PoetsandPromises (15 page)

Lord Sherbourne handed his hat and stick to the footman at
the Comtesse de Fleurille’s and followed the butler to Miss Thibeau’s studio.
This was to be the final sitting for his portrait, a portrait he had once
thought to give Miss Ashwood but now suspected he would present to his sister
instead. A portrait did not seem an appropriate gift for a woman who gave her
kisses to another man, Sherbourne thought bitterly as the butler stepped back
to allow the viscount to enter the studio. How could she have allowed Shelley
to take such a liberty not twelve hours after their frank conversation as they
walked along the Cobb? Had the words meant nothing to her? Was she so shallow?

“If your lordship will be pleased to wait in here I will
inform Miss Thibeau of your arrival,” the butler said respectfully.

While he waited for Miss Thibeau to be summoned Lord
Sherbourne made an effort to get his thoughts away from Miss Ashwood and her
shocking behavior and looked interestedly around the studio. Paints and brushes
were neatly put away and the rabbit slept quietly in his slatted wooden box but
the viscount noticed a stack of several canvases leaning against the far wall.
Curious to see more of the Frenchwoman’s art, he crossed the room and began to
inspect them one by one. Most were bold but realistic renderings of the flowers
Miss Thibeau appeared to enjoy painting but toward the end of the stack he
found a painting of her long-haired rabbit sitting on a cushion, followed by
one of a cat lying asleep in a lush garden of summer flowers.

“That is my aunt’s
chat
,”
Miss Thibeau spoke, coming into room. “You like the painting, yes, Lord
Sherbourne?”

“Yes,” Sherbourne agreed. “Your renderings of the rabbit and
cat are most lifelike. I was thinking I must have you paint my sister’s cat. I
believe it would please her greatly.”

“I should be happy to do the likeness of the
chat
of Lady Parker,”
Evonne agreed, pulling her paint smock over her striped afternoon dress and
tying it at the neck, the action somehow creating a sense of intimacy between
them. “For the
chat
I must go to her home however, as the
chat,
she
will not like coming here. You must ask the Lady Parker if that would be
acceptable to her.

“But today we have the last sitting for the likeness of you.
Please to take the chair as before, Lord Sherbourne,” Miss Thibeau instructed
as she deftly mixed her paints and prepared her palette.

“The harp was fine last night, was it not, Lord Sherbourne?”
Evonne asked as she worked. “I see Mademoiselle Ashwood with the Lady Parker
there. You have found the match for her yet? You follow my advice and find the
poet, yes?”

A vision of Miss Ashwood in Shelley’s arms, kissing, flashed
through Sherbourne’s mind as he settled into the chair by the east window and
he answered brusquely. “No, Miss Thibeau, I do not think a poet is a good match
for a young woman of good family.”

Evonne looked at him shrewdly. “So the
artistes
, you
think they have not enough of the, how do I say, the good character?” she asked
as she began to paint.

“Miss Thibeau, you make your question difficult for me to
answer with courtesy,” Sherbourne replied, knowing her words were intentionally
provocative. “An artist may be of good or bad character, as may a person of any
vocation. But many of the gentlemen of a poetical turn of mind appear to have
their own set of values and those values do not often correspond to those of
society as a whole.”

“Ah, but that is part of their attraction, is it not?”
Evonne asked with a smile. “As I tell the Monsieur Earlywine the first time
here, we like the person who is not like us, yes? And you, perhaps, you might
like the French
artiste
because she is not like you English, yes?”

Surprised by the direct invitation, Sherbourne was even more
surprised to find himself considering for a fleeting moment what it would be
like to accept it. Miss Thibeau had an undeniable charm and the promise of
passion was like a thick perfume that filled the air around her. No man could
be in her presence and not have a thought of what might be pass through his
mind. But even though he had come to have serious doubts about his betrothal to
Miss Ashwood since their excursion to Lyme, Lord Sherbourne knew he would not take
Miss Thibeau up on her offer. In his heart he knew that what he longed for most
after his difficult years in India was to share a country life and have a
family with a woman of exceptionable character. He doubted that Miss Thibeau
would appreciate either a quiet life or a country life.

