear ever since seeing Bewcastle and Hallmere diving in. “Lizzie!” he called into the woods. “Lizzie!” she called. There was no answer. And how could they know which way she had gone? How could they go after her without themselves getting lost? But there was, of course, no question of standing still—and no thought of going back to recruit more help, especially from Kit or Sydnam, who would know the woods. They pressed onward, stopping frequently to call Lizzie’s name. And finally there was a rustling among the trees ahead and then a joyful woofing—and there came Horace, all wiggling rear end and wagging tail and lolling tongue. “Horace!” Claudia went down onto her knees to hug him, and he licked her face. “Where is she? Why have you left her? Take us to her this minute.” At first it seemed that he wanted to do nothing more than jump up against her skirt and play, but she wagged a stern finger at him and then took the ribbon from Joseph’s hand and waved it under the dog’s nose. “Find her, Horace. Take us to her,” she commanded. And he turned with a bark as if this were the best game of the afternoon, and went racing off through the trees. Joseph took Claudia by the hand again, and they went hurrying after him. There was a little building—a gamekeeper’s hut—not far ahead. It looked to be in good repair. The door was ajar. Horace rushed inside. Joseph stepped up to the door, almost afraid to hope. Claudia clung to his hand and pressed against his side as he pushed the door wider and peered inside. It was dark, but there was just enough light to see that the place was decently furnished and that on a narrow bed against one wall his daughter was curled up asleep, Horace panting and grinning at her feet. Joseph turned his head, grasped Claudia about the waist, drew her tightly against him, and wept into the hollow between her neck and shoulder. She clung to him. And for the merest moment as he drew free, they gazed deeply into each other’s eyes and his wet mouth touched hers. And then he was inside the hut and kneeling on the floor beside the bed and touching his trembling hand to Lizzie’s head, moving the hair gently from her face. If she had been sleeping, she was sleeping no longer. Her eyes were tightly shut. She was sucking on her fist. Her shoulders were hunched and tense. “Sweetheart,” he murmured. “Papa?” She lowered her fist and inhaled. “Papa?” “Yes,” he said. “We have found you, Miss Martin and I. You are quite safe again.” “Papa?” She wailed then, a high keening sound, and launched herself at him until she had a death grip about his neck. He picked her up and turned to sit with her cradled on his lap. He reached up without thought and drew Claudia down to sit beside them. She stroked Lizzie’s legs. “You are safe,” she said. “Miss Thompson took Molly and some others for a walk,” Lizzie said in a fast, breathless voice. “They asked me to go but I said no, but then I wished I had said yes because you had gone to the house, Papa, and Miss Martin had gone for a walk. I thought Horace and I could catch up. I thought you would be proud of me. I thought Miss Martin would be proud of me. But Horace could not find them. And then there was a bridge and then I fell down and did not know which way to go and then there were the trees and Horace ran away and I tried to be brave and I thought about witches but I knew there were none, and then Horace came back and we came here but I did not know who lived here or if they would be kind or cruel and when you came I thought it was them and perhaps they would eat me alive though I know that is silly and—” “Sweetheart.” He kissed her cheek and rocked her back and forth while she sucked on her fist again—something she had not done to his knowledge since she was four or five. “There are only Miss Martin and I here with you.” “But how very, very brave you were, Lizzie,” Claudia said, “to venture off on your own and then not to panic when you got lost. We will certainly have to train Horace more before you try any such thing again, but I am enormously proud of you anyway.” “I am always proud of you,” Joseph said. “But especially today. My little girl is growing up and becoming independent.” She had stopped sucking her fist. She snuggled against him and yawned hugely. She had had so much fresh air and exercise today that it was no wonder she was exhausted—even apart from the terrible fright she had had. He continued to rock her as he used to do when she was a baby and small child. He tipped back his head and closed his eyes. He could feel tears pooling in them again—and then one spilling over to trickle down his cheek. He felt a feather-light touch to the same cheek and opened his eyes to see Claudia brushing the backs of her fingers across it to dry the tear. They gazed at each other, and it seemed to him that he could see past her eyes into her mind, into her deepest self, into her soul. And he rested there. “I love you,” he said, intending to speak aloud though no sound passed his lips. She read his lips anyway. She drew back an inch or two, her chin lifted a fraction, and her own lips pressed together into an almost-stern line. But her eyes did not change. Her eyes could not change. They were the window through the armor she tried to don. Her eyes answered him though the rest of her denied what they said. I love you too. “We had better get Lizzie back to the picnic,” he said, “and set everyone’s minds at rest. Everyone will still be searching for her.” “For me?” Lizzie said. “They are searching for me?” “Everyone has fallen in love with you, sweetheart,” he said, kissing her cheek again and getting to his feet with her in his arms. “And I must say I cannot blame them.” It was obvious to him as soon as they stepped outside the hut and Claudia shut the door behind them that there was a faint path leading from it. The hut was furnished and clean and comfortable. It made sense that it was used often and that the user or users would have worn a path, probably from the driveway. They followed it and sure enough, in no time at all, it seemed, they were back on the driveway, within sight of the bridge. Claudia went a little way ahead of him across the bridge and waved her arms and called out to a few groups of people who were in sight. It was obvious they read her message. The search was over—Lizzie had been found. By the time they approached the lake, everyone was waiting expectantly for them and Lizzie was half asleep. Horace bounded ahead, panting and woofing. They received a hero’s welcome. Everyone wanted to touch Lizzie, to ask if she had taken any harm, to ask what had happened, to explain how they had searched and searched and almost given up hope. “Your arms must be tired from carrying her, Attingsborough,” Rosthorn said. “Let me take her from you. Come, chérie.” “No,” Joseph said, tightening his hold. “Thank you, but she is fine where she is.” “She really ought to be taken back to Lindsey Hall immediately,” Wilma said. “Such a fuss, and it has threatened to ruin this splendid picnic. You really ought to have been doing your duty, Miss Martin, and keeping an eye on the girl instead of going walking with your betters.” “Wilma,” Neville said, “stuff it, will you?” “Well, really!” she said. “I demand an apol—” “This is absolutely not the time for cruelty and recriminations,” Gwen said. “Be quiet, Wilma.” “But it really ought to be said,” Portia added, “that it is disrespectful to Lady Redfield and Lady Ravensberg to have brought charity pupils to mingle with such a gathering and then to have left them to the chaperonage of someone else. And a blind charity girl is the outside of enough. We really ought—” “Lizzie Pickford,” Joseph said in a firm, clear voice to an attentive audience that consisted of his father and mother, his sister, his betrothed, and numerous relatives, acquaintances, and strangers, “is my daughter. And I love her more than life itself.” He felt Claudia’s hand on his arm. He lowered his head to kiss Lizzie’s upturned face. He felt Neville’s hand grasp his shoulder and squeeze hard. And then he became aware of an awful silence that overlaid the sounds of children at play. 19

The words Lady Sutton and Miss Hunt spoke cut Claudia like a knife. Though they were spitefully uttered, she was utterly defenseless against them. She had been terribly to blame. She had been walking with Charlie—ah, yes, with her betters—when she should have been keeping an eye on Lizzie. But perhaps even more than personal insult and guilt, she felt a deep and impotent anger to hear her precious charity girls spoken of so disparagingly in their hearing. And yet she could say nothing in their defense either. Perhaps Lady Ravensberg might have done so and informed Miss Hunt that they were here by her specific invitation. But the Marquess of Attingsborough spoke first. Lizzie Pickford is my daughter. And I love her more than life itself. Anger and guilt were forgotten in deep distress. Claudia set a hand on his arm and looked at Lizzie in some concern. Most of the younger children played on with the indefatigable energy of their age and a total unawareness of the drama unfolding around them. But somehow the noise they made only accentuated the awful silence that fell over everyone else. The lame and pretty Lady Muir spoke first. “Oh, Wilma,” she said, “now see what you have done. And you too, Miss Hunt. Oh, really, it is too bad of you.” “Miss Martin’s schoolgirls,” the Countess of Redfield said, “are here at my express invitation.” “And at mine,” Lady Ravensberg added. “It has been a delight to have them. All of them.” But everyone fell silent again as the Duke of Anburey got to his feet. “What is this?” he asked, frowning ferociously, though it did not seem that he expected an answer. “A son of mine making such a vulgar admission in such company? Before Lord and Lady Redfield in their own home? Before his mother and his sister? Before his betrothed? Before the whole world?” Claudia lowered her hand to her side. Lizzie turned her face into her father’s waistcoat. “I have never been more insulted in my life than I have been this afternoon,” Miss Hunt said. “And now I am expected to bear this?” “Calm yourself, my dear Miss Hunt,” the Countess of Sutton said, patting her arm. “I am deeply ashamed of you, Joseph, and can only hope that you spoke in the heat of the moment and are already feeling properly remorseful. I believe a public apology to Papa and Miss Hunt and Lady Redfield is in order.” “I do apologize,” he said, “for the distress I have caused and for the manner in which I have finally acknowledged Lizzie. But I cannot be sorry for the fact that she is my daughter. Or for the fact that I love her.” “Oh, Joseph,” the Duchess of Anburey said. She had got to her feet with her husband and was walking toward her son. “This child is yours? Your daughter? My granddaughter?” “Sadie!” the duke said in a forbidding tone. “But she is beautiful,” she said, touching the backs of her knuckles to Lizzie’s cheek. “I am so happy she is safe. We were all dreadfully worried about her.” “Sadie,” the duke said again. Viscount Ravensberg cleared his throat. “I suggest,” he said, “that this discussion be removed indoors, where those people who are most nearly concerned may be afforded some privacy. And Lizzie probably needs to be taken out of the sun. Lauren?” “I’ll go ahead,” the viscountess said, “and find a quiet room where she may lie down and rest. She looks quite exhausted, poor child.” “I will put her in my room if I may, Lauren,” the Marquess of Attingsborough said. The Duke of Anburey was already taking the duchess by the arm and turning her in the direction of the house. Miss Hunt gathered up her skirt and turned to follow. Lady Sutton linked an arm through hers and went with her. Lord Sutton walked on Miss Hunt’s other side. “Shall I carry her for you, Joe?” the Earl of Kilbourne offered. “No.” The marquess shook his head. “But thank you, Nev.” He took a few steps in the direction of the house but then stopped and looked back at Claudia. “Come with us?” he said. “Come and watch Lizzie for me?” She nodded and fell into step beside him. What an awful ending to the picnic for those who were left behind, she thought. But perhaps not. It was certainly a picnic no one was going to forget in a hurry. It would doubtless be the subject of animated conversation for days, even weeks to come. It was a solemn procession that made its way to the house, except for Horace, who darted ahead and raced back, all panting breath and lolling tongue as if this were a new game devised entirely for his amusement. Viscount and Viscountess Ravensberg came along behind them and caught up with the marquess when they were near the house. “Where did you find her, Joseph?” the viscountess asked softly. “There is a little hut in the woods on the other side of the bridge,” the marquess said. “She was in there.” “Ah,” the viscount said, “we must have forgotten to lock it the last time we were there, Lauren. We sometimes do forget.” “And thank heaven we did,” she said. “She is so sweet, Joseph, and of course she looks like you.” And then they all reached the house, and the viscount directed everyone to the library. The marquess did not follow them. He led the way upstairs, and Claudia went with him to his room, a large, comfortable guest chamber overlooking the eastern flower garden and the hills beyond. Claudia drew back the covers from the canopied bed, and he set Lizzie down in the middle of it. He sat beside her and held her hand. “Papa,” she said, “you told them.” “Yes,” he said, “I did, did I not?” “And now,” she said, “everyone will hate me.” “My mother does not,” he said, “and Cousin Neville does not. Neither does Cousin Lauren, who just told me you are sweet and look like me. If you had had eyes to see a few minutes ago, you would have seen that most people were looking at you with liking and sympathy—and happiness that you were safe.” “She hates me,” she said. “Miss Hunt.” “I think,” he said, “it is me she hates at the moment, Lizzie.” “Will the girls hate me?” she asked. It was Claudia who answered. “Molly does not,” she said. “She was weeping just now because she was so happy to see you again. I cannot speak for the others, but I will say this. I am not sure it is a good idea to try to win love by pretending to be what we are not—you are not an orphaned charity girl, are you? It is perhaps better for all of us to risk being loved—or not—for who we really are.” “I am Papa’s daughter,” Lizzie said. “Yes.” “His bastard daughter,” she added. Claudia saw him frown and open his mouth to speak. She spoke first. “Yes,” she agreed. “But that word suggests someone who is resented and unloved. Sometimes our choice of words is important, and one of the wonders of the English language is that there are often several words for the same thing. It would be more appropriate, perhaps, to describe yourself as your papa’s illegitimate daughter or—better yet—as his love child. That is exactly what you are. Though it is not necessarily who you are. None of us can be described by labels—even a hundred labels or a thousand.” Lizzie smiled and lifted a hand to stroke her father’s face. “I am your love child, Papa,” she said. “You certainly are.” He caught her hand and kissed the palm. “And now I must go downstairs, sweetheart. Miss Martin will stay with you, though I daresay you will be asleep in no time. You have had a busy day.” She yawned hugely as if to prove him right. He got to his feet and looked at Claudia. She smiled ruefully at him. He half shrugged his shoulders and left the room without another word. “Mmm,” Lizzie said as Horace jumped up onto the bed to curl up against her, “the pillow smells of Papa.” Claudia looked directly at Horace, who gazed back in perfect contentment, his head on his paws. If she had not rushed to his defense in Hyde Park that afternoon, she thought, all this would very probably not have happened. How strange a thing fate was and the chain of seemingly minor, unrelated events that all led inexorably to some major conclusion. Lizzie yawned again and was almost instantly asleep. And what now? Claudia wondered. Was she going to take Lizzie back to school with her when she and Eleanor and the other girls returned to Bath within the next week or so? Even though she knew that Lizzie did not want to go? Did either of them have any other choice now? What other option was there for the child? Claudia could only imagine what was transpiring downstairs in the library. And what choice did she have? She loved Lizzie. There was a soft tap on the door about ten minutes later, and Susanna and Anne opened it and tiptoed inside without waiting for an answer. “Oh,” Susanna said softly, looking toward the bed, “she is asleep. I am glad for her sake. She looked in shock out there at the lake.” “The poor dear child,” Anne said, looking toward Lizzie too. “This has been a sad ending to the afternoon for her. Yet earlier she enjoyed herself so much. A few times I was close to tears just watching her have fun.” The three of them sat close to the window, some distance from the bed. “Everyone is leaving,” Susanna said. “The children must all be exhausted. It is almost evening already. They have played for hours without stopping.” “Lizzie was afraid,” Claudia said, “that everyone must hate her now.” “Quite the contrary,” Anne said. “It was a rather shocking revelation, especially for Lauren and Gwen and the rest of Lord Attingsborough’s family, but I do believe most people are secretly charmed by the fact that she is his daughter. Everyone had fallen for her anyway.” “I have been wondering,” Claudia said, “if Lizzie and I will still be welcome at Lindsey Hall. I did bring her there under false pretenses, after all.” “I overheard the Duke of Bewcastle remark to the duchess,” Susanna said, “that some people deserve their comeuppance and it is gratifying to see them get it. It was obvious he was referring to Lady Sutton and Miss Hunt.” “And Lady Hallmere declared quite openly,” Anne said, “that the marquess’s revelation was quite the most splendid moment of this or any afternoon she can remember. And everyone wanted to know if anyone else knew what had happened to Lizzie to cause her to get lost, and where you found her. Where did you find her?” Claudia told them. “I suppose,” Susanna said, “you visited Lizzie in London, Claudia.” “Several times,” Claudia said. “As I thought,” Susanna said with a sigh. “There goes my theory that Joseph was sweet on you when he took you driving so often. Perhaps it is just as well, though. Your romance would have had a tragic ending, would it not, since he was bound to offer for Miss Hunt. Though my opinion of her deteriorates every day.” Anne was looking closely at Claudia. “I am not so sure tragedy has been averted, Susanna,” she said. “Even apart from his looks, the Marquess of Attingsborough is an enormously charming gentleman. And any man’s appeal can only be enhanced when he is seen to be devoted to his child. Claudia?” “What nonsense!” Claudia said briskly, though she still kept her voice low. “It is pure business between me and the marquess. He wishes to place Lizzie at my school, and I have brought her here with Eleanor and the other girls as a trial. There is nothing else between us. Nothing at all.” But both her friends were looking at her with deep sympathy in their eyes, just as if she had confessed to an undying passion for the man. “Oh, Claudia,” Susanna said, “I am so sorry. Frances and I made a joke of it in London, I remember, but it was not funny at all. I am so sorry.” Anne merely leaned forward and took hold of Claudia’s hand and squeezed. “Well,” Claudia said, her voice still brisk, “I always did say dukes were nothing but trouble, did I not? The Marquess of Attingsborough is not a duke yet, but I ought nonetheless to have run a thousand miles the moment I set eyes on him.” “And that was my fault,” Susanna said. And now she could no longer deny the truth to them, Claudia thought. She would be the object of their pity forever after. She squared her shoulders and pressed her lips together.

