and there are no expectations of you?” “Oh, yes, of course,” she said, “but I seriously doubt there is such a corner.” She touched his hand and lowered her voice. “Are you regretting this, Joseph? Did Uncle Webster force you into it?” “My engagement?” He laughed lightly. “No, of course not. Portia will make an admirable duchess.” “And an admirable wife too?” She looked closely at him. “I do want to see you happy, Joseph. You have always been my favorite cousin, I must confess . My favorite male cousin, at least, since I cannot claim to have loved you more than I do Lauren. But then Lauren and I grew up more as sisters than cousins.” As if summoned by the mention of her name, Lauren joined them at that moment, bringing Miss Martin with her. “Gwen,” she said after a few minutes, “come to the supper room with me for a minute, will you? There is something upon which I need your opinion.” Neville and Lily were leaving the room via the French windows, Joseph could see. They were taking Portia and McLeith with them, presumably for a stroll outside. And so they were virtually alone together again, he and Miss Martin. She was wearing a dark blue gown that he had seen more than once in London. Her hair was dressed as severely as it ever had been. Once again she looked unmistakably a schoolteacher, remarkably plainly turned out in contrast with all the other ladies. But he could no longer see her with the old eyes. He could see only the firmness of character, the kindness, the intelligence, the…yes, the passion for life that had endeared her to him. “Are you happy to be back with some of your pupils?” he asked her. “I am,” she said. “It is with them I belong.” “I want to see them,” he said. “I want to see Lizzie.” “And she wants to see you,” she told him. “She knows you are here, not far away from her. At the same time, she is convinced that the girls will no longer like her if they know she has a father, and such a wealthy one. She has told me that if you come she will pretend not to know you. She thinks it would be a funny game.” And of course it would suit his purposes admirably. But he felt grim at the very thought that for different reasons they must hide their relationship from others. Miss Martin touched his hand, just as Gwen had done a few minutes ago. “She is really quite happy,” she told him. “She thinks of these weeks as a marvelous adventure, though she told me last night that she still does not want to go to school. She wants to go home.” He felt strangely comforted by the thought—strange when it would be far more convenient for him if she went away. “She may change her mind,” she said. “Is she educable, then?” he asked her. “I think she may be,” she said, “and Eleanor Thompson agrees with me. It would take some ingenuity, of course, to fit her into our routine with tasks that are both meaningful and possible for her, but we have never shunned a doable challenge.” “What personal satisfaction do you draw from your life?” he asked, leaning a little closer to her. And then he wished fervently that he had not asked such an impulsive and impertinent question. “There are many persons in my life, Lord Attingsborough,” she said, “whom I can love in both an abstract, emotional sense and in practical ways. Not everyone can say as much.” It was not a good enough answer. “But does there not have to be one special someone?” he asked her. “Like Lizzie for you?” she asked. It was not what he had meant. Even Lizzie was not enough. Oh, she was, she was—but…But not for that deep core of himself that craved a mate, an equal, a sexual partner. He completely forgot for the moment that he already had such a person in his life. He had a betrothed. “Yes,” he said. “But it is not what you meant, is it?” she asked him, searching his eyes with her own. “We are not all fated to find that special someone, Lord Attingsborough. Or if we are, sometimes we are fated also to lose that person. And what do we do when it happens? Sit around moping and feeling tragic for the rest of our lives? Or find other people to love, other people to benefit from the love that wells constantly from within ourselves if we do not deliberately stop the flow?” He sat back in his chair, his eyes still on her. Ah, but he did indeed have that special someone in his life. But only on the periphery of it—and always to remain there. She had come too late. Though there would never have been the right time, would there? Miss Martin was not of his world—and he was not of hers. “I choose to love others,” she said. “I love all my girls, even those who are least lovable. And, believe me, there are plenty of those.” She smiled. But she had admitted to what he had always suspected, always sensed in her. She was an essentially lonely woman. As he was essentially lonely—on the very evening when a large company of relatives and friends had gathered to celebrate his betrothal and he had persuaded himself that he was happy. He was going to have to make this up to Portia. He was going to have to love her with all the deliberate power of his will. “I must try to emulate you, Miss Martin,” he said. “It is perhaps enough,” she said, “that you love Lizzie.” Ah, she knew, then. Or she knew, at least, that he did not love Portia as he ought. “But is it enough that I will not acknowledge her publicly?” he asked. She tipped her head slightly to one side and thought—a characteristic reaction of hers when other persons might have rushed into a glib answer. “I know you feel guilty about that,” she said, “and perhaps with good reason. But not for the reason you always