“I like the French
artiste
to paint my likeness and
that of my sister’s cat because her style is so unusual, yes, Miss Thibeau,”
Sherbourne answered. “And consider myself fortunate that I have met a young
woman with such a talent.”

Evonne gave a slight shrug, accepting Sherbourne’s
delicately worded refusal philosophically. “Then see what the
artiste
she has done for you,” she invited, putting her palette and brush down and
turning the canvas so that Lord Sherbourne might inspect his completed
likeness.

Elisabeth looked up at the painting of Sherbourne which had
been hung in the drawing room with dislike. She wished Lady Parker had hung it
in her bedchamber instead. It was not that the likeness was not good—Elisabeth
had to admit that Miss Thibeau had captured Sherbourne’s character as well as
his likeness. One could see the strength, both of character and of body, in the
lines of the tanned face, a strength tempered by a hint of compassion and
understanding in the eyes. But the portrait was a constant reminder to her both
of the times the viscount had spent in the artist’s company sitting for the
portrait and also of the fascination the artist seemed to hold for Lord
Sherbourne.

“It is very like, is it not?” Lady Parker asked, noting
Elisabeth’s intent gaze at the portrait.

“Yes, it is,” Elisabeth admitted.

“Richard has engaged Miss Thibeau to paint Revati as well.
He tells me the artist paints animals as well as flowers and portraits.”

Elisabeth struggled to conceal her dismay at the thought of
the charming artist coming to Lady Parker’s town house to paint Revati.
Reaching for her embroidery, Elisabeth busied herself picking out some poorly
done stitches as she thought about Lord Sherbourne. She could still barely
comprehend the change in their friendship. It seemed only days ago that she and
Lord Sherbourne had waltzed across the floor at Almack’s, lost in a world of
their own. Even had the viscount viewed the kiss with the poet, how could it
have so completely destroyed that special understanding of each other that had
blossomed during their walk along the Cobb in Lyme Regis? How could it just
vanish? Surely he would at least broach the subject and give her a chance to
explain?

“Lord Sherbourne,” the butler announced.

Elisabeth greeted Lord Sherbourne, searching his face for
any hint of warm feelings, but saw only an impassive courtesy.

“I came to inquire if you would come with me for a drive in
the Park,” Sherbourne asked Elisabeth after greeting his sister.

Hoping the invitation presaged a return to the easy
companionship of a few weeks before, Elisabeth hastened upstairs to get her
bonnet. Perhaps, she mused hopefully, she had been wrong in thinking there had
been a change for the worse between Lord Sherbourne and herself. Perhaps it had
been her imagination, fueled by an irrational jealousy of Miss Thibeau.

But Elisabeth’s doubts crept in again as Lord Sherbourne
directed his tilbury to the less-frequented byways of Hyde Park in silence.

“Miss Ashwood,” Sherbourne finally broke his silence as he
slowed the tilbury even more, “I brought you for a drive that we might have
privacy in which to speak, as I have something I wish to discuss with you.”

“Yes, Lord Sherbourne?” Elisabeth replied, instinctively
knowing she was not going to be pleased with what was said.

“When I asked your father for your hand it was with the best
of intentions. I remembered you from a child with some fondness and the match
seemed eligible in every way,” the viscount began diplomatically, not referring
directly to the financial hardship of Elisabeth’s father.

“But I could not help but see—after you arrived in
London—that the betrothal did not appear to have your wholehearted agreement,”
Sherbourne continued. “For a time I thought you might become reconciled to it
but…” He paused.

“I have decided it might be best not to announce our
betrothal at the end of the season as was planned,” he finished abruptly. “I
think we must be happy that we gave ourselves this time of reflection before a
public announcement of our intentions was made. It will allow us to end the
betrothal with no one the wiser.”

Elisabeth’s heart dropped and her throat seized up. How
could Lord Sherbourne end their betrothal? It could not be. Even in her worst
imaginings she had not considered this happening! Surely no gentleman would
take this course of action! Overwhelming desolation at the thought of a life
without Lord Sherbourne filled her being. And what of the agreement with her
father? What would now happen to her brother? Would he lose his patrimony?