When a footman opened the library door and Joseph stepped inside, it was to find his mother and father alone there. His mother was seated beside the fireplace. His father was pacing, his hands clasped behind his back, though he stopped when he saw his son, a frown causing a deep crease between his brows. “Well?” he said after they had all regarded one another silently for a few seconds. “What do you have to say for yourself?” Joseph stood where he was, just inside the door. “Lizzie is my daughter,” he said. “She is almost twelve years old though she looks younger. She was born blind. I have housed and supported her all her life. I have been part of her life from the beginning. I love her.” “She seems like a very sweet child, Joseph,” his mother said. “But how very sad that she is—” The duke quelled her with a look. “I did not ask, Joseph,” he said, “for a history. Of course you have taken responsibility for the support of your bastard child. I would expect no less of a gentleman and a son of mine. What I do need to have explained is the presence of the child in this neighborhood and her appearance at Alvesley this afternoon where she was bound to be seen by your mother and your sister and your betrothed.” As if Lizzie were somehow contaminated. But of course she was in the minds of polite society. “I am hoping to place her at Miss Martin’s school,” he explained. “Her mother died at the end of last year. Lauren invited Miss Martin and Miss Thompson to bring the girls to the picnic this afternoon.” “And you did not think to inform them,” his father asked, his face ruddy with anger, a pulse beating visibly at one temple, “that it would be the depths of vulgarity to bring the blind child with them? Do not attempt an answer. I do not wish to hear it. And do not attempt an explanation of your appalling outburst after Wilma and Miss Hunt had reprimanded that schoolteacher. There can be no explanation.” “Webster,” Joseph’s mother said, “do calm yourself. You will make yourself ill again.” “Then you will know, Sadie, at whose door to lay the blame,” he said. Joseph pursed his lips. “What I do demand,” his father said, turning his attention back to his son, “is that neither your mother nor Wilma nor Miss Hunt ever hear another word of your private affairs after today. You will apologize to your mother in my hearing. You will apologize to Wilma and to Lady Redfield and Lauren and the Duchess of Bewcastle, whose home you have sullied quite atrociously. And you will make your peace with Miss Hunt and assure her that she will never hear the like from you again.” “Mama,” Joseph said, turning his attention to her. She held her hands clasped together at her bosom. “I have caused you distress today, both at the picnic and now. I am deeply sorry.” “Oh, Joseph,” she said, “you must have been more frantic than any of us when that poor child was missing. Did she take any harm?” “Sadie—” the duke said, frowning ferociously. “Shock and exhaustion, Mama,” Joseph said. “No physical injuries, though. Miss Martin is sitting with her. I expect she is asleep by now.” “Poor child,” she said again. Joseph looked back at his father. “I will go and find Portia,” he said. “She is with your sister and Sutton in the flower garden,” his father told him. It was he his father had been censuring, Joseph reminded himself as he left the library—his behavior in allowing Lizzie to be brought to Lindsey Hall and to Alvesley Park today, where she would necessarily be in company with his family and betrothed. And his behavior in allowing himself to be goaded into admitting publicly that Lizzie was his daughter. It was not Lizzie herself he had been censuring. But dash it all, it felt very much as if that had been the case. …your bastard child… …the blind child… And he almost felt that he ought to be ashamed. He had broken the unwritten but clearly understood rules of society. His private affairs, his father had called his secrets, as if every man was expected to have them. But he would not be ashamed. If he admitted he had done wrong, then he was denying Lizzie’s right to be with the other children and with him. Life was not easy—today’s profound thought! He found Portia, as his father had told him, sitting in the flower garden with Wilma and Sutton. Wilma looked at him as if she wished she could convert her eyes into daggers. “You have insulted us all quite intolerably, Joseph,” she said. “To have made such an admission when so many people were listening! I have never been more mortified in my life. I hope you are ashamed.” He wished he could tell her to stuff it, as Neville had done earlier, but she had the moral high ground. Even for Lizzie’s sake, his admission had been rash and inappropriate. Except that the words had been more freeing than any others he had ever uttered, he realized suddenly. “And what do you have to say to Miss Hunt?” Wilma asked him. “You will be very fortunate indeed if she will listen.” “I think, Wilma,” he said, “that what I have to say and what she says in reply ought to be private between the two of us.” She looked as if she was going to argue. She drew breath. But Sutton cleared his throat and took her by the elbow, and she turned without another word and stalked back in the direction of the house with him. Portia, still in the primrose yellow muslin dress she had worn to the picnic, looked as fresh and as lovely as she had at the beginning of the afternoon. She also looked calm and poised. He stood looking down at her, feeling his dilemma. He had wronged her. He had humiliated her in front of a large gathering of his family and friends. But how could he apologize to her w ithout somehow denying Lizzie anew? She spoke first. “You told Lady Sutton and me to hold our tongues,” she said. Good Lord! Had he? “I do beg your pardon,” he said. “It was when Lizzie was missing, was it? I was frantic with worry. Not that that was any excuse for such discourtesy. Do please forgive me. And, if you will, for—” “I do not wish to hear that name again, Lord Attingsborough,” she said with quiet dignity. “I will expect you to have her removed from here and from Lindsey Hall by tomorrow at the latest and then I will choose to forget the whole unfortunate incident. I do not care where you send her or the others like her or the…women who produced them. I do not need or wish to know.” “There are no other children,” he said. “Or mistresses. Has this afternoon’s revelation led you to believe that I am promiscuous? I assure you I am not.” “Ladies are not fools, Lord Attingsborough,” she said, “however naive you may think us. We are perfectly well aware of men’s animal passions and are quite content that they slake them as often as they please, provided it is not with us and provided we know nothing about it. All we ask—all I ask—is that the proprieties be observed.” Good Lord! He felt chilled. Yet surely the truth would make her feel somewhat better, make her less convinced that she was about to marry an animal in the thin guise of a gentleman. “Portia,” he said, gazing down at her, “I believe very firmly in monogamous relationships. After Lizzie was born, I remained with her mother until her death last year. That is why I have not married before now. After our marriage I will be faithful to you for as long as we both live.” She looked back at him, and it struck him suddenly that her eyes were very different from Claudia’s. If there was anything behind them, any depth of character, any emotion, there was certainly no evidence of it. “You will do as you please, Lord Attingsborough,” she said, “as all men are entitled to do. I ask only that you exercise discretion. And I ask for your promise that that blind girl will be gone from here today and from Lindsey Hall tomorrow.” That blind girl. He strolled a few feet away from her and stood looking at a bed of hyacinths growing against a wooden trellis, his back to her. It was a reasonable request, he supposed. To her—probably to everyone at Alvesley and Lindsey Hall—it must seem that keeping Lizzie close was in extremely poor taste. Except that Lizzie was a person. She was an innocent child. And she was his. “No,” he said, “I cannot make that promise, I’m afraid, Portia.” Her silence was more accusing than words would have been. “I have observed the proprieties for all these years,” he said. “My daughter had a mother and a comfortable home in London, and I could see her whenever I wished, which was every day when I was in town. I told no one about her except Neville, and never took her where we would be seen together. I accepted that that was the way it must be. I never had real cause to question society’s dictates until Sonia died and Lizzie was left alone.” “I do not wish to hear this,” Portia said. “It is quite improper.” “She is not quite twelve,” he said. “She is far too young for any independence even if she were not blind.” He turned to look at her. “And I love her,” he said. “I cannot banish her to the periphery of my life, Portia. I will not. But my worst mistake, I realize now, was not telling you about her sooner. You had a right to know.” She said nothing for a while. She sat as still as any statue, delicate and lovely beyond belief. “I do not believe I can marry you, Lord Attingsborough,” she said then. “I had no wish to know of any such child and am only amazed that you think now you ought to have informed me about that dreadful creature, who cannot even see. I will not hear any more about her, and I will not tolerate knowing that she remains here or even at Lindsey Hall. If you cannot promise to remove her, and if you cannot promise that I will never hear of her again, I must withdraw my acceptance of your offer.” Strangely, perhaps, he was not relieved. Another broken engagement—even if it would be obvious to the ton that she was blameless in both—would surely render her almost unmarriageable. And she was no young girl. She must be in her middle twenties already. And in the eyes of society, her demands would appear quite reasonable. But—that dreadful creature… Lizzie! “I am sorry to hear it,” he said. “I beg you to reconsider. I am the same man you have known for several years. I fathered Lizzie long before I knew you.” She got to her feet. “You do not understand, Lord Attingsborough, do you?” she said. “I will not hear her name. I will go now and write to Papa. He will not be pleased.” “Portia—” he said. “I believe,” she said, “you no longer have any right to use that name, my lord.” “Our engagement is off, then?” he asked her. “I cannot imagine anything that would make me reconsider,” she told him, and turned to walk back to the house. He stood where he was, watching her go. It was only when she had disappeared from sight that he felt the beginnings of elation. He was free! 20

Claudia returned to Lindsey Hall without Lizzie. By the time the Marquess of Attingsborough returned to his room, she was fast asleep and it seemed very possible that she would sleep all night if left undisturbed. Lady Ravensberg offered to have a truckle bed set up for him in the dressing room. He also insisted upon escorting Claudia back to Lindsey Hall in his own carriage—the guests from there had returned home long ago, of course. The viscountess, Anne, and Susanna all promised to watch Lizzie until his return. Claudia tried to insist upon going alone, but he would not hear of it. Neither would Anne and Susanna, who reminded her that it was now evening. And heaven help her, Claudia thought as they descended the staircase together and stepped out onto the terrace, where the carriage awaited them, she was not going to argue the point. Viscount and Viscountess Ravensberg were out there, as was Lady Redfield. “Miss Martin,” the countess said, “I hope you will disregard everything that Lady Sutton and Miss Hunt said earlier. My husband and I have been delighted to entertain both you and the girls from your school—including Lizzie Pickford—and you were not neglecting your duties by walking with your childhood friend, the Duke of McLeith. We were all watching her and so we were all responsible for letting her wander away.” “Miss Martin was certainly not to blame,” the Marquess of Attingsborough said. “When she went walking I was playing with Lizzie. She had every reason to believe that I would keep her safe.” He handed Claudia into the carriage and climbed in after her. “Miss Martin,” the viscountess said, leaning into the carriage before the door was closed, “you will come to the anniversary ball tomorrow, will you not?” Claudia could think of nothing she would like less. “Perhaps it would be better,” she said, “if I were to stay away.” “You must not,” the viscountess said. “You would thereby suggest to some of our guests that they have more power to decide who is welcome at our home than we have.” “Lauren is quite right, Miss Martin. Please come,” the countess said. Her eyes twinkled. “You do not look to me like a lady who lacks courage.” The viscount, when Claudia caught his eye, winked. “You are all most kind,” Claudia said. “Very well, then, I will come.” What she really wanted to do, she thought, was return to Lindsey Hall alone, pack her bags, and leave at first light. As the door closed and the carriage moved forward, she thought of the last time she had left Lindsey Hall. How she would love to repeat that exit! The carriage suddenly seemed to be filled with just the two of them—the very same carriage in which he had taken refuge from the rain on the road from Bath when she had been uncomfortably aware of his masculinity. She was aware again, though of far more than just that. And she remembered what—incredibly—she had almost forgotten in the emotional turmoil of the past hour or so. While they had been sitting on the bed in that little hut in the woods he had spoken to her without any sound—with only lip movements. But she had heard loudly and clearly. I love you, he had told her. Heartache, she thought, was very likely to turn to heartbreak before this was all over. And that was an optimistic assessment of the future. It would turn to heartbreak. Indeed, it already had. “Miss Hunt has broken off our engagement,” he said as the carriage wheels rumbled onto the Palladian bridge. Sometimes even a short sentence did not have the power to impress itself upon the mind all at once. It was as if she heard the words separately and needed a few moments to piece them together and know what he was telling her. “Irrevocably?” she asked. “She told me,” he said, “that she cannot imagine anything that would cause her to change her mind.” “Because you have an illegitimate child?” she asked. “Apparently,” he said, “that is not the reason at all. She does not care if I have any number of mistresses and children. Indeed, she seems to expect it of me—as she expects it of all men. It is the fact that I broke one of the cardinal rules of polite society by acknowledging Lizzie’s relationship to me that has offended her. My refusal to have her removed from Alvesley tonight and Lindsey Hall tomorrow and never to mention her ever again is what caused her to inform me that she could not marry me.” “Perhaps,” she said, “on cooler reflection she will change her mind.” “Perhaps,” he agreed. They did not speak for a while. “What next, then?” she asked. “What will happen to Lizzie? Eleanor and I are agreed that she is educable and adaptable and eager to learn. It would be a pleasure to take on the challenge of having her at the school. However, I am not sure it is what Lizzie wants even though I know she had been enjoying the company and the activities.” “What I have wanted to do from the moment of Sonia’s death,” he said, “is move Lizzie to Willowgreen, my home in Gloucestershire. It has always seemed an impossible dream, but maybe now I can make it a reality. The secret is out after all, and I find that I do not care the snap of two fingers what society thinks of me. And society is often not half the villain we sometimes expect it to be. Anne and Sydnam Butler have her son with them at Alvesley. He was born out of wedlock nine years before they met each other—but of course, you know all about that. David Jewell is treated here no differently from all the other children.” “Oh,” Claudia said, “I think Willowgreen—the country—would be perfect for Lizzie.” She felt a nameless longing—which would not remain nameless if she allowed her thoughts to dwell upon it. “What provision would you make for her education?” she asked. “I would hire a companion and governess for her,” he said. “But I would be able to spend a great deal of my own time with her. I would teach her about the countryside, about plants and animals, about England, about history. I would hire someone to teach her to play the pianoforte or the violin or the flute. Perhaps in a year or two’s time she would be more ready for school than she is now. In the meantime I would be able to remain at home for far longer spells than I have been able to do with her in London. I would be less idle, more meaningfully employed. You might even come to approve of me.” She turned her head to look at him. The carriage was just drawing clear of the trees at the bottom of the driveway and passing through the gates. His face was lit by the slanting rays of the sun, which was low in the sky. She noticed that he spoke hypothetically, as if he did not really believe in his freedom. “Yes,” she said, “perhaps I might.” He smiled slowly at her. “Though I already do approve of you,” she said. “You have not spent so much time in London for frivolous reasons. You have done it for love. There is no nobler motive. And now you have acknowledged your daughter publicly. I approve of that too.” “You look,” he said, “like the prim schoolteacher who first greeted me in Bath.” “That,” she said, folding her hands in her lap, “is who I am.” “Was it not you,” he said, “who told my daughter just a short while ago that no one can be summed up by labels alone?” “I have a rich life, Lord Attingsborough,” she told him. “I have made it myself, and I am happy with it. It is as different from the life I have lived during the past few weeks as it could possibly be. And I cannot wait to return to it.” She had turned her head away to look out through the window. “I am sorry,” he said, “for the turmoil I have brought into your life, Claudia.” “You have brought nothing that I have not allowed,” she told him. They lapsed into silence after that, a silence that was fraught with tension and yet was curiously companionable too. The tension, of course, was sexual. Claudia was well aware of that. But it was not lust. It was not just the desire to embrace and perhaps go beyond mere embraces. Love lent a comforting touch to the atmosphere, and yet it was a love that might yet be tragic. Miss Hunt might yet change her mind. And if she did not? But Claudia’s mind could not move beyond that stumbling block. The Duke and Duchess of Bewcastle stepped out through the front doors of Lindsey Hall as the carriage rounded the great fountain and drew to a halt. “Oh,” the duchess said when the coachman had opened the door and let down the steps, “the Marquess of Attingsborough has accompanied you, Miss Martin. I am so glad. We have worried about you coming alone. But Lizzie is not with you?” “She is sleeping,” the marquess explained to her as he stepped out and turned to hand Claudia down. “I thought it best not to disturb her. I will take her away from there tomorrow—to another destination if you wish.” “Other than Lindsey Hall, you mean?” the duchess said. “I most certainly hope not. This is where she belongs until Eleanor and Miss Martin leave for Bath. I invited her here.” “I have thought that perhaps I ought to leave tomorrow too,” Claudia said. “Miss Martin.” It was the duke who spoke. “You are not planning to leave us in the manner you chose last time, it is to be hoped? It is true that Freyja credits the chagrin and guilt she felt at that time with turning her into a tolerable human being, but I could draw no such comfort from the incident—especially after I had heard that Redfield took you and your heavy valise up in his carriage because you would not take mine.” He spoke haughtily and somewhat languidly, and his hand closed about the handle of his quizzing glass and half raised it to his eye. The duchess laughed. “I wish I could have seen that,” she said. “Freyja was telling us about it during the drive back from Alvesley. But, come inside, both of you, and join everyone else in the drawing room. And if you are afraid, Lord Attingsborough, that you will meet disapproving frowns there, then you do not know the Bedwyn family—or their spouses. Does he, Wulfric?” “Indeed,” the duke said, raising his eyebrows. “I will not come in,” the marquess said. “I must return to Alvesley soon. Miss Martin, would you care to take a stroll with me first?” “Yes,” she said. “Thank you.” She was aware of the duchess smiling warmly at them as she took the duke’s arm and turned to go back into the house with him.

