“As I mentioned to you once before, she does not approve of anyone. It is a tone she has adopted for decades to shield herself from further injury. Not knowing her, one would think her impervious, when in truth, the very opposite is the case. She is as fragile as sugarpane. Shall we walk on?” Darlington offered C.J. his arm as they continued to wend their way through the lush gardens. After a considerable distance, the earl halted their progress to admire a half dozen men and women clad in light-colored clothes, thoroughly enjoying themselves on one of the manicured lawns. A gleeful young woman clapped her hands as she successfully knocked away a gentleman’s ball, bringing her own black spheroid inches closer to the small white ball at the end of the bowling green.
“Lady Charlotte Digby,” Darlington informed his companion, as he nodded in the direction of the giddy young bowler. “Her uncle, Admiral Henry Digby, is a highly decorated officer in His Majesty’s navy.”
“Yes, I heard her name mentioned at the assembly. You were speaking with her and her parents at the time, I believe.”
“The Digbys are especial friends of my aunt’s. Lady Charlotte is her godchild.”
“Ahh. The black ones look a bit like cannonballs,” C.J. remarked, trying to suppress a pang of jealousy as she observed the game. “Do you not think so, sir?”
“Indeed,” the earl mused. “I had not thought of it in that way before. And I should be quite content if I never clapped eyes on a cannonball again. Although some explosions can be quite spectacular. Have you ever seen a fireworks display, Miss Welles?”
“Oh yes,” she replied enthusiastically, although she would have liked to continue their earlier discussion. But, by degrees, she was slowly getting used to not “pushing.” She was becoming less American. Less twenty-first century. This behavioral modification was like wearing a new garment. It pinched and pulled at times in all the wrong places, and she still had trouble deciding if it suited her.
Darlington looked somewhat disappointed with her response. “Silly of me to imagine that you had never seen fireworks. As you are accustomed to life in London, you have surely seen that sort of spectacular pageantry. I confess that I foolishly had hoped to escort you to your very first experience at such an exhibition. They are regularly held on midsummer evenings, right where we stand.”
“No . . . I meant . . .” ’Twere well it were done quickly, C.J. thought to herself. “Your lordship, if this afternoon is a time for us to be honest with one another, then it is only proper that—”
Lord Darlington took C.J.’s hand and regarded her imploringly. “I beg of you not to distress yourself. I know what you are about to say, Miss Welles.”
How could he? C.J. wondered. It was impossible. And before she could utter a word, the earl returned to the subject of his stunning admission. “Miss Welles, I have yet another confession to make.” His cadences accelerated as though he feared she might interrupt at any moment. “Miss Welles, while it is true that we never met before your aunt introduced us at tea the other day, I admit to having seen you before then. On one prior occasion.”
C.J.’s heart sank into the earth beneath her feet. She had expected the worst, even believed she was prepared for its eventual announcement, but never had she felt so entirely bereft. Of words. Of explanations. Of hope.
“Lady Cassandra, I first became fascinated by your remarkable gifts when I glimpsed you before the bar at the assizes. The country proceedings keep me in touch with the concerns of the lower classes.” He noticed C.J.’s face, now streaked with tears, and touched a finger to her chin to tip her gaze to his. “You were in such an unfortunate state, accused without benefit of a serjeant-at-law to plead for you. Your transgression was so entirely understandable to any sensible soul.” Darlington removed his glove and gently wiped away C.J.’s tears with his fingers. “You may be assured, Miss Welles, that once I discovered your true identity, I endeavored to purchase, and then destroy, as many copies of the transcript of your trial as I could locate; and I offered Mr. Cruttwell a handsome sum to discontinue any further publication. I wished to ensure that no additional damage would be done to your character. The public adores no greater scandal than when a mishap befalls a member of the aristocracy.”
C.J. began to cry even harder, partly out of gratitude for the earl’s uncommon act of chivalry; partly from amazement that he still believed she was Lady Dalrymple’s niece, despite the circumstances under which he had first laid eyes on her; partly from the revelation of how narrowly she had escaped notoriety; and partly from relief that his lordship never came close to suspecting the reality of her state of affairs.
She thought about the fact that there existed published transcripts of her trial. Pausing for a moment’s reflection, she recalled learning at some point that scandal sheets containing all the particulars of celebrated trials were published and sold for a few shillings. Miss Austen’s own aunt had fallen victim to the procedure only a year earlier, accused of stealing a length of lace by a pair of greedy shopkeepers enamored of the Leigh-Perrot wealth.
Darlington studied C.J.’s face, his own registering a degree of confusion. “Miss Welles, I thought this news would cheer you. Now you need not fear any censure owing to the unfortunate experiences that attended your arrival in Bath.”
“I am . . . immensely grateful to your lordship once again,” C.J. said, attempting to recover her equanimity. She clasped Darlington’s hands. “I wish I could repay you somehow for your kindness . . . and yet, to be entirely forthright, I feel there is so much more I must share with you—”
They were nearly blinded