“I will, naturally, undertake to see that your family does
not suffer from this change of heart we have had,” Lord Sherbourne added as
though he had read her mind.

“Have…have I displeased you in some way?” Elisabeth asked
when she could manage to speak around the terrible thickness of her tongue. “I
assure you, Lord Sherbourne, I was not opposed to our arrangement.” Seeing no
change in the viscount’s expression she continued, “Lord Sherbourne, we
discussed this as we walked along the Cobb but a short time ago. I said then
that I had come to be very happy with the arrangement for our marriage and you
said the same.”

“That is what we said at the time but your actions since
would appear to indicate otherwise,” Sherbourne said tightly, keeping his face
averted from hers and concentrating on the road.

“What do you mean?” Elisabeth asked, fearing the worst.

“I saw you allow Shelley to take liberties with you on board
the
Swallow
,” Lord Sherbourne answered bluntly.

“But…but I did not invite his embraces,” Elisabeth defended
herself. “It was unexpected. If you saw the kiss you must have seen that.”

“Perhaps, but you did not appear to find the kiss
distasteful,” Lord Sherbourne countered.

“I was taken unaware,” Elisabeth explained in desperation.
“I know it was wrong but I could not think at that moment. Mr. Shelley meant
nothing by it—it is his way. You yourself have told me that the literary set do
not abide by the rules of society.”

“No, but I would expect my future wife to do so,” Lord
Sherbourne replied unanswerably.

Elisabeth fought to keep gathering tears from spilling down
her cheeks. She could understand Lord Sherbourne being upset with her for
allowing the kiss but to end the betrothal! Such things were not done unless
under extreme provocation. Why would he do such a thing? A picture of the
French artist and her voluptuous charms flashed into her mind.

“Is it that you wish to be free to wed Miss Thibeau?”
Elisabeth asked abruptly in a choked voice.

“Miss Thibeau has nothing to do with this decision,”
Sherbourne answered shortly. “I feel it is what we both wish, if we are
honest.”

But it is not what I wish
! Elisabeth longed to cry
out. She sensed that if she insisted on Lord Sherbourne going through with the
betrothal that he would not refuse—no gentleman in his position could. But did
she wish to marry a man who patently did not wish to marry her? Elisabeth
fought desperately not to succumb to despair as she made her decision, pride
coming to her rescue. “If this is what you wish, Lord Sherbourne,” she said,
marveling that she kept her voice steady and free of emotion.

“I think it best. We shall say nothing to anyone until after
the Season, not even to my sister or Earlywine. At the end of the Season we
will simply inform my sister and your family that we have decided we do not
suit.”

Upon her return to the town house Elisabeth ran immediately
up to her bedchamber where she asked Molly to draw the curtains and leave her
alone to rest because she had a headache. After a doubtful and concerned look
at her mistress the maid did as she was ordered and Elisabeth buried her face
in the pillows and let the bitter tears fall. What was she to do? Who could she
turn to for advice? She could not confide in Lady Parker or Miss Earlywine.
They would not understand and she was too ashamed to admit to them that Lord
Sherbourne had ended their betrothal. There was only Jane. She must write Jane
and ask for her advice after binding her to secrecy. But even to Jane Elisabeth
could not tell all the truth, for Elisabeth dared not confess to the vicar’s
wife what had passed with the poet on the sloop.

After Lord Sherbourne left Elisabeth at his sister’s town
house on Half Moon Street he directed his tilbury toward Hampstead. In truth he
did not particularly wish to speak with the argumentative Hunt but he did
desire time alone in which to think over his recent actions and the drive would
give him that opportunity.

Had he done right to end his betrothal to Miss Ashwood? Even
though the betrothal had not been made public, was it truly the action of a
gentleman? Had he acted in haste? He had not missed Miss Ashwood’s initial
stricken look at his announcement. Although she had quickly gained control of
her countenance, Miss Ashwood had clearly been deeply shaken by his words. Had
he misjudged? Had Miss Ashwood come to desire the betrothal and even to care
for him, or was her reaction caused by concern over her family’s future if the
promised marriage settlement was not paid?