Joseph was not well acquainted with the park about Lindsey Hall. He turned in the direction of the lake, where the dog had led Lizzie almost a week ago. They walked in silence, he with his hands at his back, she with her hands clasped at her waist. They stopped when they came to the water’s edge, close to where he had shown Lizzie how to hurl pebbles so that she could hear them plop into the lake. The remains of the sunset made the water luminous. The sky stretched above, light at the horizon, darker overhead. Stars were already visible. “It is altogether possible that my father and my sister will persuade Portia that it is not in her best interests to end her betrothal,” he said. “Yes.” “Though she did say nothing could change her mind,” he added, “and I will not compromise. Lizzie will remain a visible part of my life. But it is a terrible thing for a lady to end an engagement—especially twice. She may reconsider.” “Yes.” “I cannot make you any promises,” he told her. “I do not ask for any,” she said. “Even apart from the one obstacle, there are others. There can be no promises, no future.” He was not at all sure he agreed with her, but there was no point in raising any arguments now, was there? The more he thought about it, the more likely it seemed to him that his father and Wilma between them would persuade Portia to resume her plans to marry him. “No future,” he said softly. “Only the present. At present I am free.” “Yes.” When he reached out a hand to her, she set her own in it, and he laced his fingers with hers, drew her closer to his side, and strolled onward, following the bank of the lake. Up ahead he could see a forest of trees stretching down almost to the water’s edge. They stopped when they were in the darkness of the shade provided by the trees. The grass was rather long and soft underfoot. He turned to face her, lacing the fingers of their other hands too and drawing them partway around his back so that she stood against him, touching him with her breasts, her abdomen, and her thighs. Her head was tipped back, though he could no longer see her face clearly. “I intend more than kisses,” he said, leaning over her. “Yes,” she said. “So do I.” He smiled in the darkness. She sounded fierce and prim, her voice at variance with her words and the yielding warmth of her body. “Claudia,” he murmured. “Joseph.” He smiled again. He felt that he had already been caressed with intimacy. She had never spoken his name before. And then he leaned closer and touched his lips to hers. It had still not ceased to amaze him that of all the women he might have possessed or loved during the last fifteen years or so of his life, she should be the one his heart had chosen. Even Barbara faded into insignificance beside her. He yearned for this strong, intelligent, disciplined woman more than he had longed for anything or anyone else in his life. They explored each other’s mouths with lips and tongues and teeth, their hands clasped together behind his back. Her mouth was hot and wet and welcoming, and he stroked into it with his tongue, sliding over surfaces until she moaned and sucked it deeper. He drew his head back and smiled at her again. His eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness. She was smiling back, her expression dreamy and sensual. He released her hands and shrugged out of his coat. He went down on one knee and spread it on the grass, then reached up for her hand. She took his and then came down onto her knees too and lay down, her head and her back on his coat. This, he was very aware, might be the only time ever. Tomorrow all might have changed again. She knew it too. She reached up her arms to him. “I don’t care about the past or the future,” she said. “We allow them far too much power over our lives. I care for the present moment. I care for now.” He lowered his head and kissed her again and eased himself down until he was lying beside her. It had been eighteen years for her, almost three for him. He could feel her hunger and tried to put some sort of brake on his own. But sometimes passion would obey no commands beyond its own fierce needs. He kissed her mouth, ravished it with his tongue. He explored her with urgent hands, discovering a body that was shapely and alluring. He drew her skirt up and pushed her stockings down, caressing the firm smoothness of her legs until hands were not enough. He bent his head, feathered kisses from her ankles to her knees, kissed the backs of her knees and licked them until she gasped and her fingers tightened in his hair. He found the buttons at the back of her dress and unfastened them one by one until he could draw the garment off her shoulders with her chemise and expose her breasts. “I am not beautiful,” she said. “Let me be the judge of that,” he told her. He caressed her breasts with his hands, ran his lips over them, licked her taut nipples with his tongue until she was panting again. But she did not lie passive. She moved to his touch, and her hands roamed over him and beneath his waistcoat. They dragged his shirt free of his pantaloons and caressed their way upward over his bare back to his shoulders. And then one hand came free and moved down between them to cover his erection through his pantaloons. He took her firmly by the wrist, moved the hand away, and laced her fingers with his. “Mercy, woman,” he said against her lips, “I have very little control remaining as it is.” “I have none,” she said. He chuckled, and his hand went beneath her skirt again and up along her warm inner thighs to the junction between them. She was hot and wet. She moaned. He fumbled with the buttons at his waist, moved over her, pressing her thighs wide with his own, slid his hands beneath her to cushion her against the hard ground, and pressed firmly into her until he was deep and felt her muscles clench about him. She raised her knees and braced her feet on the grass. She tilted to him to take him deeper yet, and he drew a slow breath, his face against the side of hers. “Claudia,” he said into her ear. It had been a long, long time—an eternity. And he knew he could not prolong what was about to happen. But he needed to remember that this was Claudia, that this was more than sex. “Joseph,” she said, her voice low and throaty. He withdrew from her and thrust inward, and the rhythm of love caught them both in its urgent crescendo until everything burst into glory and he spilled into her. Far too soon, he thought regretfully as his body relaxed into satiety. “Like an overexcited schoolboy,” he murmured to her. She laughed softly and turned her head to kiss his lips briefly. “You do not feel like one,” she said. He rolled off her, bringing her with him until they were both lying on their sides. She was quite right. Nothing had been wrong. On the contrary, everything had been right—perfect. And for now it was enough. Now might be all they had. He hugged the moment to himself as he hugged her and willed the moment to become an endless eternity. He saw the moonlight overhead, felt the cool breeze, felt the soft, relaxed warmth of the woman he held, and allowed himself to feel happiness.

Claudia knew she would not be sorry—just as she had never been sorry about that kiss at Vauxhall. She knew too that there would be only tonight—or this evening. Tonight he must return to Alvesley. She was as certain as she could be that Miss Hunt would not readily give up such a matrimonial prize as the Marquess of Attingsborough. It would not take much effort on the part of the Duke of Anburey and the Countess of Sutton to make her see reason. And of course he—Joseph—would have no choice but to take her back since the betrothal had not been publicly ended. He was a gentleman, after all. And so there was only this—only this evening. But she would not be sorry. She would certainly suffer, but then she would have done that anyway. She refused to doze off. She watched the moon and stars above the lake, heard the almost silent lapping of the water against the bank, felt the cool softness of the grass against her legs, smelled the trees and his cologne, tasted his kisses on her slightly swollen lips. She was tired, even exhausted. And yet she had never felt more alive. She could not see him clearly in the darkness, but she knew when he dozed, when he awoke again with a slight start. She felt a huge regret that just sometimes one could not hold time at a standstill. This time next week she would be back at school preparing lessons and schedules for the coming year. It was always an exhilarating time. She would be exhilarated by it. But not yet. Please not yet. It was too soon for the future to encroach upon the present. “Claudia,” he said, “if there are consequences…” “Oh, gracious,” she said, “there will not be. I am thirty-five years old.” Which was a ridiculous thing to say, of course. She was only thirty-five. Her monthly cycle told her that she was still capable of bearing children. She had not thought of it. Or if she had, she had disregarded the thought. Foolish woman. “Only thirty-five years old,” he said, echoing her thought. But he did not complete what he had started to say. How could he? What would he say? That he would marry her? If Miss Hunt chose to hold him to his promise, he would not be free to do so. And even if she did not and he was free… “I refuse to be sorry,” she said, “or to think unpleasant thoughts at the moment.” Which was exactly the sort of brainlessness about which she lectured her older girls before they left school, especially the charity girls, who would face far more risks than those who had families to guard them. “Do you?” he said. “Good.” And his hands moved caressingly up and over the flesh of her upper back, and his mouth nuzzled her ear and the side of her neck and she wrapped her arms more tightly about him and kissed his throat and his neck and jaw and finally his mouth. She felt the hardness of his erection press against her belly and knew that the evening was not quite over after all. They stayed lying on their sides. He lifted her leg over his hip, nestled into position, and came inside her again. There was less frenzy this time, less mindlessness. His movements were slower and firmer, her own more deliberate. She could feel his hardness against her wet heat, could hear the suck and pull of their loving. They kissed each other softly, openmouthed. And it seemed suddenly to Claudia that she really was beautiful. And feminine and passionate and all the things she had once believed about herself but lost faith in even before she was fully a woman. He was beautiful and he loved her and was making love to her. Somehow he was setting her free—free of the insecurities that had dogged her for eighteen years, free to be the complete person she really was. Teacher and woman. Businesswoman and lover. Successful and vulnerable. Disciplined and passionate. She was who she was—without labels, without apology, without limit. She was perfect. So was he. And so was this. Simply perfect. He set his hand behind her hips and held her steady as he deepened his thrusts, though even then there was more sense of purpose than urgency. He kissed her lips and murmured words that her heart understood even if her ears could not decipher them. And then he was still in her, and she was pressing against him, and something opened at her core and let him through—and he came and came until there was no she and no he but only they. They remained pressed wordlessly together for a long time before he released her and she knew with deep regret that now they were two again—and would remain so for the rest of their lives. But she would not be sorry. “I must take you back to the house,” he said, sitting up and adjusting his clothes while she pushed her skirt down and then bent to pull up her stockings and the bodice of her dress. “And I must get back to Alvesley.” “Yes,” she said, rearranging some of her hairpins. He got to his feet and reached down a hand to her. She set her own in it and he drew her up until they were standing facing each other, not quite touching. “Claudia,” he said, “I do not know—” She set a finger over his lips, just as she remembered doing at Vauxhall. “Not tonight,” she said. “I want tonight to remain perfect. I want to be able to remember it just as it is. All the rest of my life.” His hand closed about her wrist and he kissed her finger. “Perhaps tomorrow night will be just as perfect,” he said. “Perhaps all our tomorrows will.” She merely smiled. She did not believe it for a moment—but she would think about that tomorrow and the next day… “You will come to the ball?” he asked her. “Oh, I will,” she said. “I would much rather not, but I believe the countess and Lady Ravensberg will be offended, even hurt, if I stay away.” And how could she stay away even without that incentive? Tomorrow night might be the last time she saw him. Ever. He kissed her wrist and then released her hand. “I am glad,” he said. 21

The Duke of Anburey requested the presence of the Marquess of Attingsborough in the library, the butler informed Joseph as soon as he set foot inside Alvesley again. He did not go there immediately. He went up to his room, where he found Anne and Sydnam Butler sitting with Lizzie. She had not woken up since he left for Lindsey Hall, they informed him. “My father wants to talk with me,” he said. Sydnam threw him a sympathetic look. “Go,” his wife said, smiling at Joseph. “We relieved Susanna and Peter only half an hour or so ago. We will stay awhile longer.” “Thank you,” he said, standing beside the bed and touching the backs of his fingers to Lizzie’s cheek. She had a corner of the pillow clutched in one hand, and held it against her nose. He was so glad that all the secrecy had gone from their relationship. He leaned over to kiss her. She mumbled something unintelligible and was still again. There was a terrible row in the library after he went down there. His father stormed at him. He had apparently talked reason into Portia and persuaded her that his son would behave properly and she would never have to see or hear about the child ever again. She was prepared to continue with the engagement. Joseph, however, was not prepared to be dictated to. He informed his father that he was unwilling to hide Lizzie away any longer. He hoped to move her to Willowgreen, to spend much of his ti me there with her. And since Portia had released him during the afternoon, she must now accept this new fact if the betrothal was to resume. He held firm even when his father threatened to turn him out of Willowgreen—it was still officially his. Then he would live with his daughter somewhere else, Joseph told him. He was not, after all, financially dependent upon his father. He would set up another home in the country. They argued for a long time—or rather, Joseph remained quietly obstinate and his father blustered. His mother, who was present throughout, endured it all in silence. And then his father and mother left the library together and sent Portia to him. She came, looking composed and beautiful in a gown of pale ice blue. He stood before the empty fireplace, his hands clasped at his back while she crossed the room toward him, took a seat, and arranged her skirts about her. She looked up at him, her lovely face empty of any discernible emotion. “I am truly sorry about all this, Portia,” he said. “And I am entirely to blame. I have known since the death of Lizzie’s mother that my daughter must be even more central to my life than she had been before. I have known that I must make a home for her and give her my time and my attention and my love. And yet somehow it did not quite occur to me until today that I could not do it properly while living the sort of double life that society demanded of me. If it had occurred to me in time, I would have been able to discuss the matter openly with my father and yours before exposing you to the sort of distress you have endured today.” “I came to this room, Lord Attingsborough,” she said, “on the understanding that that dreadful blind child would never be mentioned to me again. I agreed to resume my engagement to you and prevent your utter disgrace in the eyes of the ton on the condition that all would be as it was before you spoke so ill advisedly at the picnic this afternoon. And that would not have happened if that incompetent schoolteacher had not set her sights on a duke for a husband and neglected her charges.” He drew a slow breath. “I see it will not do,” he said. “While I understand your reasoning, Portia, I cannot agree to your terms. I must have my child with me. I must be a father to her. Duty dictates it, and inclination makes it imperative. I love her. If you cannot accept that fact, then I am afraid any marriage between us would be un-workable.” She got to her feet. “You are prepared to break our engagement?” she said. “To renege on all your promises and a duly drawn up marriage contract? Oh, I think not, Lord Attingsborough. I will not release you. Papa will not release you. The Duke of Anburey will disown you.” Ah, she had had time for reflection since late this afternoon, then, as he had rather expected. She was not a young woman as far as the marriage mart went. Although she was well born and wealthy and beautiful, it would be an uncomfortable thing for her to be single again, with two broken engagements behind her. She might never have another chance to make such an advantageous match. And he knew she had set her heart upon being a duchess at some time in the future. But to be willing to hold him to a marriage that would clearly bring both of them active misery was incredible to him. He closed his eyes briefly. “I think what we need to do, Portia,” he said, “is speak to your father. It is a shame he and your mother did not stay longer. It must be dreadful for you to be without them today. Shall we call a truce? Shall we put a polite face upon things tomorrow for the anniversary celebrations and then leave the day after tomorrow? I will take you home, and we will discuss the whole thing with your father.” “He will not release you,” she told him. “Do not expect it. He will make you marry me, and he will make you give up that dreadful creature.” “The centrality of Lizzie to my life is no longer negotiable,” he said quietly. “But let us leave it for now, shall we? Soon you will have your mother for moral support and your father to argue and negotiate for you. In the meanwhile, may I escort you to the drawing room?” He offered his arm, and she set her hand on his sleeve and allowed him to lead her from the library. And so officially he was engaged once more. And perhaps—who knew?—he would never be free again. He very much feared that Balderston might agree to his terms and that Portia might marry him and then not honor them. All of which he would deal with when the time came because he would have no choice. But for now he was not free and might never be. Ah, Claudia! He had not dared think of her since setting foot inside this house again. Ah, my love.

