Simply Perfect

he realized now, that she would not. The real chance that he might have to part with Lizzie for months at a time smote him. “It might be a good trial,” she said. “She needs air and exercise and…fun. She will surely get some of all three at Lindsey Hall. She will meet Eleanor Thompson and ten of the girls from the school. She will be with me daily. It will give us all a chance to discover whether schooling will be of any benefit to her and whether Eleanor and I can offer her enough to make the experience—and the fees—worthwhile. And yet it will all be done in the relaxed atmosphere of a holiday.” He could not fault any of her reasoning. It sounded like an eminently sensible suggestion. But his stomach clenched with something that felt like panic. “Lindsey Hall is a large place,” he said. “And the park is large. She would be intolerably bewildered.” “My school is large, Lord Attingsborough,” Miss Martin said. But that would be different. Would it not? He leaned forward on the seat, rested his elbows on his knees, his hands hanging loose between them. He lowered his head and closed his eyes. There was a lengthy silence between them while the sounds of music and voices and laughter coming from the ballroom wafted on the air. She was the one who spoke first. “You conceived the idea of sending Lizzie to school,” she said, “not because it would solve the problem of who was to take care of her and not because you wished to be rid of her—though I believe those are what you fear are your motives. You need not fear any such thing. I have seen how you love her. No child has ever been more loved.” She was using her other voice—her pure woman’s voice. “Then why do I feel I am betraying her?” he asked. “Because she is blind,” she said. “And because she is illegitimate. And you wish to protect her from the consequences of both by smothering her with your love.” “Smothering,” he said, a dull ache in his heart. “Is that what I do to her? Is that what I have always done?” He knew she was right. “She has as much right to live as anyone else,” she said. “She has as much right to make her own decisions, to explore her world, to dream of her future, and to work to bring those dreams true. I am not at all sure school is the right thing for her, Lord Attingsborough. But it may very well be the best thing under the circumstances.” The circumstances being that Sonia was dead and he was about to marry Portia Hunt and there would be very little place for his daughter in his life. “What if she does not want to go?” he asked. “Then her wishes must be respected and some other option found,” she said. “This is my condition, you see—if, that is, you approve my plan. Lizzie must agree to it too. And if at the end of the summer I decide to offer her a place at my school, then Lizzie must be the one to accept or reject it. That is always my condition. I have told you that before.” He rubbed his hands over his face and sat up. “You must think me a very sorry creature, Miss Martin,” he said. “No,” she said. “Merely a concerned and loving father.” “I do not always feel like one,” he said. “I have seriously considered taking her to America with me and setting up a new life there. I could be with her all the time. We would both be happy.” She did not reply, and he felt foolish. He had thought of taking Lizzie to America, it was true, but he had always known that he would not actually do it—that he could not. He would be Duke of Anburey one day, and many lives would be dependent upon him and many duties incumbent on him. The notion of freedom of choice was often an illusion. And then a thought struck him and he was surprised it had not occurred to him sooner. “But I will be close by,” he said, lifting his head and turning to look at her. “I am going to be at Alvesley Park for the Earl and Countess of Redfield’s anniversary. Alvesley is only a few miles from Lindsey Hall. Did you know that?” “Yes, I did,” she said. “I also knew of the party because Susanna and Peter are going there. I had not realized you were to be there too, though.” “I will be able to see Lizzie,” he said. “I will be able to spend time with her.” “Yes, if you wish,” she said, looking steadily back at him. “If I wish?” “Your family and friends may wonder at your interest in a mere charity girl from my school,” she said. “A charity girl?” He frowned. “I will pay double your fee, Miss Martin, if Lizzie is willing to go to your school and is likely to be happy there.” “I told the duchess that the girl I may take with me is a charity case recommended by Mr. Hatchard,” she said. “I take it you do not wish the truth to be known?” He stared at her in some anger before turning his head away and closing his eyes. His mother and father, Wilma, Kit’s family, Bewcastle’s family—all would be offended if they discovered that his daughter was at Lindsey Hall while he was at nearby Alvesley. Not to mention Portia Hunt. Gentlemen just did not expose their illegitimate offspring to their very legitimate families and acquaintances. “And so I must behave as if I am ashamed of the most precious person in my life?” he asked. It was, of course, a rhetorical question. She did not answer it. “I will see her there and spend time with her, regardless,” he added. “Yes, it is agreed, then, Miss Martin. Lizzie will go to Lindsey Hall—if she will say yes, of course, and you and she and Miss Thompson will decide among you whether she will then go on to school in Bath.” “You are not, you know,” she said, “agreeing to her execution, Lord Attingsborough.” He turned his head to look at her again and laughed softly but without humor. “You