Lord Sherbourne’s self-interrogation continued until he
found himself driving past Hunt’s door. Thinking he might as well speak to Hunt
since he was there, the viscount tied his horse and rapped upon the door with
his stick.

“Sherbourne,” Hunt said in surprise, opening the door
himself, for Hunt’s precarious finances did not allow for many servants.
“Marianne is preparing a luncheon. You must stay, of course, although I am
afraid we must dine alone. Keats is still attending lectures in medicine
despite my advice to the contrary, Hazlitt is otherwise occupied and the
Shelleys are at Marlowe now, of course.”

“I am in no state of mind to be cheerful for company,”
Sherbourne admitted as he followed Hunt into their cluttered drawing room. And
I must confess I would as lief dine in quiet.”

“What is amiss? An affair of the heart? It must be—nothing
else can cause a man to look so down at the mouth,” Hunt said as he moved a
pile of papers off a chair and sat down, motioning for Sherbourne to do the
same. “I cannot see why though, your brown wren is quite enchanting. Reminds me
of Marianne when she was young. Best type of woman for a wife.”

“So I had thought,” Sherbourne replied. “But I may have been
mistaken.”

“What makes you think that?” Hunt asked interestedly,
leaning forward in his chair, ever fascinated with the workings of people’s
minds and emotions.

“Her response to Shelley,” the viscount answered
straightforwardly.

“Shelley? Shelley is madly in love with Mary. Has been ever
since he met her. That is what has caused all his societal woes, given he was
married at the time. You must understand—Shelley is a poet. He must give in to
his attractions and inspirations but it is meaningless, at least insofar as any
lasting passions.”

“Perhaps,” Sherbourne admitted, “but it does not follow that
Miss Ashwood’s response to him is meaningless.”

“Of course it does,” Hunt argued. “Miss Ashwood is a woman
of character, anyone can see. A mild attraction to a charming poet, that is
nothing! Have you never admired another woman since Miss Ashwood arrived in town?”

“Admired but not kissed,” Sherbourne confessed as a picture
of Miss Thibeau’s opulent charms entered his mind.

“Ah, I see,” Hunt said knowingly. “Sherbourne, the truth is
that Shelley would most likely bed any attractive woman who reciprocated the
attraction if the opportunity presented itself. He is not parsimonious with his
kisses or his embraces. But how could you expect a young woman of sheltered
background such as Miss Ashwood to know how to handle such a situation with
ease? She has not had the experience of life you and your sister have had,
living on a remote station in a far land.

“And what were you about, leaving her alone with a man like
Shelley? For I cannot imagine that even Shelley would steal a kiss if you were
present and watching. You are not free of culpability in this, I am thinking.”

“Perhaps not,” Sherbourne admitted. “Miss Ashwood’s maid was
present on deck but prostrate with seasickness. Perhaps I was remiss in going
below. Yet—” Sherbourne went silent, remembering the terrible jealousy and the
feeling of betrayal that had coursed through him at the sight of Shelley
kissing Miss Ashwood. And his anger toward his betrothed for allowing it so
soon after their talk on the Cobb. How could she have done it!

“Do not give in to feelings of jealousy,” Hunt commented
shrewdly as the emotions played across the viscount’s face. “It is a vile
deceiver and leads one astray. Give yourself time and think things over when
you are less perturbed. You cannot lose anything and have much to gain by allowing
your passions to settle before making any decisions or speaking to Miss
Ashwood.”

“Perhaps,” Sherbourne conceded. “You have given me much to
think of, in any event,” the viscount acknowledged, admitting to himself that
perhaps he had acted too hastily and too judgmentally. He was not a man to
brook infidelity but Hunt had a point that Miss Ashwood came from a sheltered
background and would hardly have the experience of life to be able to deal with
a man such as Shelley.

“Good,” Hunt said, rising from his chair. “Then let us join
Marianne at table. You owe me several meals, I am thinking, Sherbourne, and I
intend to collect. It does no good to a friendship to allow things to get out
of balance,” he proclaimed as they walked down the hall to the dining room.