Lizzie sat at a little table in Joseph’s bedchamber the next morning, dressed neatly in her picnic dress, which a maid had brought to the room earlier, neatly cleaned and ironed, and with her hair freshly brushed and caught up in her white hair ribbon, also newly ironed. She was eating breakfast and holding court. She was to return to Lindsey Hall after breakfast, but in the meanwhile she had a string of visitors. Kit and Lauren came with Sydnam and Anne Butler and her son, and then Gwen came with Aunt Clara and Lily and Neville, and they were closely followed by Susanna and Whitleaf. All wanted to bid Lizzie a good morning and hug her and ask if she had slept well. All had smiles for Joseph himself. Perhaps they were only smiles of rueful sympathy, of course, because they all understood the ordeal he had been through yesterday, though most of it had been kept behind closed doors. But even so, he wondered why he had kept the secret for so long. Society had its rules and expectations, it was true, but he had always belonged to a family that had love to spare. And then his mother came. She hugged him wordlessly and then went to sit on a chair at the table while Lizzie lifted her face, knowing that yet again there was someone in the room besides just her and her father. “Lizzie.” His mother took one of her hands in both her own. “Is that short for Elizabeth? I like both names. You dear child. You look quite like your papa. I am his mother. I am your grandmother.” “My grandmother?” Lizzie said. “I heard your voice yesterday.” “Yes, dear,” his mother said, patting her hand. “It was after I went walking with Horace and got lost,” Lizzie said. “But Papa and Miss Martin found me. Papa is going to train Horace so that he does not get lost with me again.” “But how adventurous you were,” his mother said. “Just like your father when he was a boy. He was forever climbing forbidden trees and swimming in forbidden lakes and disappearing for hours on end on voyages of discovery without a word to anyone. It is a wonder I did not have a heart seizure any number of times.” Lizzie smiled and then laughed with glee. His mother patted her hand again, and Joseph could see tears in her eyes. She was not without courage herself, coming here like this in defiance of his father. She hugged and kissed both him and Lizzie, and then it was time to leave for Lindsey Hall. She and Lady Redfield came outside onto the terrace to see them on their way. Joseph rode over there with McLeith, Lizzie up on his horse before him and the dog running alongside until he tired and had to be taken up with them too, much to Lizzie’s delight. McLeith was, of course, going to call upon Claudia, as he did almost every day. Joseph wondered if the man would ever persuade her to marry him, though he very much doubted it. When they arrived at Lindsey Hall, Joseph sent the note he had written last night up to Miss Martin with a footman but then went back outside, where the Duchess of Bewcastle and Lord and Lady Hallmere were talking to Lizzie. McLeith went inside to see Claudia. Joseph strolled down to the lake with Lizzie and the dog. “Papa,” she said, clinging to his hand as they walked, “I do not want to go to school.” “You will not be going,” he assured her. “You will remain with me until you grow up and fall in love and marry and leave me.” “Silly,” she said, laughing. “That will never happen. But if I do not go to school, I will lose Miss Martin.” “You like her, then?” he asked. “I love her,” she assured him. “Is it wrong, Papa? I loved Mother too. When she died I thought my heart would break. And I thought no one but you could ever make me smile again or make me feel safe again.” “But Miss Martin can?” “Yes,” she said. “It is not wrong,” he said, squeezing her hand. “Your mother will always be your mother. There will always be a corner of your heart where she lives on. But love lives and grows, Lizzie. The more you love, the more you can love. You need not feel guilty about loving Miss Martin.” Unlike him. “Perhaps,” she said, “Miss Martin can come and visit us, Papa.” “Perhaps,” he agreed. “I will miss her,” she said with a sigh as they stood on the bank of the lake and he looked along to where the trees grew down almost to the water. Just there…“And Molly and Agnes and Miss Thompson.” “Soon,” he said, “I will take you home.” “Home,” she said with a sigh, resting the side of her head against his arm. “But, Papa, will Miss Martin take Horace?” “I think,” he said, “she will be happy if he stays with you.” Claudia Martin was walking with McLeith some distance away, he could see. They must have come over the hill behind the house and down through the trees. He determinedly turned his attention to his daughter again. And how blessed he was to be able to be with her openly like this after so long. “We never did have our boat ride yesterday afternoon, did we, sweetheart?” he said. “Shall we find a boat and do it now?” “Oh, ye-e-es!” she cried, her face lighting up with pleasure and excitement.

“I would not have been surprised,” Charlie said, “to have found you ready to leave this morning, Claudia, as soon as the child returned and could go with you. I would have been annoyed on your behalf. It i s Attingsborough’s job to take her away, and it should be done as soon as possible. He ought not to have had her brought here in the first place. It has put Bewcastle in an awkward position and is a dreadful insult to Miss Hunt—and Anburey.” “It was not his idea to bring Lizzie here,” Claudia told him. “It was mine.” “He ought not even to have brought the child to your attention,” he said. “You are a lady.” “And Lizzie,” she said, “is a person.” “Miss Hunt,” he said, “has been dreadfully upset even though she has too much dignity to show it openly. She was humiliated before a houseful of guests from both Alvesley and Lindsey Hall, not to mention the local gentry who were at the picnic. I half expected that she would refuse to continue with her plans to marry Attingsborough, but it seems she has forgiven him.” Yes. She had not needed to be told. She had read the stark message Joseph had sent up after she had watched his approach from the schoolroom window. She had only half noticed that Charlie was with him and Lizzie. She had waited without hope—but had realized after reading his note that in fact she had been deceiving herself. She had hoped. But suddenly all hope, all possibility of joy, was snatched away. As they emerged from the trees to walk toward the far end of the lake, she looked back to where she had lain last night with Joseph—and she could see him farther off, standing at the water’s edge with Lizzie. By a great effort of will, she brought her mind back to what they had been talking about. “Charlie,” she said, “Lizzie was conceived more than twelve years ago, when the Marquess of Attingsborough was very young and long before he met Miss Hunt. Why would she feel threatened by Lizzie’s existence?” “But it is not her existence, Claudia,” he said. “It is the fact that now Miss Hunt and a large number of other people—soon to be everyone of any significance—know of her. It is just not the thing. A gentleman keeps these things to himself. I know the expectations of society—I had to learn them when I was eighteen. You cannot be expected to know. You have lived a far more sheltered life.” “Charlie,” she said, suddenly arrested by a thought, “do you have children other than Charles?” “Claudia!” He was obviously embarrassed. “That is not a question a lady asks a gentleman.” “You do,” she said. “You do have others. Don’t you?” “I will not answer that,” he said. “Really, Claudia, you always spoke your mind far more freely than you ought. It is one thing I always admired about you—and still do. But there are bounds—” “You have children!” she said. “Do you love them and care for them?” He laughed suddenly and shook his head ruefully. “You are impossible!” he told her. “I am a gentleman, Claudia. I do what a gentleman must do.” The poor dead duchess, Claudia thought. For, unlike Lizzie, Charlie’s illegitimate children must have been begotten when he was already married. How many were there? she wondered. And what sort of lives did they lead? But she could not ask. It was something some sort of gentleman’s code of honor forbade him to speak of with a lady. “This has all rather spoiled the atmosphere I hoped to create this morning,” he said with a sigh. “The anniversary is today, Claudia. Tomorrow or the next day at the latest I must leave. I am well aware that I am the only guest at Alvesley who does not have some claim to be family. I do not know when I will see you again.” “We must write to each other,” she said. “You know that is not good enough for me,” he told her. She turned her head to look more fully at him. They were friends again, were they not? She had determinedly let go of the hurt of the past and allowed herself to like him again, even though there were things about him she did not particularly approve of. Surely he was not still— “Claudia,” he said, “I want you to marry me. I love you, and I think you are fonder of me than you will admit. Tell me now that you will marry me, and tonight’s ball will seem like heaven. I will not have an announcement made there, I suppose, since it is in honor of the Redfields and besides, neither of us has any close bond with the family. But we will be able to let it be known informally. I will be the happiest of men. That is a horrible cliché, I know, but it would be true nonetheless. What do you say?” She had nothing to say for several moments. She had been taken completely by surprise—again. What had obviously been a deepening romance to him had been merely a growing friendship to her. And today of all days she was not ready to cope with this. “Charlie,” she said eventually, “I do not love you.” There was a lengthy, uncomfortable silence. They had almost stopped walking. There was a boat pushing out from the bank some distance away, she saw—the Marquess of Attingsborough with Lizzie. She was smitten with a memory of his rowing her on the River Thames during Mrs. Corbette-Hythe’s garden party. But she must not let her thoughts wander. She looked back at Charlie. “You have said the one thing,” he told her, “against which I have no argument. You loved me once, Claudia. You made love with me. Do you not remember?” She closed her eyes briefly. Actually she could not remember much apart from the inexpert fumblings and the pain and the happy conviction afterward that now they belonged together for all time. “It was a long time ago,” she said gently. “We are different people now, Charlie. I am fond of you, but—” “Damn your fondness,” he said, and smiled ruefully at her. “And damn you. And now accept my humblest apologies for using such atrocious language in your hearing.” “But not for the atrocious sentiments?” “No,” he said, “not for those. My punishment is to be lifelong, then, is it?” “Oh, Charlie,” she said, “this is not punishment. I forgave you when you asked. But—” “Marry me anyway,” he said, “and to the devil with love. You do love me anyway. I am sure of it.” “As a friend,” she said. “Ouch!” He frowned. “Think about it. Think long and hard. And I’ll ask again this evening. After that I will not pester you. Promise me you will think and try to change your mind?” She sighed and shook her head. “I will not change my mind between now and tonight,” she said. “It is too late for us, Charlie.” “Think hard about it anyway,” he said. “I will ask again tonight. Dance the opening set with me.” “Very well,” she said. A silence fell between them. “I wish,” he said, “I had known at eighteen what I know now—that there are some things on which one does not compromise. We had better walk back to the house, I suppose. I have made an idiot of myself, have I not? You cannot see anything more than a friend in me. It is not enough. Maybe by tonight you will have changed your mind. Though it will not happen just because I want it, I daresay.” And yet, she thought as she walked beside him, if they had not met in London this year, he quite probably would not have spared her another thought all the rest of his life. She could see that Lizzie was trailing her hand in the water—as she had done in the Thames not long ago. And then she heard the sound of distant laughter—his and Lizzie’s mingled. She felt more lonely than she had felt for a long, long time. There seemed to be a dark and bottomless pit right inside her.

Portia Hunt had no relatives at Alvesley Park. She did not have any particular friends there, either, apart from Wilma. And now Joseph had gone off to Lindsey Hall for the morning. Joseph’s relatives were not unkind. Although all except his immediate family disapproved of her as a choice for his bride, they felt genuine sympathy for her. She had had an unpleasant shock during the picnic, even if she had largely brought it upon herself. It was understandable that she had felt somewhat humiliated. And clearly there had been some great upset later in the afternoon and again late in the evening after Joseph returned from escorting Miss Martin home. Somehow the betrothal had survived, though—Wilma had informed them all of that. Susanna and Anne had informed Lauren and Gwen and Lily that it was a great shame because Claudia Martin was in love with Joseph—and he with her, they dared say. It was with her he had gone searching for Lizzie, was it not? And it was she he had asked to come to the house to watch Lizzie while he spoke with his father and Miss Hunt. And it was he who had taken her back to Lindsey Hall though Kit had offered to escort her. He had not come back immediately, either. But they were kind ladies. Although there were all sorts of things they might have been doing in preparation for the grand anniversary ball in the evening, they invited Miss Hunt to go walking with them—and Wilma too. They strolled along the wilderness walk beyond the formal garden and the little bridge. Lily asked Miss Hunt about her wedding plans, and she launched into a discussion of a subject that was obviously dear to her heart. “How lovely,” Susanna said with a sigh as they passed the turnoff to the steep path that would have taken them to the top of the hill, and kept on along level ground instead, “to be so in love and planning a wedding.” “Oh,” Portia said, “I would not dream of being so vulgar, Lady Whitleaf, as to imagine myself in love. A lady chooses her husband with far more good sense and judgment.” “Indeed,” Wilma said, “one would not wish to find oneself married to a miller or a banker or a schoolmaster merely because one loved him, would one?” Susanna looked at Anne, and Lauren looked at Gwen, and Lily smiled. “I think what is best,” she said, “is to marry a man with a title and wealth and property and good looks and charm and character—and to be head over ears in love with him too. Provided he felt the same way, of course.” They all laughed except Portia. Even Wilma tittered. Tiresome and stuffy as the family all found the Earl of Sutton, it was also no secret among them that he and Wilma were partial to each other. “What is bes t,” Portia said, “is to be in control of one’s emotions at all times.” They turned back in the direction of the house rather sooner than they might have done. Although the sky was still blue and cloudless and the tree branches overhead not so thick that they blocked out all the sunlight, a chill seemed to have settled on the air. The Duke of McLeith was standing on the small bridge, his arms draped over the wooden rail on one side, gazing down into the water. He straightened up and smiled when he saw the ladies come toward him. “You are back from Lindsey Hall already?” Susanna asked redundantly. “Did you see Claudia?” “I did.” He looked mournful. “She is, it seems, a dedicated teacher and a confirmed spinster.” Susanna exchanged a glance with Anne. “I think,” Wilma said, “she ought to be grateful for your condescension in taking notice of her, your grace.” “Ah,” he said, “but we grew up together, Lady Sutton. She always had a mind of her own. If she had been a man, she would have succeeded at whatever she set her hand to. Even as a woman, she has been remarkably successful. I am proud of her. But I am a little—” “A little—?” Gwen prompted. “Melancholy,” he said. “Did Joseph return with you?” Lauren asked. “He did not,” the duke said. “He took his d—He went boating with someone. I chose not to wait for him.” “He is incorrigible!” Wilma said crossly. “He was fortunate indeed yesterday that Miss Hunt was generous enough to forgive him for saying what was really quite unforgivable in my estimation, even if he is my brother. But he is tempting fate today. He ought to have returned immediately.” “Well,” Lauren said briskly, “I really must return to the house. There must be a thousand and one things to be done before this evening. Gwen, you and Lily were going to help me with the floral arrangements.” “Harry will be needing to be fed soon,” Susanna said. “And I promised to go and watch Sydnam and David paint,” Anne said. “Megan will be waiting to go with me.” “Wilma,” Lauren said, “your parties are always in the very best of good taste. Do come with us and give your opinion on the decorations in the ballroom and the arrangement of the tables in the supper room, will you?” She paused and looked at Portia. “Miss Hunt,” she said, “perhaps you will keep his grace company for a while? He will think we are deserting him so soon after coming upon him.” “Not at all, Lady Ravensberg,” he assured her. “But I have been told, Miss Hunt, that the view from the top of the hill over there is well worth the rather steep climb. Would you care to come with me to see?” “I would be delighted,” she told him. “Joseph will be very fortunate,” Wilma said after they had moved out of earshot, “if the Duke of McLeith does not steal Miss Hunt from right beneath his nose. And who could blame him? Or her? I never thought to be ashamed of my own brother, but really…” “I have been more than a little annoyed with him myself,” Gwen said, linking her arm through Wilma’s. “Keeping such a secret from us, indeed, just as if we were all stern judges instead of family. And I am annoyed with Neville. He knew all along, did he not, Lily?” “He did,” Lily said, “but he did not tell even me. One must admire his loyalty, Gwen. But I wish we had known sooner. Lizzie is a very sweet child, is she not?” “She looks like Joseph,” Lauren said. “She is going to be a beauty.” “She is blind,” Wilma protested. “I have a feeling,” Anne said, “that she is not going to allow that fact to be an affliction to her. Now that everyone knows about her, it is going to be very interesting to watch her development.” Wilma held her peace. They all went about their various tasks when they reached the house and left the comforting of Miss Hunt to the Duke of McLeith. 22

