Simply Unforgettable

“Because we have so much love to give,” Anne said. “Because it is our nature to love. How could we nurture children if we were not so prone to tumbling headlong into love with even the scrawniest mites to whom we might give birth? Falling in love with men is only a symptom of our general condition, you know. We are sorry creatures, but I do not believe I would be different even if I could. Would you?”

Had Anne loved David’s father? Frances wondered briefly. Was there some terrible tragedy in Anne’s past that she knew nothing about? She supposed there must be.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, laughing in spite of herself. “I have never had a son on whom to lavish my affections as you have, Anne. Sometimes life seems—empty. And how ungrateful that sounds when I have this home and this profession and you and Susanna and Claudia.”

“And Mr. Blake,” Anne said.

“And Mr. Blake.”

They both laughed softly and took their leave of each other for the night.

Frances leaned her head back against the closed door when she was finally inside her room. She closed her eyes, but she could not stop a few hot tears from escaping and rolling down her cheeks.

She had actually been feeling happy—not just contented or gratified or pleased, but happy. Mr. Blake had been attentive but not cloyingly so all evening. He had been an amiable, interesting companion. She had considered him quite seriously as a possible beau and had decided that she really would be foolish to discourage him. It felt good to be in company with a man again and to feel herself liked and even admired. Her decision had pleased her. It meant that she had finally put behind her that slight incident after Christmas as well as everything from years ago. It meant that she was looking to a brighter future.

And she had been singing again. That was what had caused the active happiness. She did not care that perhaps she had chosen the wrong song. The point was that she had chosen what she wanted to sing, and though she had been absorbed in the singing of it, as she always was when she performed, she had also been aware that in fact it had not been the wrong song after all. She had sensed the favorable reaction of her listeners, and she had felt that almost-forgotten excitement of forging with them the strong, joyful, invisible bond that could sometimes unite artist and audience. When she had finished singing and heard the momentary hush that followed the final bars of the music, she had known—ah, yes, that was when she had known happiness.

And then she had opened her eyes and smiled about at her audience and . . .

And had found herself gazing at Lucius Marshall.

At first there had been simple, mindless shock. And then the plunge from happiness to wretchedness had been total. And now she felt mortally weary.

He was back in Bath when she no longer wanted him to be there. Only now would she admit to herself that for days, even weeks, after his departure she had hoped and hoped that he would come back.

How foolish and unreasonable of her!

Now he had come back, but he had made no attempt to call upon her. He would no doubt have left again without her ever knowing he had been here if there had not been the accident of tonight’s meeting.

It hurt that he had made no attempt to see her.

There was no such thing as common sense, it seemed, in affairs of the heart.

When Lucius knocked on the door of Miss Martin’s school the following afternoon he was admitted by an elderly, stoop-shouldered porter, who wore a black coat shiny with age, boots that squeaked with every step he took, and a shrewd squint that said as clearly as words that every man who stepped over the threshold was to be considered an enemy to be watched closely.

Lucius cocked an eloquent eyebrow at the man as he was shown into a not-quite-shabby visitors’ parlor and shut firmly inside while the porter went to inform Miss Allard of his lordship’s arrival. But it was not she who was first to come. It was another lady—of medium height and ramrod-straight posture and severe demeanor. Even before she introduced herself, Lucius realized that this must be Miss Martin herself, despite the fact that she was younger than he might have expected, surely no more than a year or two older than himself.

“Miss Allard will be another five minutes yet,” she explained after introducing herself. “She is conducting a practice with the senior choir.”

“Is she indeed, ma’am?” he said briskly. “You are fortunate to have such an accomplished musician as a teacher here.”

It had bothered him—or his pride anyway—for a whole month before he put her from his mind that Frances had chosen to teach at a girls’ school rather than go away with him. But since last evening he had found himself even more bothered that anyone with such a truly glorious voice could have chosen a teaching career when an illustrious career as a singer could have been hers with the mere snap of her fingers. It made no sense to him. She made no sense to him. And the fact that he did not know her, did not understand her, had kept him awake and irritable through much of the night. He scarcely knew her at all, he realized, and yet he was allowing her to haunt him again as no other woman had come close to doing.

“And no one is more sensible of that fact than I, Lord Sinclair,” Miss Martin said, folding her hands at her waist. “It is gratifying to have her talent recognized by no less a person than the earl, your grandfather, and I am pleased that he has seen fit to invite her to take tea with him. However, Miss Allard has duties at this school and will need to be back here by half past five.”

By the time this headmistress grew into an old battle-ax, Lucius thought, she would have had much practice. No doubt her girls—and her teachers—were all terrified of her. Good lord, it was almost a quarter to four now.

“I shall return her here not even one second past the half hour, ma’am,” he said, raising his eyebrows and regarding her with cool hauteur. But if she felt in any way intimidated, she did not show it.

“I wish I could spare a maid to accompany her,” she said, “but I cannot.”

Good Lord!

“You must trust to my gentleman’s honor, then, ma’am,” he told her curtly.

She did not like him—or trust him. That was perfectly clear. The reason was less so. Did she know about that