The morning following Lord Sherbourne’s ending of their
betrothal Elisabeth rose late, delaying going downstairs until after she heard
the sounds of Lady Parker leaving with the Duke of Norland for a carriage ride.
Elisabeth then ate a meager breakfast of tea and toast, feeling unable to
consume more. After leaving her letter to Jane with a pile of missives to be
franked, she sat listlessly in the drawing room with her back to the hated
portrait by Miss Thibeau.

“A note has come for you, miss,” the butler said, entering
the room and holding out a salver.

“Thank you, Greaves,” Elisabeth said, taking the note and
inspecting the inscription. Recognizing the script as that of Mary Shelley,
Elisabeth tore open the note to find an invitation to meet Mr. and Mrs. Shelley
in Upper St. James Park that morning, as the couple were in London for the day.
Crumpling the note in her hand, Elisabeth wished with all her heart that she
might go, for she desperately needed sympathetic company and knew instinctively
that Mary Shelley would understand heartbreak. Dare she go to the park alone?
Upper St. James was only a short distance away, across Piccadilly. Perhaps
having Molly accompany her would be enough. Certainly she did not dare ask
either Lord Sherbourne or Lady Parker to escort her, even if they returned in
time.

“Mr. Earlywine,” the butler announced from the drawing room
doorway.

“Good morning, Miss Ashwood,” Earlywine’s cheerful voice
greeted Elisabeth. “Sherbourne was not at home and I thought I might find him
here.”

“No, neither he nor Lady Parker is here, Mr. Earlywine,”
Elisabeth answered. “But you are welcome to wait. Lady Parker should return
from her drive with the Duke of Norland shortly.” Inspiration struck.

“Mr. Earlywine, would you be willing to aid me? I have had a
note from Mrs. Shelley asking me to meet her and Mr. Shelley at Upper St. James
Park in a half-hour but I cannot go without an escort. Would you be willing to
accompany me?”

“It would be my pleasure, Miss Ashwood,” Earlywine agreed
with his usual good humor.

Elisabeth ran upstairs to change into a walking dress and a
short time later she and Mr. Earlywine walked toward the Park where they were
to meet the Shelleys. As always, the poet and his wife were not difficult to
spot, for there was always something slightly different in their behavior that
drew one’s attention. This morning they were conspicuous because Mary, despite
her rapidly expanding figure, was running gaily from one group of spring
blossoms to the next. Then she spotted Elisabeth and her escort and ran toward
them.

“We are in London for the day and I had to see you, Miss
Ashwood,” Mary Shelley said, greeting Elisabeth with a kiss on the cheek in the
continental fashion. “Claire is in town with us too but she wished to rest with
Allegra. Is it not a fine day? I feel I must run from joy,” she finished.
Noticing her friend was not responding with equal enthusiasm, Mrs. Shelley’s
expression became thoughtful.

“Mary, you brought paper, I hope?” Shelley called from where
he was searching to no avail through a pile of belongings tossed in a casual
heap upon the grass.

“Percy, today Miss Ashwood and I have no desire to race
paper boats,” Mary informed her husband. “I wish to walk with Miss Ashwood and
have a good coze, and you and Mr. Earlywine may remain here and race boats or
discuss Greek drama, the plight of the laborer or whatever you desire,” she
added, taking Elisabeth’s arm and drawing her away.

“I can see you are unhappy, Miss Ashwood,” Mary said in
sympathetic tones when they were out of earshot of the gentlemen. “What is it?
You may confide in me. I assure you I can be the soul of discretion.”

“I fear Lord Sherbourne has developed a
tendre
for
Miss Thibeau,” Elisabeth said forthrightly, at first hesitant to confide in a
near stranger but unable to resist the temptation to share her burden.

“Why do you think that, Miss Ashwood?” Mary asked in
concern.

“Lord Sherbourne chooses to dance with Miss Thibeau at every
function she attends, has gone to her home for several sittings and…and he gazes
at her as though he finds her very appealing,” Elisabeth ended, stopping before
confessing to Mrs. Shelley that Lord Sherbourne had in fact ended their
unofficial betrothal.