“What on earth did I do to deserve such a tumultuous summer?” Claudia asked. It was a rhetorical question, but Eleanor attempted an answer anyway. “You decided to go to London,” she said, “and I encouraged you. I even urged you to stay for longer than you had originally planned.” “Mr. Hatchard was evasive about Edna’s and Flora’s employers,” Claudia said. “Susanna persuaded Frances to sing and invited me to stay for the concert. She sent the Marquess of Attingsborough to escort me to London because he was in Bath at the time—and he happened to have a daughter he wished to place at the school. Charlie chose this particular spring to leave Scotland for the first time in years. And you just happen to be the sister of the Duchess of Bewcastle and accepted an invitation to bring the charity girls here and so I have been tripping over Bedwyns at every turn since I left Bath. And…and…and so the list goes on. How do we ever discover the root cause of any effect, Eleanor? Do we trace it back to Adam and Eve? They were a pair to cause any imaginable catastrophe.” “No, no, Claudia.” Eleanor came to stand behind her at the dressing table in her bedchamber. “You will pull your hair out by the roots if you drag it back so severely. Here.” She took the brush from Claudia’s hand and loosened the knot at her neck so that her hair fell more softly over her head. She fussed a little over the knot itself. “That is better. Now you look far more as if you are going to a ball. I do like that green muslin. It is very elegant. You showed it to me in Bath, but I have not seen it on you until tonight.” “Why am I going to the ball?” Claudia asked. “Why are you not the one going and I the one staying?” “Because,” Eleanor said, her eyes twinkling as they met Claudia’s in the mirror, “you are the one those women insulted yesterday, and it is important to Lady Redfield and her daughter-in-law that you make an appearance. And because you have never hidden from a challenge. Because you have promised to dance the opening set with the Duke of McLeith even if you did make it clear to him this morning that you will not marry him, poor man. Because someone has to stay with the girls, and it is generally known and accepted that I never attend balls or other lavish entertainments.” “You have made your point,” Claudia said dryly, getting to her feet. “And also I attend such entertainments because I sometimes consider them obligations—unlike some persons who will remain nameless.” “And you will go,” Eleanor said, “because it may be the last time you see him.” Claudia looked sharply at her. “Him?” Eleanor picked up Claudia’s paisley shawl from the bed and held it out to her. “I have misunderstood all summer,” she said. “I thought it was the Duke of McLeith, but I was wrong. I am sorry. I really am. Everyone is.” “Everyone?” “Christine,” Eleanor said. “Eve, Morgan, Freyja…” “Lady Hallmere?” Was it really possible that all these people knew? But as she took the shawl from Eleanor, Claudia knew that indeed they must. They had all guessed. How absolutely appalling. “I cannot go,” she said. “I will send down some excuse. Eleanor, go and tell—” “Of course you will go,” Eleanor said. “You are Claudia Martin.” Yes, she was. And Claudia Martin was not the sort to hide in a dark corner, her head buried beneath a cushion, just because she was embarrassed and humiliated and brokenhearted and any number of other ugly, negative things if she only stopped to think what they were. She straightened her spine, squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, pressed her lips together, and regarded her friend with a martial gleam in her eye. “Heaven help anyone who gets in your way tonight,” Eleanor said, laughing and stepping forward to hug her. “Go and show those two shrews that a headmistress from Bath is not to be cowed by genteel spite.” “Tomorrow I return to Bath,” Claudia said. “Tomorrow I return to sanity and my own familiar world. Tomorrow I take up the rest of my life where I left it off when I stepped into the Marquess of Attingsborough’s carriage one morning a thousand or so years ago. But tonight, Eleanor…Well, tonight.” She laughed despite herself. She led the way from the room with firm strides. All she needed, she thought ruefully, was a shield in one hand and a spear in the other—and a horned helmet on her head.

There had been a grand dinner to precede the ball. It had been a joyful, festive occasion for the family and houseguests. Speeches had been delivered and toasts drunk. The Earl and Countess of Redfield had looked both pleased and happy. Joseph would have led Portia straight into the ballroom afterward since that was where most of the houseguests were gathering, and the outside guests were beginning to arrive. But she needed to return to her room to have her maid make some adjustments to her hair and to fetch her fan, and so Joseph wandered into the ballroom alone. He mingled with the other guests. It was not really difficult to be sociable and genial, to look as if he were enjoying himself—it all came as naturally to him as breathing. The Earl and Countess of Redfield, to everyone’s delight, danced the opening set with their guests, a slow and stately and old-fashioned quadrille. Portia was punishing him, Joseph thought when the set began, by being late and stranding him on the sidelines. He had, of course, elicited the opening set with her. He went and talked with his mother and Aunt Clara and a couple of Kit’s aunts. He soon had them laughing. Claudia was not dancing either. He had tried to stay far away from her since her arrival with the party from Lindsey Hall. He had not, though, been able to keep his mind off her. And now that he was standing in one place, talking and listening, he could not keep his eyes from her either. She looked very severe even though she was wearing the prettier of her evening gowns. She was standing alone, watching the dancing. It amazed him that he had not seen through her disguise the moment he first set eyes on her in Bath. For that very upright, disciplined body was warm and supple and passion-filled, and that face with its regular, stern features and intelligent g ray eyes was beautiful. She was beautiful. Just last night, about this time… He deliberately shifted position so that he stood with his back to her. And he looked toward the ballroom doors. There was still no sign of Portia. He danced the next set with Gwen, who liked to dance despite her limp, and was pleased to see that Claudia was dancing with Rosthorn. When the set was over, he took Gwen to join a group that included Lauren and the Whitleafs. He commended Lauren on the festive appearance of the ballroom and on the early success of the evening. Should he have a maid sent up to Portia’s room, he wondered, to make sure she had not eaten something that disagreed with her or met with some accident? It was strange indeed that she would miss a whole hour of the ball. But before he could make up his mind to take action, he felt a light touch on his shoulder and turned to find one of the footmen bowing to him and holding out a folded piece of paper. “I was asked to deliver this to you, my lord,” he said, “after the second set.” “Thank you,” Joseph said, taking it. A reply to his note to Claudia, was it? He excused himself, turned away from the group, broke the seal, and opened the single sheet. It was from Portia—his eyes moved down to her signature first. He sincerely hoped she was not ill. His mind was already moving ahead to the summoning of a physician—without disrupting the ball, it was to be hoped. “Lord Attingsborough,” he read, “it is with regret that I must inform you that upon mature reflection I find I cannot and will not endure the insult of a bastard daughter flaunted before me by my own affianced husband. I also have no wish to remain longer in a home in which only the Duke of Anburey and Lord and Lady Sutton were properly shocked by your vulgarity and prepared to take you to task for it. I will therefore be leaving before the ball begins. I am going with the Duke of McLeith, who has obliged me by offering to take me to Scotland to marry me. I will not flatter you by declaring myself to be your obedient servant.” And then her signature. He folded the paper. Claudia, he noticed at a glance, was doing exactly the same thing some distance away. “Anything wrong, Joseph?” Lauren asked, setting a hand on his arm. “No, nothing,” he said, turning his head to smile at her. “Portia has gone, that is all. She has eloped with McLeith.” Which was an odd way of answering her question, he realized even as he spoke. But his head was buzzing. “Excuse me?” he said even as her eyes widened and her mouth formed into an O. He hurried from the ballroom and took the stairs two at a time up to the next floor. He knocked on Portia’s door and, when there was no answer, opened it cautiously. It was in darkness, but even in just the dim light of the moon from outside it was clear to him that she really was gone. Nothing adorned the top of either the dressing table or the table beside the bed. The wardrobe was empty. Foolish woman, he thought. Foolish woman! Elopement was not the way to go. In the eyes of the world she would have broken off her engagement to him in order to run off to Scotland with another man. She would be beyond the social pale. She would be ostracized. Portia of all people—so very proper and correct in all her dealings with society. And McLeith! Should he go after them? But they had at least an hour’s head start, probably longer. And what was the point, even if he caught up with them? They were both mature adults. Perhaps she would find some measure of happiness with McLeith. She would, after all, be married to a duke immediately instead of having to wait for the death of his father. And she would presumably live in Scotland, where perhaps the social stigma of having eloped would not attach so strongly to her. But foolish Portia, he thought, standing at the window looking out onto a darkened lawn. She might have broken off her engagement and returned to her parents and then announced her forthcoming marriage to McLeith. It was unlike her to be rashly impulsive. He liked her the better for it. Claudia’s letter, he assumed, had been from McLeith. He allowed his thoughts to dwell on her unchecked for the first time since his return to Alvesley last night. He hardly dared believe in his freedom. Even now he might go back down to the ballroom to find Portia there, come to her senses and come back to Alvesley and him. There was only one way of finding out, he supposed.

At first Claudia had been rather relieved when Charlie did not appear to claim the opening set she had promised him. She really did not want this morning’s question renewed. But then, after the set had begun, she felt somewhat annoyed. A gentleman she had met at the picnic yesterday had solicited her hand, and she had rejected him with the explanation that she had already promised the set. It felt a little humiliating to be forced to stand alone watching everyone else below the age of fifty dancing. And perhaps that gentleman would think she had lied and simply did not wish to dance with him. Charlie really ought not to have put her in such an awkward position. It was not courteous, and she would tell him so when he finally came. Of course, the thought did cross her mind that perhaps he was punishing her for her rejection of his proposal this morning. But he had asked her for the set after she had said a very firm no. She danced the next set—a vigorous country dance—with the Earl of Rosthorn and had just joined Anne and Sydnam afterward when someone tapped her lightly on the shoulder. It was a footman, who had brought her a note. From Charlie? From Joseph? Charlie had still not put in an appearance. “Excuse me,” she said, turning away slightly for some privacy and then breaking the seal and unfolding the letter. It was from Charlie. She ignored a very slight feeling of disappointment. “My dearest Claudia,” he had written, “it seems rather just to me that I should suffer now as perhaps you suffered eighteen years ago. For while I suffered then too, I was essentially the rejecter, as you are now. And it feels wretched to love yet be rejected. I will not wait for your answer this evening. You have already given it and I would not distress you by forcing you to repeat it. Miss Hunt is unhappy too. She feels, quite rightly, that she has been badly used here. We have been able to offer each other some comfort today. And perhaps we will be able to continue to do so for a lifetime. By the time you read this, we ought to be well on our way to Scotland, where we will marry without delay. She will, I believe, be a conscientious wife and duchess, and I will be a dutiful husband. I wish you well, Claudia. You will always be to me the sister I never had, the friend who made my growing years happy ones, and the lover who might have been had fate not intervened. Forgive me if you will for failing to keep my promise to dance with you this evening. Your humble, obedient servant, McLeith (Charlie).” Oh, goodness. She folded the letter into its original folds. Oh, goodness gracious. “Is anything wrong, Claudia?” Anne placed a hand on her arm. “Nothing.” She smiled. “Charlie is gone. He has eloped with Miss Hunt.” She was waving the letter before her rather like a fan. She did not know what to do with it. “I expect,” Sydnam said, taking it from her and sliding it into his pocket, “tea is being served in the refreshment room. Come with Anne and me, Claudia, and I will fetch you a cup.” “Oh, goodness,” she said. “Thank you. Yes. That would be just the thing. Thank you.” He offered his arm and she took it before remembering that he did not have another arm to offer Anne. She looked around the ballroom. Charlie was definitely not here. Neither was Miss Hunt. Joseph had disappeared too. Did he know yet?

Portia was not in the ballroom. Neither was McLeith. Or Claudia. Sets were forming for the next dance, and the elder of the vicar’s two daughters had no partner, though she smiled brightly at her mother’s side as if being a wallflower was the happiest fate she could possibly imagine. Joseph went and bowed to the mother and asked if he might have the honor of leading her daughter out. Claudia returned to the ballroom with Anne and Sydnam Butler while he was dancing and coaxing laughter as well as smiles from the vicar’s daughter. By the time he had returned the girl to her mother and made himself agreeable to them for a while, Susanna and Whitleaf, Gwen, and Lily and Neville were also part of Claudia’s group. And from the way they all turned to watch him as he approached, Joseph understood that Lauren must have found her voice after he left her earlier. “Well, Joe,” Neville said, slapping a hand on his shoulder. “Well, Nev.” Joseph inclined his head to Claudia, who curtsied slightly in return. “I can see the word is out.” “Only among a few of us,” Gwen assured him. “Lauren and Kit do not want the earl and countess to be told yet. This is their evening and it must not be spoiled in any way.” “I am not about to step up onto the orchestra dais,” Joseph said, “and make a public announcement.” “This is a lovely ball,” Susanna said. “And the next set is to be a waltz.” Whitleaf took her hand, set it on his sleeve, and patted it. “We had better take our places, then,” he said. No one moved—including the Whitleafs. “Miss Martin.” Joseph bowed. “Would you do me the honor of waltzing with me?” Despite the noise of conversation and laughter with which they were surrounded, it seemed to Joseph that every member of the group fell still and breathless, hanging upon the question and the answer that was yet to come. “Yes,” she said. “Thank you, Lord Attingsborough.” Under other circumstances he might have laughed aloud. She spoke in her schoolmistress voice. He smiled instead and offered his arm. She set her hand on it. And the whole group moved. One of Kit’s cousins came to claim Gwen, and Whitleaf headed off for the dance flo or with Susanna, Neville with Lily, and Sydnam Butler with his wife—they were going to waltz, apparently, despite his lack of one arm and one eye. Joseph and Claudia followed them. He faced her while all the other dancers were gathering around them. Their eyes met and held. “Are you upset?” he asked her. Typically, she gave her answer some consideration before speaking. “I am,” she said then. “I loved him dearly when I was a girl, and unexpectedly I have come to like him again in the last few weeks. I thought we might enjoy something of a lifelong friendship. Now I suppose it will not happen. He is not perfect, as I thought him to be when I was a girl. He has character flaws, including a certain moral weakness and an inability to stand his ground in the face of change or disappointment. But we all have weaknesses. It is the human condition. I am upset at him and even for him. He will not, I believe, be happy.” She spoke gravely, her brow creased in thought. “Are you upset?” she asked. “I behaved badly,” he said. “I ought to have told her about Lizzie before asking her to marry me. It ought to have been done privately. Instead I kept quiet and then humiliated her with a public announcement. And then I would not agree to her demands, which seemed quite reasonable to her—and probably would to most of polite society. She was without her parents or any of her family here and could not turn to them for advice or support or comfort. And so she has done something which is un-characteristically rash for her. Yes, I am upset. I have, perhaps, been the cause of her permanent ruin.” It was a strange time and place for such a serious exchange. Color and perfumes and voices and laughter surrounded them, all the festive accoutrements of a grand celebration. And then the music began, and he set his arm about her waist, took her hand in his as her other came to rest on his shoulder, and swung her into the waltz. For several minutes he had the peculiar sensation that he and Claudia were the focus of much attention. Almost everyone was dancing. When he glanced away from her, he could see Bewcastle dancing with the duchess and Hallmere with the marchioness. None of the four of them was looking his way. Neither were Lauren and Kit or the Rosthorns or Aidan Bedwyn and his wife. They were all, apparently, wrapped up in their enjoyment of one another and the waltz—as were the couples with whom he had recently been conversing. And yet… And yet he had the strange feeling that they were all very aware of him. Not just of him. And not just of Claudia. But of him and Claudia. As if they were not just wondering how he would react to the fact that his betrothed had eloped with another man or how Claudia would react to her friend absconding with another woman. As if they were all wondering what would now happen to the two of them—to Joseph and Claudia. As if they all knew. “I feel very self-conscious,” Claudia said. She was looking prim and rather tight-lipped. “Because of the waltz?” he asked her. “Because I feel as if everyone is looking at us,” she said, “which is absurd. No one is. And why should they?” “Because they know,” he suggested, “that we have both just been set free?” Her eyes met his again and she drew breath to speak. But she said only one word. “Oh,” she said. He smiled at her. “Claudia,” he said, “let’s enjoy the waltz, shall we? And to hell with anyone who may be watching us.” “Yes,” she said primly. “To hell with them all.” His smile broadened to a grin, and she threw back her head and laughed—drawing several direct glances their way. After that they enjoyed the sheer exhilaration of the dance, twirling together, scarcely looking away from each other, only partially aware of the kaleidoscope of color and candlelight swirling about them. They did not stop smiling. “Oh,” she said when the music came to an end, and she sounded half regretful, half surprised to find herself brought back from the world they had inhabited together for almost half an hour. “Let’s get out of here,” he said. Her eyes widened. “There is still half an hour to suppertime,” he said, “and there is to be more dancing afterward. No one will be returning to Lindsey Hall for at least two hours.” “It is not a mere stroll on the terrace you are suggesting, then?” she asked. “No.” He released his hold on her and clasped his hands at his back. Around them there was a swell of conversation, the dance at an end. “The alternative is to spend the rest of the evening dancing with other partners and being sociable with other people.” She looked back at him, some of the severity returning to her face. “I will go and fetch my shawl,” she said. He watched her go. This was not going to be a comfortable thing, was it? For either of them. Being in love when one knew it could lead nowhere was one thing. Being free to do something about it was another. But freedom could be deceptive. Even with Portia out of the picture, there were obstacles a mile high and two miles wide. Was love enough to surmount them all? But all obstacles, he had learned from thirty-five years’ experience of living, however large or small, could be overcome only one at a time with patience and dogged determination. If they could be overcome at all. He strolled toward the ballroom door, deliberately ignoring the beckoning hand of Wilma, who was, fortunately, far away from the doorway. He went to wait for Claudia. 23