must understand,” he said, “that my heart is breaking.” Too late he heard the sentimental hyperbole of his words and wondered if they could possibly be true. “I do,” she said. “Now, I must meet Lizzie again. I must have a talk with her and see if I can persuade her to come to Lindsey Hall to spend a few weeks of the summer with some other girls and me. I do not know for certain how she will answer, but I believe there is more to your daughter than you have been willing to recognize, Lord Attingsborough. You have been blinded by love.” “A nice irony, that,” he said. “Tomorrow, then? In the afternoon? At the same time as usual?” “Very well,” she said. “And I will, if I may, bring the dog with me. He is a friendly little thing, and she may like him.” She was still sitting as before. With her face half in light, half in shadow she looked very appealing. It was hard to remember his first impression of her when she had stepped inside the visitors’ parlor at her school, looking stern and humorless. “Thank you,” he said. He reached out and covered her hands with one of his own. “You are very generous.” “And perhaps very foolish,” she said. “How on earth can I offer any sort of an education to someone who cannot see? I have never thought of myself as a wonder worker.” He had no answer for her. But he curled his fingers about one of her hands and raised it to his lips. “Even for what you have done and are prepared to do I thank you,” he said. “You have looked upon my daughter not just as an illegitimate child who has the additional disadvantage of being blind, but as a person worthy of a meaningful life. You have persuaded her to run and laugh and shout with glee just like any other child. Now you are prepared to give her a summer of fun that has surely always been beyond her wildest dreams—or mine.” “I believe,” she said, “that if I were a Papist I would be eligible for sainthood, Lord Attingsborough.” He loved her dry humor and chuckled softly. “I believe the music has stopped,” he said, pausing for a moment to listen. “And it was the supper dance. May I escort you to the supper room and fill a plate for you?” She took her time about answering. Her hand was still in his on his lap, he realized. “We waltzed together,” she said, “and then left the ballroom together. Perhaps we would create the wrong impression if we sat at supper together too. Perhaps you ought to go and sit with Miss Hunt, Lord Attingsborough. I will remain here for a while. I am not hungry.” To the devil with Miss Hunt, he almost said aloud. But he stopped himself in time. She had done absolutely nothing to deserve such open disrespect, and indeed it could be said that he had neglected her somewhat this evening. He had danced with her only once. “You are afraid,” he said, “that people will think I am dallying with you?” She turned her face, and he could see that she looked suddenly amused. “I very much doubt anyone would think that,” she said. “But they might very well think that I am angling for you.” “You belittle yourself,” he said. “Have you looked at yourself in a glass lately?” she asked him. “And have you?” She smiled slowly. “You are gallant,” she said, “and kind. I am not angling for you, you may be relieved to know.” He raised her hand to his lips again and then, instead of releasing it, he laced their fingers together and rested their hands on the seat between them. She made no comment and did not try to snatch her hand away. “If you are not hungry,” he said, “I will sit here with you until the dancing starts again. It is pleasant here.” “Yes,” she said. And they sat there for a long time just as they were, without speaking. Almost everyone else must have gone for supper, including the orchestra. Apart from a few stray voices coming from the direction of the balcony, they might have been all alone. The lamplight beamed across the small pond, outlining a few lily pads. A slight breeze caused the fronds of the willow tree to sway before them. The air was cool—and then perhaps a little more than just cool. He felt her shiver. He released her hand and removed his evening coat—not an easy thing to do when it had been made fashionably form-fitting. He set it about her shoulders and kept his hand there, to hold it in place. With his other hand he took hers again. Neither of them spoke a word. She made no objection to his arm about her shoulders or her hand in his. Beneath his touch she was neither stiff nor yielding. He relaxed. The extraordinary notion occurred to him—not for the first time—that perhaps he was falling ever so slightly in love with Miss Claudia Martin. But it was an absurd idea. He liked her. He respected her. He was grateful to her. There was even a touch of tenderness mingled in with the gratitude because she had shown so much kindness to Lizzie without demonstrating any moral outrage toward him for having begotten an illegitimate child. He was comfortable with her. Those feelings did not equate with love. But there had been last evening. If she had turned her head, perhaps he would have kissed her again. He was glad she did not—perhaps. At last he could hear the orchestra tuning their instruments. And once again he thought about Miss Hunt, to whom he was honor-bound to make a marriage offer. “The dancing will be resuming soon,” he said. “Yes,” she said, and she got to her feet a moment before he did. He struggled back into his coat. His valet would probably weep if he could see how his shirt wrinkled beneath it. He offered his arm and she took it before they walked in the direction of the ballroom. He stopped after they had climbed the steps to the balcony. “I will