Mary walked several steps in silence and then stopped,
looking into Elisabeth’s face with her great expressive eyes. “Miss Ashwood,
may I be completely frank with you?”

“Yes, most certainly,” Elisabeth agreed.

“Put Miss Thibeau out of your mind, Miss Ashwood. Do not
dwell upon her but upon your own attachment to Lord Sherbourne.

“I know whereof I speak, Miss Ashwood,” Mrs. Shelley
continued, “for my situation is not unlike your own. I know my husband loves me
and holds me in respect, and that is of the greatest importance in the marriage
relationship. But I also know,” Mary added, “that Percy is one of those men who
loves many women and that in some ways I must share him. For the reality of
gentlemen’s natures is that few are content with one woman only.”

Elisabeth, feeling guilty at the remembrance of Shelley’s
kiss, felt her cheeks reddening and hoped the poet’s wife would ascribe the
flush to the frank nature of their discussion and not the true cause.

“Miss Ashwood,” Mary continued, taking Elisabeth’s hands and
clasping them between hers in earnestness, “you must not allow Lord Sherbourne’s
admiration of another woman to distress you if he loves you and has committed
himself to you.”

“But does not it make you unhappy?” Elisabeth dared to ask,
“To know your husband admires other women?”

“As I have been explaining to you, Miss Ashwood, all men
admire other women. It is their nature, as it is a woman’s to notice a
well-looking man. I may have occasional moments of unhappiness because I must
share Percy’s physical love with others but I would have greater unhappiness to
live without him. I advise you to accept a man’s nature for what it is and be
thankful for Lord Sherbourne’s commitment to you.”

“I would be happy to follow your counsel but Lord Sherbourne
no longer wishes to become betrothed to me,” Elisabeth burst out, failing to
notice that the emotion with which she had spoken had drawn the attention of
several passersby.

“Do you know this for certain, Miss Ashwood, or are you
making an assumption based on his actions?” Mrs. Shelley asked
matter-of-factly.

“He told me in as many words,” Elisabeth confessed in a
tearful voice.

“I see,” Mary Shelley said with a frown. Once again taking
Elisabeth’s arm, Mary slowly directed their way back toward Shelley and
Earlywine. “The situation appears more serious than I had thought. I must think
upon it. Do not give up hope, Miss Ashwood. I shall think of something, I
assure you,” Mary finished with a return of her irrepressible high spirits.

“Thank you, Mrs. Shelley,” Elisabeth said feelingly, hoping
that somehow her unconventional friend might actually work a miracle.

The two finished their walk in a companionable silence, the
one woman’s mind rapidly sorting through one plan after another to help her
friend and the other’s becoming more at ease with dawning hope. When they
reached the gentlemen Elisabeth stood quietly by while Shelley and Mr.
Earlywine took their leave of each other. Lost in her problems she did not
notice Mary Shelley scribble hastily on a piece of paper and press the folded
note into Earlywine’s hand.

After returning Elisabeth safely to Lady Parker’s town house
on Half Moon Street, James drew out the note Mary Shelley had pressed upon him.

“Mr. Earlywine,” he read, “I wish to speak to you most
urgently. Would you meet us directly for luncheon at the Rampant Lion? Please
do not mention this to your friend Lord Sherbourne. Thank you for your
discretion. Mary Shelley.”

Sticking the note back into his pocket, Earlywine vaulted
into his dennet and directed it toward the Rampant Lion. After leaving his
horse and vehicle with an ostler, he entered the inn where he found the
Shelleys and another young woman already at a table.

“Mr. Earlywine, thank you for coming,” Mary Shelley said,
and introduced Earlywine to Miss Clairmont.

“Percy, you and Claire may order for us all. I wish to speak
to Mr. Earlywine alone regarding an urgent matter,” Mary said, rising, and
walked to the door of the inn, James following.

Outside the inn Mary led James to a large tree that stood at
a distance from the stables in the inn yard. “Mr. Earlywine, please forgive my
impertinence and my directness,” she said, leaning her back against the trunk
of a large plane tree, “but I wished to consult with you regarding Miss
Ashwood. She tells me that Lord Sherbourne is no longer interested in entering
into a betrothal with her.”