Claudia had been very strongly of the opinion earlier, while she waltzed with Joseph, that they were being watched with interest as a possible couple. But while she was fetching her shawl it occurred to her that perhaps the looks—if there had been any—had been simply ones of incredulity that she should so presume. Or possibly even looks of pity. But when had she started to think of herself as unworthy of any man, no matter who he was? She was no one’s inferior. By the time she had made her way back to the ballroom and found Joseph waiting for her outside its doors, there was purposefulness in her stride and a martial gleam in her eye. And when had she started to think of him all the time as Joseph? “Perhaps,” she said, “we ought to go for just a short stroll.” He grinned at her. There was definitely a difference between a smile and a grin, and he grinned. She bristled with indignation. She was making a cake of herself in front of a large number of the aristocracy of England, and he was amused. He took her by the elbow and guided her toward the outdoors. “I have a theory,” he said, “that your girls all obey you without question, not because they fear you, but because they love you.” “A goodly number of them,” she said dryly, “would be very interested to hear that, Lord Attingsborough. They might not stop laughing this side of Christmas.” They stepped out onto the terrace. It was deserted but by no means silent. There was the sound of music from the ballroom above. There was also the sound of merrymaking and music of a different sort coming from the direction of the stables and carriage house, where grooms and coachmen and perhaps some off-duty servants were enjoying revelries of their own while they waited to convey their employers home. “I am Lord Attingsborough again, am I, Miss Martin?” he said, turning to walk in the direction of the stables. “Is it not a little ludicrous in light of last evening?” That irresponsibility had seemed somewhat excusable then because it was never to be repeated—she had known that Miss Hunt would not break off her engagement permanently. Last night had been a once-in-a-lifetime thing, something she would remember for the rest of her life, a private tragedy she would hug to herself and not allow to embitter her. The fact that Miss Hunt had ended the betrothal again tonight—and permanently this time—ought to have simplified her life, raised hope in her, made her happy, especially since he had immediately asked her to waltz with him and then asked her to walk out here with him. But her life seemed more complicated than ever. “If you could go back,” he asked, somehow picking up her thoughts where he had interrupted them, “and refuse my offer to escort you and your two charges to London, would you do it?” Would she? Part of her said an unqualified yes. Her life would be as it had been if she had said no to him—quiet, ordered, familiar. Or perhaps not. Perhaps she would have met Charlie anyway at Susanna and Peter’s concert—and perhaps she would have reacted slightly differently toward him. Without the existence of Joseph in her life, perhaps she would have fallen in love with Charlie again. Perhaps she would now be making a decision regarding him. Perhaps… No, it was impossible. It never would have happened. Though perhaps… “It is pointless to wish to change one detail from the past,” she said. “It cannot be done. But even if it could, it would be foolish to do it. My life would have progressed differently if I had said no, even though it was only a few weeks ago. I do not know how it would have progressed.” He chuckled before striding away from her into the revelries about the carriages and returning a few moments later with a lit lantern. “Would you do things differently?” she asked. “No.” He offered his free arm and she took it. He was tall and solid and warm. He smelled good. He was handsome and charming and wealthy and aristocratic—he would be a duke one day. And he was very, very masculine. If she had ever dreamed, even at her age, of love and romance—and of course, she had dreamed—it would have been of a man altogether different in almost every way. “What are you thinking?” he asked. They were walking down the main driveway, she realized, in the direction of the Palladian bridge. It was rather a dark night with high clouds hiding the moon and stars. The air was far cooler than it had been last evening. “Of the man of my dreams,” she said. He turned his head toward her and lifted the lantern so that he could see her face—and she his. His eyes looked dark and unfathomable. “And?” he prompted. “A very ordinary, unassuming gentleman,” she said, “with no title and no great wealth. But with an abundance of intelligence and good conversation.” “He sounds dull,” he said. “Yes, and that too,” she said. “Dullness is an underrated quality.” “I am not the man of your dreams, then?” he asked her. “No,” she said. “Not at all.” They stepped onto the bridge and stopped by the stone parapet on one side to watch the water flow dark beneath on its way to the lake. He set down the lantern. “But then,” she said, “I cannot possibly be the woman of your dreams.” “Can you not?” he said. She could not see his face, the lantern being behind his head. It was impossible to know from his tone alone whether he was amused or wistful. “I am not beautiful,” she said. “You are not pretty,” he conceded. “You very definitely are beautiful.” What a bouncer. He would carry gallantry to the end, would he? “I am not young,” she said. “It is a matter of perspective,” he said. “To the girls in your school you are doubtless a fossil. To an octogenarian you would appear to be a sweet young thing. But we are almost exactly the same age, and since I do not think of myself as old—far from it—I must insist that indeed you are young.” “I am not elegant or lively or…” She ran out of ideas. “What you are,” he said, “is a woman who lost confidence in her beauty and charm and sexual attractiveness heartbreakingly early in life. You are a woman who sublimated her sexual energies into making a successful career. You are a woman of firm character and will and intelligence and knowledge. You are a woman bursting with compassion and love for your fellow creatures. And you are a woman with so much sexual love to give that it would take far more than your quiet, dull scholar to satisfy you—unless he too has hidden depths, of course. For the sake of argument let us suppose that he does not, that he is simply ordinary and dull with conversation to offer you and nothing much else. No passion. He is not a dream man at all, Claudia. He is verging upon nightmare.” She smiled despite herself. “That is better,” he said, and she realized that he could see her face. “I have a marked partiality for Miss Martin, schoolteacher, but it is possible that she might choose to be a cold bed-fellow. Claudia Martin, the woman, would not be. Indeed, I have already had proof of it.” “Lord Attingsborough—” she began. “Claudia.” He spoke over her. “We have had our fairly brief stroll. We can return to the house and ballroom now if you wish. It is altogether possible that not above half of the guests here have noticed we are gone. We can enjoy the rest of the ball—separately so as not to arouse gossip among that smaller half. And tomorrow I can come and take Lizzie, and you can return to Bath, and we can both deal with receding memories over the coming weeks and months. Or we can extend our stroll.” She stared at him in the darkness. “This is one of those moments of decision,” he said, “that can forever change the course of a life.” “No, it is not,” she protested. “Or at least, it is not more important than any other moment. Every moment is a moment of decision, and every moment turns us inexorably in the direction of the rest of our lives.” “Have it your way if you must,” he said. “But this moment’s decision awaits us both. What is it to be? A desperate attempt to return to the way things used to be before I presented myself at Miss Martin’s School for Girls, a letter from Susanna in my coat pocket? Or a leap in the dark—almost literally—and a chance for something new and very possibly quite wonderful? Even perfect.” “Nothing in life is perfect,” she said. “I beg to disagree with you,” he said. “Nothing is permanently perfect. But there are perfect moments and the will to choose what will bring about more such moments. Last evening was perfect. It was, Claudia. I will not allow you to deny it. It was simply perfect.” She sighed. “There are so many complications,” she said. “There always are,” he told her. “This is life. You ought to understand that by now. One possible complication is that the little lodge in the woods might be locked tonight as it was not yesterday afternoon.” She was speechless—except that she had understood the moment he asked her to come walking with him where they would go. There was no point in trying to deny it to herself, was there? “Perhaps,” she said, “they keep the key over the lintel or beside the step or somewhere else easy to find.” She still could not see his face. But for a moment she caught the gleam of his teeth. “We had better go and see,” she said, drawing her shawl more closely about her. “Are you sure?” His voice was low. “Yes,” she said. This time when they walked on, instead of offering his arm he took her hand in his and laced their fingers. He held the lantern aloft. It was needed at the other side of the bridge, where the trees obscured even what little light was provided from the sky. They found the faint path by which they had returned yesterday and followed it through the woods until they arrived at the hut. The door was unlocked. Inside—she had only half noticed yesterday—there was a fireplace with a fire set in the hearth and logs piled beside it. There was a table with a few books on it and a tinderbox and lamp. There was a rocking chair with a blanket draped over it. And against one wall there was the narrow bed upon which they had found Lizzie. It all looked prettier, cozier tonight. Joseph set the lantern down on the table, took up the tinderbox, and knelt at the hearth to light the fire. Claudia sat in the chair, rocking slowly, holding the corners of her shawl, watching him. There was the pleasurable anticipation of what was to come. All day her breasts had been tender and her inner thighs and inner passage slightly aching from last night’s lovemaking. It was to happen again. How absolutely lovely marriage must be… She rested her head against the chair back. The fire caught and he got to his feet and turned to her. His eyes looked very blue in the lantern light, his hair very dark, his features chiseled and handsome. He set one foot on a runner of the chair to stop it rocking, set his hands on the arms, and leaned over her to kiss her openmouthed. “Claudia,” he said, lifting his head a few inches from hers, “I want you to know that you are beautiful. You think you must be unlovely because circumstances once forced an essentially weak man to leave you and because you are now in your middle thirties and unmarried and a schoolteacher. You think it impossible that any man could find you sexually appealing any longer. You probably even tell yourself that last evening happened only because I guessed I would not be free today to pursue our relationship further. You are wrong on every count. I want you to know that you are incredibly beautiful—because you are the product of who you have been and become in over thirty years of living. You would not be as beautiful to me if you were younger, you see. And I want you to know that you are endlessly appealing sexually.” She gazed up at him. “This appealing.” He took one of her hands in his and spread it, palm in, against the bulge of his erection. “Oh,” she said. “Endlessly appealing,” he said. Her hand slid to her lap, and he reached up both hands to remove all the pins from her hair. She was going to have to repair it later, she thought, without benefit of a brush or a mirror. But she would think of that later. “It is a crime,” he said as her hair fell in heavy waves over her shoulders, “to dress this hair as ruthlessly as you do, Claudia.” He took her hands in his and drew her to her feet. “You are not my dream woman. You are right about that. I could never have dreamed you, Claudia. You are unique. I am in awe. I am humbled.” She gazed into his eyes to detect irony, or at least humor, there, but she could see neither. And then she could see nothing very clearly at all. She blinked away tears. And then he leaned closer and licked them away with his tongue before drawing her closer and kissing her deeply. She was beautiful, she told herself as they undressed each other slowly, pausing frequently to caress or embrace each other. She was beautiful. She ran her palms over the muscles and light hairs of his chest after removing his evening coat and waistcoat, his elaborately tied neckcloth, and his shirt. And he moved his hands all over her before cupping her breasts, rubbing her nipples with his thumbs, and then bending his head to take them, one at a time, into his mouth and suckling her so that raw desire stabbed downward into her womb and along her inner thighs. She would not feel self-conscious or inadequate. She was beautiful. And desirable. There was no doubt of that once she had removed his silk evening breeches and his stockings. She was desirable. And she was not the only one who was beautiful. She twined her arms about his neck, pressed her full naked length against his, and found his mouth with her own. When his tongue pressed into her mouth she sighed. He was right, there were perfect moments even though they were both pulsing with need. “I think,” he said, drawing back his head to smile at her, “we had better make use of that bed. It will be more comfortable than the ground was last night.” “But narrower,” she said. “If we were planning to sleep, perhaps,” he agreed, smiling at her in such a way that she felt her bare toes curl on the hard floor. “But we are not, are we? It is quite wide enough for our purpose.” He drew back the blankets, and she lay down on the sheet and lifted her arms to him. “Come,” she said. He came down on top of her and she spread her legs and twined them about his. They were both ready. He kissed her and murmured low endearments against her ear. She kissed him back and twined her fingers in h is thick hair. And then he slid his hands beneath her, she tilted herself to him, and he came inside her. His size still shocked her. She inhaled slowly as she adjusted her position to allow him full access, and closed her inner muscles about him. There could surely be no lovelier feeling in the world. Though perhaps there could. He withdrew from her and pressed deep again and repeated the action until she could feel his rhythm and match her own to it and revel in the sheer carnality of their coupling. There could be no lovelier feeling than this—both during the first few minutes of controlled pleasure and during the final minute of deeper, more urgent lovemaking as the climax neared. And then it came—for both of them at exactly the same moment, and she opened to the outpouring of love and gave back in equal measure, and that was the loveliest feeling of all, though it was almost beyond feeling and well beyond rational thought or words. She was beautiful. She was desirable. And finally… Ah. Finally she was simply woman. Simply perfect. No, she thought as she gradually began to return to herself, she would not go back and change a single detail of her life even if she could. There were all sorts of complexities, complications, impossibilities to face when she had been restored entirely to herself and sanity, but that time was not yet. There was this moment to live. He inhaled deeply and audibly, and then let the breath go on a sigh. “Ah, Claudia,” he murmured. “My love.” Two words that she would treasure for a lifetime. Even the costliest jewel could not tempt her if it were offered in exchange for them. My love. Spoken to her, Claudia Martin. She was one man’s love. Just a few weeks ago all this would have been quite beyond the bounds of credibility. But no longer. She was beautiful, she was desirable, and…She smiled. He had lifted his head and was looking down at her with heavy-lidded eyes, one hand smoothing back her hair from her face. “Share the thought,” he said. She opened her eyes. “I am woman,” she said. “Hard as this may be to believe,” he said with laughter in his eyes, “I had noticed.” She laughed. His kissed her eyelids one at a time before kissing her lips again. “It only astonishes me,” he said, “that it seems like a novel idea to you.” She laughed again. “You have no idea,” she said, “how a woman’s femininity becomes identified with an early marriage and the production of a number of children and the running of an orderly home.” “You surely might have had those things if you had wished,” he said. “McLeith cannot have been the only man who showed an interest in you when you were a girl.” “I had other chances,” she admitted. “Why did you not take any of them?” he asked her. “Because you loved him so dearly?” “Partly that,” she said, “and partly an unwillingness to settle for comfort over…over integrity. I wanted to be a person as well as a woman. I know that may seem strange. I know it is hard for almost anyone else to comprehend. It is what I wanted, though—to be a person. But it seemed that I could not be both—a person and a woman. I had to sacrifice my femininity.” “Are you sorry?” he asked her. “Though you did not do it with any great success, I might add.” She shook her head. “I would do it all again if I could go back,” she said. “But it was a sacrifice.” “I am glad you did it,” he said, feathering light kisses along her jaw line to her chin and then lifting his head again. She raised her eyebrows. “If you had not,” he said, “you would not have been there to call upon when I was in Bath. And if I had met you elsewhere, you would not have been free. And I might not have recognized you anyway.” “Recognized me?” “As the very beat of my heart,” he said. Her eyes filled with tears again, and she bit her upper lip. She heard the echo of what he had said in the carriage on the way to London when Flora and Edna had asked him to share his dream. I dream of love, of a family—wife and children—which is as close and as dear to me as the beating of my own heart. She had judged him quite insincere at that time. “Don’t say things like that,” she said. “What has this been about, then?” he asked, somehow turning them so that he lay on the inside of the bed, pressed against the wall, and she lay facing him, held firmly by his arms lest she fall off the bed. “Sex?” She thought for a moment. “Good sex,” she said. “Granted,” he agreed. “I did not bring you here for good sex, though, Claudia. Or not just or even primarily for that.” She would not ask him why, then. But he answered the unspoken question anyway. “I brought you out here,” he said, “because I love you and because I believe you love me. Because I am free and you are. Because—” She set her fingertips over his lips. He kissed them and smiled. “I am not free,” she said. “I have a school to run. I have children and teachers dependent on me.” “And are you dependent upon them?” he asked. She frowned. “It is a valid question,” he said. “Are you dependent upon them? Does your happiness, your sense of self, depend upon continuing your school? If it does, you have a genuine point. You have as much right to pursue your happiness as I have to pursue mine. Fortunately, Willowgreen can be run from a distance as it has been for the past number of years. Lizzie and I will take up residence in Bath. We will live there with you.” “Don’t be silly,” she said. “I will be as silly as I need to be,” he said, “to make things work between us, Claudia. I was in a basically arid relationship for twelve years even though I was fond of poor Sonia—she did, after all, give me Lizzie. I came within a whisker this year of entering into a marriage that would surely have brought me active unhappiness for the rest of my life. Now suddenly, just this evening, I am free. And at last I want to choose happiness. And love.” “Joseph,” she said, “you are an aristocrat. You will be a duke one day. My father was a country gentleman. I have been a governess or teacher for eighteen years. You cannot just give up all you are to live at the school with me.” “I would not have to give up anything,” he said. “Nor could I if I wanted to. But one of us does not have to sacrifice our life for the sake of the other. We can both live, Claudia—and love.” “Your father would have an apoplexy,” she said. “Probably not,” he said. “But the matter would admittedly have to be broached carefully with him—yet firmly. I am his son, but I am also a person in my own right.” “Your mother—” “…would adore anyone who could make me happy,” he said. “The Countess of Sutton—” “Wilma can think or say or do what she likes,” he said. “My sister is certainly not going to rule my life, Claudia. Or yours. You are stronger than she is.” “The ton—” “…can go hang for all I care,” he said. “But there are precedents galore. Bewcastle married a country schoolteacher and got away with it. Why cannot I marry the owner and headmistress of a respected school for girls?” “Will you let me complete a sentence?” she asked him. “I am listening,” he said. “I could not possibly live the life of a marchioness or a duchess,” she said. “I could not possibly mingle with the ton on a regular basis. And I could not possibly be your wife. You need heirs. I am thirty-five years old.” “So am I,” he said. “And one heir will do. Or none. I would rather marry you and be childless apart from Lizzie than marry someone else and have twelve sons with her.” “That sounds all very fine,” she said. “But it is not practical.” “Good Lord, no,” he agreed. “With all those boys I would never know a moment’s peace in my own home.” “Jo-seph!” “Clau-dia.” He set one finger along the length of her nose and smiled at her. A log crackled in the hearth and settled lower. The blaze began to die down. The little hut was as warm as toast inside, she realized. “There are some problems, admittedly,” he said. “We are from somewhat different worlds, and it seems that they would make an awkward fit. But not an impossible one—I refuse to believe it. The idea that love conquers all may seem to be a foolishly idealistic one, but I believe in it nonetheless. How can I believe otherwise? If love cannot conquer all, what can? Hatred? Violence? Despair?” “Joseph.” She sighed. “What about Lizzie?” “She loves you dearly,” he said. “And if you marry me and come to live with us, she does not have to fear that you will take the dog away from her.” “It is all quite impossible, you know,” she said. “But there is no conviction whatsoever left in your voice,” he told her. “I am winning here. Admit it.” “Joseph.” Once more her eyes filled with tears. “This is no contest. It is impossible.” “Let’s talk about it tomorrow,” he said. “I’ll come over to Lindsey Hall to see Lizzie, and you and I will talk. But perhaps you should have a word with my cousins before you leave here—Neville, Lauren, Gwen. Perhaps you had better not talk to Wilma, though she would be able to tell you the same thing. They will all tell you that I never played fair as a lad, that I always had to have my own way. I was quite detestable. I still do not play fair when I want something badly enough.” He had snuggled closer—if that were possible—while he talked, and was now nuzzling her ear and the side of her neck while smoothing his hand over her hip and buttock and along her spine until her toes curled again. “We had better dress and go back to the house,” she said. “It would be too shameful if everyone were ready to return to Lindsey Hall and I was nowhere to be found.” “Mmm,” he said into her ear. “In a moment. Or several moments might be better.” And he moved them again so that this time he was lying on his back and she was lying on top of him. “Love me,” he said. “Never mind practicalities or impossibilities. Love me, Claudia. My love.” She spread her legs to set her knees on either side of his hips and raised herself onto her arms to look down at him. Her hair fell forward to form a sort of curtain about them. “Once upon a time,” she said, sighing one more time, “I thought I was a woman of firm will.” “Am I a bad influence on you?” he asked. “You certainly are,” she said severely. “Good,” he said and grinned. “Love me.” She did. 24

