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