fear. You are not ashamed of her. I have seen you with her and I can assure you of that. But you are trapped between two worlds—the one you have inherited and to which you are firmly committed by the fact that you are the heir to a dukedom, and the one you made for yourself when you created Lizzie with your mistress. Both worlds are important to you—the one because you are impelled by duty, the other because you are enmeshed in love. And both are worlds that will pull at you forever.” “Forever.” He smiled ruefully at her. “Yes,” she said. “Duty and love. But especially love.” He was about to reach out for her hand, forgetting his surroundings again, when Portfrey and Elizabeth joined them. Elizabeth wanted to know about the little blind girl she had heard Miss Martin had brought to Lindsey Hall. Miss Martin told her about Lizzie. “How very brave and admirable of you, Miss Martin,” Elizabeth said. “I would love to meet her and all your other charity girls too. May I? Or would it appear to be an intrusion, as if I thought them merely an amusing curiosity? Lyndon and I have extended the school at home so that all local children are eligible to attend, but I have toyed with the idea of making it also a boarding school to accommodate children from farther distances.” “I think,” Miss Martin said, “the girls would be delighted to meet you.” “I have just persuaded Miss Martin to let me come on the same errand,” Joseph said. “I met two of her former pupils when I escorted them and her to London several weeks ago, and now they are at Lindsey Hall too, one as governess to the Hallmere children, the other as governess to Aidan Bedwyn’s children.” “Ah,” Elizabeth said, “then we will go together, Joseph. Will tomorrow afternoon suit you, Miss Martin, weather permitting?” And so it was arranged—as simply as that. Tomorrow he would see Lizzie. And Miss Martin again. Lily and Neville were coming inside, he noticed. Portia and McLeith remained outside. When she came back in, Joseph thought, he was going to have to spend the rest of the evening with her, perhaps in private conversation if it could be arranged. He was going to love her, by Jove, even if he could never fall in love with her. He owed her that much. Miss Martin got to her feet, bade him good night, and went to join the Butlers and the Whitleafs. Soon she was glowing with animation. 15
Some of the older girls had gone out for a walk. One of the younger ones was playing quietly and ploddingly on the spinet in the schoolroom at Lindsey Hall. Another read silently to herself, curled up on the window seat. A third was embroidering a large daisy across the corner of a cotton handkerchief. Molly was reading aloud from Robinson Crusoe, and Becky, Lady Aidan’s elder daughter, was listening with rapt attention. Claudia was teaching Lizzie to knit, having cast on twenty stitches and knitted up a few rows to get her started. The collie lay at their feet, his head on his paws, his eyes turned upward. Claudia looked up when the door opened. It was Eleanor, who had been enjoying a prolonged breakfast with the duchess. “Miss Martin,” she said, “the Duke of McLeith has ridden over from Alvesley again and wishes to see you. I will stay with the girls while you are gone. Oh, Lizzie is learning to knit, is she? Let me see if I can help. And I do apologize, Molly. I have interrupted your reading. Please continue.” Her eyes twinkled at Claudia. They had had a long talk after Charlie’s last visit. Eleanor was convinced that his interest was more than just fraternal. Claudia found him in the morning room downstairs, in conversation with the Duke of Bewcastle and Lord Aidan. Both withdrew soon after her arrival. She sat. Charlie did not. He crossed the room to the window instead and stood looking out. His clasped hands tapped against his back. “Ever since you forced me to remember,” he said, “the flood-gates of memory have opened, Claudia. Not just remembered events, which are relatively easy to forget, but remembered feelings, which never can be. They can only be suppressed. In the last week I have done nothing but remember how wretchedly unhappy I was after I left you, and how totally unable I was to come back to face you when I felt obliged to marry someone else. I really had no choice, you know. I had to marry—” “Someone from your own world,” she said, interrupting him. “Someone who would not shame or embarrass you with the inferiority of her birth and manners.” He turned his head to look at her. “That was not it,” he said. “I never thought those things about you, Claudia.” “Did you not?” she said. “Was it someone impersonating your handwriting who wrote that final letter to me, then?” “I did not write those things,” he protested. “You were sorry to be so plain with me,” she said, “but really you ought not to have been taken to live with Papa and me in the first place since there was always the possibility that you would inherit a dukedom one day. You ought to have been given a home and upbringing more suited to your station. The fact that you had lived with us all those years had put you in an awkward position with your peers. I must understand why you felt it necessary to break off all connection with me. You were a duke now. You must not be seen to associate too closely with people who were beneath your notice. You were to marry Lady Mona Chesterton, who was everything a duchess and your wife ought to be.” “Claudia!” He looked pale and aghast. “I did not write those things.” “Then I wonder who did,” she said. “Losing someone one loves is one of the worst