It was a blustery day. White clouds scudded across a blue sky, bathing the ground in sunshine one moment, darkening it with shade the next. Trees waved their branches and flowers tossed their heads. But it was warm. And it was potentially the loveliest day of his life, Joseph thought as he arrived at Lindsey Hall late in the morning. Potentially. It had not been an easy day so far. His father had quivered with fury even just with the news that Portia had run off with McLeith. He had not excused her actions for a moment—far from it. But neither had he excused Joseph for driving her to take such drastic measures. “Her disgrace will be on your conscience for the rest of your life,” he had told his son. “If you have a conscience, that is.” And then Joseph had broached the topic of Claudia Martin. At first his father had been simply incredulous. “That spinster schoolteacher?” he had asked. Then, when he had understood fully that it was indeed she, he had exploded in a storm of wrath that had had both Joseph and his mother seriously worried for his health. Joseph had held firm. And he had shamelessly played his trump card. “Mr. Martin, her father,” he had explained, “was guardian to the Duke of McLeith. The duke grew up in their home from the age of five. He thinks of Claudia almost as a sister.” McLeith was not much in his father’s favor this morning, of course, but nevertheless the man was of a rank to match his own, even if it was only a Scottish title. Joseph’s mother had asked the only question that really mattered to her. “Do you love Miss Martin, Joseph?” she had asked. “I do, Mama,” he had told her. “With all my heart.” “I never did really like Miss Hunt,” she had admitted. “There is something cold about her. One can only hope she loves the Duke of McLeith.” “Sadie!” “No, Webster,” she had said. “I will not be quiet when the happiness of my own children is at stake. I am surprised, I must confess. Miss Martin seems too old and plain and stern for Joseph, but if he loves her and if she loves him, then I am content. And she will welcome dear Lizzie into your family, I daresay, Joseph. I would invite them both to tea if I were in my own home.” “Sadie—” “But I am not,” she had said. “Are you going to Lindsey Hall this morning, Joseph? Tell Miss Martin if you will that I will call on her this afternoon. I daresay Clara will go with me or Gwen or Lauren if your father will not.” “Thank you, Mama.” He had raised her hand to his lips. There had still been Wilma to face, of course, before he left for Lindsey Hall. She was not to be avoided. She had been waiting for him outside the library and had forced him into the small visitors’ salon next to it. Surprisingly—perhaps—she had had nothing but recriminations to call down upon the head of the unfortunate Portia. But she had been deeply shocked by the rumors she had heard last night—rumors none of her cousins would either confirm or deny. Not that rumors had been necessary. “You waltzed with that teacher, Joseph,” she had said, “as if no one else existed in the world but her.” “No one did,” he had told her. “It was quite indecorous,” she had said. “You made an utter cake of yourself.” He had smiled. “And then you disappeared with her,” she had said. “Everyone must have noticed. It was quite scandalous. You had better be very careful or you are going to find yourself trapped into marrying her. You do not know what women like her are capable of, Joseph. She—” “It is I,” he had told her, “who am trying to trap her into marriage, Wilma. Or to persuade her to marry me, anyway. It is not going to be easy. She does not like dukes or even dukes in waiting, and she has no desire whatsoever to be a duchess—even if such a fate is comfortably far in the future provided we can keep Papa healthy. But she does like her pupils—especially, I suspect, her charity girls. She feels an obligation to them and to the school she began and has run successfully for almost fifteen years.” She had stared at him, almost speechless for once. “You are going to marry her?” she had asked him. “If she will have me,” he had said. “Of course she will have you,” she had told him. “Lord, Wil,” he had said, “I hope you are right.” “Wil.” She had looked arrested. “You have not called me that for years.” He had caught her by the shoulders suddenly and pulled her into an impulsive hug. “Wish me luck,” he had said. “Does she really mean that much to you?” she had asked him. “I cannot see the attraction, Joseph.” “You do not have to,” he had said. “Wish me luck.” “I doubt you will need it,” she had said. But she had tightened her arms about him. “Go and get her then if you must. I daresay I will tolerate her if she makes you happy.” “Thank you, Wil.” He had grinned at her as he released her. Neville had clapped a hand on his shoulder when they met on the stairs after he escaped from the salon. “Still on your feet, are you, Joe?” he had said. “Do you need a sympathetic ear? A companion with whom to ride neck or nothing across the roughest terrain we can find? Someone with whom to get thoroughly foxed even this early in the day? I am your man if you need me.” “I am on my way to Lindsey Hall,” Joseph had said with a grin. “Once my relatives have stopped delaying me, that is.” “Quite so.” Neville had removed his hand. “I left Lily and Lauren and Gwen all huddled together in our room, all close to tears because Uncle Webster’s voice was carrying from the library and it did not sound pleased with life. And all agreeing that finally, despite Uncle Webster, dearest Joseph was going to be happy. I think they must have been referring to the possibility of your marrying Miss Martin.” He had grinned back at Joseph before slapping a hand on his shoulder again and then continuing on his way downstairs. And so now at last Joseph was arriving at Lindsey Hall, buoyed by hope despite the fact that he knew nothing was yet decided. Claudia herself was the remaining hurdle—and the greatest. She had loved him last night with passionate abandon, especially the second time when she had been on top and had taken the initiative in a manner that could make his temperature soar even in memory. She also loved him. He felt no real doubt about that. But making love to him, even loving him, was not the same thing as marrying him. Marriage would be a huge step for her—far more so than for almost any other woman. For most women marriage was a step up to greater freedom and independence, to a more active and interesting life, to greater personal fulfillment. Claudia already had all those things. He asked for her when he arrived at the house, and she sent down Lizzie. She came alone, with the dog leading her, and stepped inside the salon when a footman opened the door for her, her face lit up with smiles. “Papa?” she said. He strode toward her, wrapped his arms about her, and twirled her about. “How is my best girl this morning?” he asked her. “I am well,” she said. “Is it true, Papa? Edna and Flora heard it from one of the maids, who heard it from another maid, who heard it from one of the ladies—it might have been the duchess, though I am not sure. But they all say it is true. Has Miss Hunt gone away?” Ah. “It is true,” he said. “Never to return?” “Never,” he told her. “Oh, Papa.” She clasped her hands to her bosom and turned her face up to his. “I am so glad.” “So am I,” he said. “And is it true,” she asked him, “that you are going to marry Miss Martin instead?” Good Lord! “Is that what Flora and Edna and all the maids say too?” he asked her. “Yes,” she said. “And what does Miss Martin have to say about it?” he asked her. “Nothing,” she said. “She was cross when I asked her. She told me I ought not to listen to the gossip of servants. And when the other girls asked her too, she got very cross and told them she would make them all do mathematics problems for the rest of the morning if they did not stop even if this is a holiday. Then Miss Thompson took them all outside except for Julia Jones, who was playing the spinet.” “And except for you,” he said. “Yes,” she agreed. “I knew you would come, Papa. I waited for you. I wanted Miss Martin to come down with me, but she would not. She said she had things to do.” “She did not say better things, by any chance, did she?” he asked. “Yes, she did,” Lizzie told him. It sounded as if Claudia Martin was as prickly as a hedgehog this morning. She had had a night—well, a few hours anyway—to sleep upon her memories of last evening. “I am thinking of selling the house in London,” he told Lizzie. “I am planning to take you to Willowgreen to live. It is a large house in the country with a park all about it. There will be space there for you and fresh air and flowers and birds and musical instruments and—” “And you, Papa?” she asked him. “And me,” he said. “We will be able to live in the same house together all the time, Lizzie. You will no longer have to wait for my visits—and I will no longer have to wait until there are no other obligations and I can visit you at last. We will be together every day. I will be home, and it will be your home too.” “And Miss Martin’s?” she asked. “Would you like that?” he asked her. “I would like it of all things, Papa,” she said. “She teaches me things, and it is fun. And I like her voice. I feel safe with her. I think she likes me. No, I think she loves me.” “Even when she is cross?” he asked. “I think she was cross this morning,” she said, “because she wants to marry you, Papa.” Which, he supposed, was perfect feminine logic. “You would not mind, then,” he asked her, “if I married her?” “Silly,” she said , clucking her tongue. “If you marry her, she will be my sort-of mama, will she not? I loved Mother, Papa. I really did. I miss her dreadfully. But I would like to have a new mama—if she is Miss Martin.” “Not sort-of mama,” he said. “She would be your stepmother.” “My sort-of stepmother,” she said. “I am a bas—I am your love child. I am not your proper daughter. Mother taught me that.” He clucked his tongue, took her firmly by the hand, opened the door, and marched her in the direction of the stairs. The dog trotted after them. Claudia was still in the schoolroom. Julia Jones was not. She had finished playing the spinet and had gone about some other business. “I need your opinion on something,” Joseph said, shutting the door firmly behind them as Claudia rose to her feet and clasped her hands at her waist, her spine ramrod straight, her lips pressed into a thin line. “Lizzie informs me that if you were to marry me, you would be her sort-of stepmother. Not her full stepmother because she is not my full daughter. She is only my love child, which she understands to be a kindly euphemism for bastard offspring. Is she right? Or is she wrong?” Lizzie, who had removed her hand from his grasp, looked from one to the other of them almost as if she could actually see them. “Oh, Lizzie,” Claudia said, sighing and relaxing and transforming herself all in one second from stern, starchy schoolteacher to warm woman, “I would not be your sort-of stepmother or even your stepmother except in strictly legal terms. I would not even be your sort-of mother. I would be your mama. I would love you as dearly as any mother ever loved her child. You are a love child in all the best meanings of the term.” “And what if,” Lizzie asked while Joseph gazed unblinkingly at Claudia and she gazed unblinkingly anywhere but at him. No, that was unfair—she was looking steadily at his daughter. “What if you and Papa were to have children? Legitimate children.” “Then I would love them too,” Claudia said, her cheeks an interesting shade of pink. “Just as dearly. Not more so, not less. Love does not have to be portioned out, Lizzie. It is the one thing that never diminishes when one gives it away. Indeed, it only grows. In the eyes of the world, it is true, you would always be different from any children your father and…and I might have if we were married. But in my eyes there would be no difference whatsoever.” “Or in mine,” Joseph said firmly. “We are going to live at Willowgreen, the three of us,” Lizzie said, walking toward Claudia with her hands outstretched until Claudia took them in hers. “And Horace. It is Papa’s home in the country. And you will teach me things, and Papa too, and I will have all my stories written down and make a book of them, and perhaps some of my friends can come and visit us sometimes, and when there is a baby I will hold it and rock it every day and…” The pink in Claudia’s cheeks had turned to flame. “Lizzie,” she said, squeezing the girl’s hands, “I have a school to run in Bath. I have girls waiting for me there and teachers. I have a life waiting for me there.” Lizzie’s face was upturned. Her eyelids were fluttering, her lips moving even before she spoke. “Are those girls more important than me, then?” she asked. “Are those teachers more important than Papa? Is that school nicer than Willowgreen?” Joseph spoke at last. “Lizzie,” he said, “that is unfair. Miss Martin has her own life to live. We cannot expect her to marry me and come to Willowgreen with us just because we want her to—because we love her and do not know quite how we will live without her.” He was looking at Claudia, who was obviously in deep distress—until his final words. Then she looked indignant. He risked a grin. Lizzie drew her hands free. “Do you not love Papa?” she asked. Claudia sighed. “Oh, I do,” she said. “But life is not that simple, Lizzie.” “Why not?” Lizzie asked. “People always say that. Why is life not simple? If you love me and you love Papa and we love you, what could be simpler?” “I think,” Joseph said, “we had better go out for a walk. This triangular discussion is definitely not fair to Miss Martin, Lizzie. It is two against one. I will raise the matter with her again when we are alone together. Here, take the dog’s leash and show us how you can find your way out of the house and around to the lake without any other help.” “Oh, I can,” she said, taking the leash. “Watch me.” “I intend to,” he assured her. But as the three of them stepped outside a couple of minutes later, Lizzie stopped and cocked her head. Even above the sound of the water gushing from the great fountain she could hear something else, it seemed. Miss Thompson and the other girls were approaching. She held up a hand in greeting and called to them. “Molly?” she cried. “Doris? Agnes?” The whole group approached and bobbed curtsies. “I am going to come with you,” Lizzie announced. “My papa wants to be alone with Miss Martin. He says it is unfair to her for there to be two against one.” Miss Thompson regarded her employer with pursed lips and eyes that danced with merriment. “You will not be leaving today after all, then, Claudia?” she said. “I shall let Wulfric know. Go and enjoy your walk.” And she shepherded the girls—Lizzie included—back into the house. “Right,” Joseph said, offering his arm. “It is one on one, fair odds, a fair fight. If you wish to fight, that is. I would far prefer to plan a wedding.” She clasped her hands firmly at her waist and turned in the direction of the lake. The brim of her straw hat—the same one as usual—waved in the wind.

Eleanor had been waiting up for her last night—or rather early this morning. Claudia had poured out much of the evening’s proceedings, and Eleanor had quite possibly guessed the rest. She had repeated her offer to take over the running of the school, even to purchase it. She had urged Claudia to think carefully, not to choose impulsively, and not to think in terms of what she ought to do rather than what she wished to do. “I suppose,” she had said, “it is a cliché and an oversimplification to advise you to follow your heart, Claudia, and I am not at all qualified to offer such advice, am I? But…Well, this is really not my business, and it certainly is long past my bedtime. Good night.” But she had poked her head back about the door seconds after leaving the room. “I am going to say it anyway,” she had said. “Follow your heart, for goodness’ sake, Claudia, you silly thing.” By this morning it seemed that everyone knew. It was all excruciatingly embarrassing, to say the least. “I feel,” she said as she strode in the direction of the lake, Joseph beside her, “as if I were on the stage of a theater with a vast audience gathered all about me.” “Waiting with bated breath for your final lines?” he said. “I cannot decide if I am part of the audience, Claudia, or a fellow actor. But if I am the latter, I cannot have rehearsed with you or I would know what those final lines are.” They walked in silence until they came to the bank of the lake. “It is impossible,” she said, noticing that the wind was creating white-topped waves on the water. “No,” he said, “not that. Not even improbable. I would call it probable, but by no means certain. It is that small amount of uncertainty that has my heart knocking against my ribs and my knees feeling inadequate to the task of holding me upright and my stomach attempting to turn somersaults inside me.” “Your family would never accept me,” she said. “My mother and my sister already have,” he told her, “and my father has not disinherited me.” “Could he?” she asked. “No.” He smiled. “But he could make my life dashed uncomfortable. He will not do so. He is far fonder of his children than he will ever admit. And he is far more firmly under my mother’s thumb than he knows.” “I cannot give you children,” she said. “Do you know that for certain?” he asked her. “No,” she admitted. “Any girl fresh from the schoolroom might not be able to if I married her,” he said. “Many women cannot, you know. And perhaps you can. I hope you can, I must confess. There is all that dreary business of securing the succession, of course, but more important than that, I would like to have children with you, Claudia. But all I really want is to spend the rest of my life with you. And we would not be childless. We would have Lizzie.” “I cannot be a marchioness,” she said, “or a duchess. I know nothing about what would be expected of me, and I am far too old to learn. I am not sure I would want to learn anyway. I like myself as I am. That is a conceited thing to say, perhaps, and suggests an unwillingness ever to change and grow. I am willing to do both, but I would rather choose ways in which to grow.” “Choose to change sufficiently to allow me into your life, then,” he said. “Please, Claudia. It is all I ask. If you are not willing to have Lizzie and me live in Bath with you, then come to live at Willowgreen with us. Make it your home. Make it your life. Make it anything you want. But come. Please come.” She felt all the unreality of the situation suddenly. It was as if she took a step back from herself and saw him as a stranger again—as he had first appeared to her in the visitors’ parlor at school. She saw how very handsome and elegant and aristocratic and self-assured he was. Could he possibly now be begging her to marry him? Could he possibly love her? But she knew he did. And she knew she could hold this image of him in her mind for no longer than a few seconds. Looking at him again, she saw only her beloved Joseph. “I think we should make Willowgreen like my school,” she said. “Only different. The challenge of educating Lizzie, when I thought she might be a pupil, has excited me, for of course I have seen that it is altogether possible to fill her with the joy of learning. I do not know why I have never thought of including children with handicaps among my pu pils. There could be some at Willowgreen. We could take some in, even adopt some—other blind children, children with other handicaps, both physical and mental. Anne was once governess to the Marquess of Hallmere’s cousin, who was thought of as simpleminded. She is the sweetest young woman imaginable. She married a fisherman and bore him sturdy sons and runs his home and is as happy as it is possible to be.” “We will adopt a dozen such children,” he said quietly, “and Willowgreen will be their school and their home. We will love them, Claudia.” She looked at him and sighed. “It would not work,” she said. “It is altogether too ambitious a dream.” “But that is what life is all about,” he said. “It is about dreaming and making those dreams come true with effort and determination—and love.” She stared mutely at him. That was when they were interrupted. The Marquess and Marchioness of Hallmere with their two elder children and the Earl and Countess of Rosthorn with their boys appeared from among the trees, returning, it seemed, from a walk. They all waved cheerfully from some distance away and would soon have been out of sight if the marchioness had not stopped suddenly to stare intently at them. Then she detached herself from the group and came striding toward them. The marquess came after her more slowly while the others continued on their way to the house. Claudia had made the grudging admission to herself during the past week that the former Lady Freyja Bedwyn really was not the monster she had been as a girl. Even so, she deeply resented this intrusion upon what was obviously a private tete-r-tete. “Miss Martin,” she said after favoring Joseph with a mere nod, “I hear you are thinking of giving up your school to Eleanor.” Claudia raised her eyebrows. “I am glad you presume to know what I am thinking,” she said. She half noticed the two men exchange a poker-faced glance. “It seems an odd sort of thing to do just at the time when you have achieved full independence,” Lady Hallmere said. “But I must say I approve. I always admired you—after you had the courage to walk out on me—but I never liked you until this past week. You deserve your chance at happiness.” “Freyja,” the marquess said, taking her by the elbow, “I think we are interrupting something here. And your words are only going to cause embarrassment.” But Claudia scarcely heard him. She was looking intently at Lady Hallmere. “How do you know,” she asked, “that I have just achieved independence? How do you know about my benefactor?” Lady Hallmere opened her mouth as if she were about to speak, and then closed it again and shrugged. “Is it not common knowledge?” she asked carelessly. Perhaps Eleanor had said something. Or Susanna. Or Anne. Or even Joseph. But Claudia felt somehow as if someone had just taken a large mallet and hit her over the head with it. Except that such violence might have clouded her thoughts, whereas she felt now as if her mind had never been more crystal clear. She was able to think of several things all at once. She thought of Anne by some very strange coincidence applying to Mr. Hatchard for a teaching position at her school when she lived a mere stone’s throw from the Marquess of Hallmere’s home in Cornwall. She thought of Susanna being sent to the school as a charity girl at the age of twelve just shortly after the coincidence of having applied for a position as Lady Freyja’s maid. She thought about Lady Freyja Bedwyn paying a call at the school one morning several years ago. But how had she known about the school or where to find it? She thought about Edna’s telling her just a few weeks ago that Lady Freyja knew about the murder of her parents in their shop years ago—just before Edna was sent to the school in Bath. She thought about Anne and Susanna trying to tell her down the years that perhaps Lady Freyja, Marchioness of Hallmere, was not quite as bad as Claudia remembered her. She thought about the fact that when Lady Hallmere and her sister-in-law had needed new governesses for their children, they had looked for them in her school. She thought… If the truth were a large mallet, she thought, it surely would have flattened her head to her shoulders years ago. “It was you,” she said. The words came out as little more than a whisper. “It was you!” Lady Hallmere raised haughty eyebrows. “It was you,” Claudia said again. “You were the school’s benefactor.” “Oh, the devil!” Joseph said. “Now you have done it,” the Marquess of Hallmere said, sounding amused. “The proverbial cat is out of the proverbial bag, Free.” “It was you.” Claudia stared at her former pupil, horrified. Lady Hallmere shrugged. “I am very wealthy,” she said. “You were a girl when I opened the school.” “Wulf was a Gothic guardian in many ways,” Lady Hallmere said. “But he was remarkably enlightened when it came to money. We all had access to our fortunes when we were very young.” “Why?” Lady Hallmere tapped her hand against her side, and Claudia sensed that she would have been more comfortable if she had been holding a riding crop. She shrugged again. “Nobody but you ever stood up to me,” she said, “until I met Joshua. Wulfric did, of course, but that was different. He was my brother. I resented the fact that my father and mother had died and left us, I suppose. I wanted to be noticed. I wanted someone other than Wulfric to force me to behave myself. You did it by walking out on me. But you were not dead, Miss Martin. I could wreak revenge on you as I could not with my mother. You cannot know what satisfaction it has given me over the years to know that you depended upon me even while you despised me.” “I did not—” “Oh, yes, you did.” “Yes, I did.” Joseph cleared his throat and the Marquess of Hallmere scratched his head. “It was magnificent revenge,” Claudia said. “I have always thought so,” Lady Hallmere admitted. They stared at each other, Claudia tight-lipped, Lady Hallmere feigning a haughty nonchalance that did not look quite convincing. “What can I say?” Claudia asked at last. She was horribly embarrassed. She owed a great deal to this woman. So did many of her charity girls, both past and present. Susanna might have been lost without this woman. Anne might have continued to live a miserable existence with David in Cornwall. The school would not have succeeded at all. Oh, goodness, she could not possibly owe everything to Lady Hallmere of all people! But she did. “I believe, Miss Martin,” Lady Hallmere told her, “you said it all in the letter you left with Mr. Hatchard a few weeks ago. I appreciate your thanks though I do not need them. I am sorry I spoke rashly a few minutes ago. I would have far preferred it if you had never known. You must certainly not feel beholden to me. That would be absurd. Come along, Joshua. Our presence is de trop here, I believe.” “Which I tried to tell you a few minutes ago, sweetheart,” he said. Claudia held out her right hand. Lady Hallmere looked at it, her expression at its haughtiest again, and then placed her own in it. They shook hands. “Well,” Joseph said as the other two walked away, “this stage play is full of unexpected twists and turns. But I believe the closing lines are about to be spoken, love, and they are yours. What are they?” She turned to look fully at him. “How foolish a notion independence is,” she said. “There is no such thing, is there? None of us is ever independent of others. We all need one another.” She stared at him, exasperated. “Do you need me?” “Yes,” he said. “And I need you,” she told him. “Oh, Joseph, how I need you! Changing my life into a wholly new course is going to be just as terrifying this time as it was when I was seventeen, I am sure, but if I could do it then when I had lost a love, I can certainly do it now when I have found one. I am going to do it. I am going to marry you.” He smiled slowly at her. “And so we come to the epilogue,” he said. And he went down on one knee and arranged himself in picturesque and deliberately theatrical fashion on the grass, the lake behind him. He possessed himself of one of her hands. “Claudia, my dearest love,” he said, “will you do me the great honor of becoming my wife?” She laughed—though actually it came out sounding remarkably like a watery gurgle. “You look quite absurd,” she said, “and really rather romantic. And impossibly handsome. Oh, of course I will. I have just said so, have I not? Do get up, Joseph. You are going to have grass stains on the knee of your pantaloons.” “It might as well be both knees, then,” he said. “They will match.” And he drew her down until they were kneeling face-to-face, their arms about each other. “Ah, Claudia,” he said, his mouth against hers, “do we dare believe in such happiness?” “Oh, yes,” she assured him, “we certainly do. I am not giving up a whole career for anything less.” “No, ma’am,” he agreed, and kissed her. 25

Bath had probably never known such a grand day as that on which Miss Claudia Martin, owner and headmistress of Miss Martin’s School for Girls, married the Marquess of Attingsborough at Bath Abbey. There were so many titled people among the guests that one wag was heard to wonder as he waited with a large crowd of other interested persons in the cobbled yard outside the Pump Room for the bride to arrive if the rest of England was empty of titles for the present. “And nobody would ever miss ’em,” he added, causing a large woman with an even larger basket over one arm to wonder why he had come to watch, then. All who had any claim to be related to the marquess were on the guest list, of course. So were large numbers of his friends and acquaintances, including all the Bedwyns except Lord and Lady Rannulf, who were in imminent expectation of adding to their family. The Duke of Bewcastle had permitted his duchess to attend with him since Bath was not very far from home and she had been enjoying vigorous good health desp ite her delicate condition. Claudia did not fail to see the irony of it all. Indeed, while Frances’s personal maid, brought to the school for the express purpose of dressing her hair, was in the middle of creating a style that was elegant but not too fussy, she started to laugh and could not stop. The poor maid was forced to pause in her task of forming a cluster of smooth curls to replace the usual simple knot at Claudia’s neck. Susanna, Frances, and Anne were all crowded into the bedchamber, watching. Eleanor and Lila Walton had already left for the abbey with a neat crocodile of boarders and charity girls, all in their best dresses and on their best behavior. The day pupils would attend with their parents. The nonresident teachers would be there too. “This is going to be the most absurd marriage ever,” Claudia said between laughs. “I could not have imagined anything more bizarre in my oddest dreams.” “Absurd,” Susanna said, looking from Anne to Frances. “I suppose it is an apt description. Claudia is going to be married in the presence of a good half of the ton.” “She is going to have a duke for a father-in-law,” Frances said. “And a duke’s heir for a husband,” Anne added. They all looked at one another poker-faced before they too collapsed into laughter. “It is the funniest thing,” Frances agreed. “Our Claudia to be a duchess one day.” “It is a just punishment for all my sins,” Claudia said, sobering as her attention returned to her image in the glass and she saw all the splendor of her new apricot-colored dress with the frivolous new straw hat that Frances’s maid was just pinning to her hair above the luscious curls at her neck. A straw hat in early October! Goodness! Did she really look ten years younger than she had just a few months ago? Surely it was just her imagination. But her eyes looked larger than she remembered them and her lips fuller. There was surely more color in her cheeks. “But who,” Susanna said, “could resist Joseph’s charms? I have always been exceedingly fond of him since Lauren first introduced me to him, but he has risen immeasurably in my estimation since he had the good sense to fall in love with you, Claudia.” “And who,” Anne said, “could possibly resist a man who dotes so much on his child? Especially his blind, illegitimate child.” “It is a very good thing that we have Lucius and Sydnam and Peter,” Frances said. “We might be mortally jealous of you, Claudia.” Claudia swiveled on the stool. The maid tidied the top of the dressing table and left the room. “Is it natural,” Claudia asked, “for a wedding day to evoke such opposite emotions? I am so happy that I could fairly burst. And I am so sad that I could weep.” “Don’t do it,” Susanna said. “You will make your eyes red and puffy.” As they had been last evening. It had started with the final, farewell dinner in the school dining hall, to which the day pupils had stayed—and the surprise concert and speeches that had followed it. It had continued with the exchange of hugs and final words with every pupil and teacher. And it had concluded with a couple of hours in Claudia’s private sitting room—soon to be Eleanor’s—talking and reminiscing with these three friends and Lila and Eleanor. “I was happy teaching here,” Anne said now, “and I was not at all sure I would be happy with Sydnam when I married him. But I am, and you will be with Joseph, Claudia. You already know it.” “It is perfectly natural to be sad,” Frances assured her. “I had Lucius and the promise of a singing career to go to when I married, but I had been happy here. It was home, and my dearest friends were here.” Susanna got to her feet and hugged Claudia carefully so as not to disturb either her hair or her hat. “This school was home and family to me,” she said. “I was taken in here at the age of twelve when I had nowhere else to go, and I was educated and loved. I would never have left if I had not met Peter. But I am very glad I did—for the obvious reason and because I could not bear now to be the last one of us to be left here. I am that selfish, you see. But I cannot tell you how happy I am for you, Claudia.” “We had better go,” Anne said. “The bride must not be late, and we must be at the Abbey before her. And what a very lovely bride. That color is perfect on you, Claudia.” “I love the hat,” Susanna said. Claudia held back her tears as each of them hugged her and went down to the carriage that was awaiting them. After they were gone, she drew on her gloves and looked one last time around her bedchamber. Already it looked empty—her trunk and bags had already been removed earlier in the morning. She went into her sitting room and looked around it. All her books were gone. It was hers no longer. For the past week the school had officially been Eleanor’s. After today it would be Miss Thompson’s School for Girls. It was a terrible thing to leave one’s life behind. She had done it once before, and now she was doing it again. It was like being born again, leaving the safe comfort of the womb to brave the vast unknown. It was a terrible thing even though she ached with longing for the new life, for the home that awaited her, for the brave, intelligent blind child who would be her daughter, for the other child who would be born in a little more than six months—she had told no one yet except Joseph yesterday when he had arrived from Willowgreen—and for the man who had stepped into her school almost four months ago and into her heart not long after. Joseph! And then she went downstairs, where the servants were lined up to say good-bye to her. She held her poise and had a final word with each, most of whom were in tears. Mr. Keeble was not. He stood woodenly by the outer door, waiting to open it for her. And somehow saying good-bye to him, her elderly, crotchety, loyal porter, became the hardest thing of all. He bowed to her, somehow setting his boots to creaking. But she would have none of such formality. She hugged him and kissed his cheek and then nodded briskly for him to open the door and hurried outside, where Joseph’s coachman was waiting to hand her into his carriage. She would not weep, she thought as the door closed and the carriage rocked into motion and she left behind the school and fifteen years of her life for the last time. She blinked her eyes several times. She would not weep. Joseph was awaiting her at the Abbey. So was Lizzie. So was a churchful of aristocrats. It was that thought that rescued her. She first smiled and then laughed to herself as the carriage turned onto the long length of Great Pulteney Street. Absurd indeed. One of God’s little jokes, perhaps? If so, she liked his sense of humor.