The Abandoned Bride (21 page)

“There are other occupations, you know,
”
he said in a voice as low as shadows, as soft as the light which surrounded them, “some never so onerous as companioning or gove
rn
essing.” The sibilance of his words were as a sigh, or did he sigh, she wondered, as he went on to say, “Occupations that are a pleasure, where one’s love is given for pleasure and it is the pleasure of one’s lover to pay well for it.”

She looked up then, and met his questioning look. His eyes seemed the elusive gray of smoke tonight and their surround was clear and white in the soft light. His handsome face was still, as though he scarcely breathed as he awaited her reply.

“Are you being so kind as to offer me a ‘slip upon the shoulder’?” she asked as coolly as if she were asking
the
time of day of him.

“It’s a rather antiquated expression,” he said on a little smile, as he absently plucked up a bit of candlewax and smoothed it between his fingers, “but yes.”

“After all you have thought of me?” she said with some wonder.

“Well, there it is,” he replied. “After all I had thought of you.”

“I ought to be honored,” she said. “I ought to be pleased, at least, that you no longer abhor me.”

“It ought to have been offered more romantically,” he said. “It ought to have been better done. There shouldn’t be this table between us, for example, and as you have recently confessed to having overeaten, I ought to have waited at least until you were recovered from the meal. But suddenly I found that I couldn’t wait for the right setting. Although,” he said as he lay aside the bit of candle and put both hands upon the table as though he were about to rise up, “I find that now I do regret that I didn’t wait till I had you in my arms.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t,” she said calmly, “for then I would have to slap you as well as tell you no. And physical violence does not come as easily to me as it does to some persons I know. But I would have no difficulty, at least, in telling you no. Definitely no,” she continued as she rose from her seat without fuss and placed her napkin upon the table. “Absolutely no,” she said as she walked to the door. “Decidedly no,” she said as she curtsied low. “And positively no,” she said as she opened the door.

“Not for love, nor for money,” she declared, holding her head high. “And not only because
as they say in another antiquated expression, ‘I am not that sort of girl
.
’ But thank you for the dinner, my lord,” she said, and inclining her head as would a queen, she nodded to him and left him. And she would have felt much better about it, even though she already found herself hard put to hold back her tears until she got to her room, if she had not then heard the sound of his enthusiastic applause following her all the way up the stairs.

There were still a great many sights of Paris that had thus far been deprived of Miss Hastings’ eager stare, but as they had managed without her regard for a few hundred years they would have to wait a little while longer. The young woman’s thoughts this morning were upon England, not France. It wasn’t only because of patriotism or homesickness, though she was presently experiencing both phenomena. It was primarily because of the flashes of lightning which were illuminating the paper she was writing upon and the gusts of rain which followed upon the heels of the claps of thunder she heard this summer’s morning.

When she had awakened, the August morning was as dim as the night she had just passed. She had only managed to fall asleep toward morning, and as she at last closed her eyes she had been far too preoccupied to take much note of the fact that it was rising to a more sullen greasy sort of grayish-green dawn than is normal. But soon after she had risen and summoned Celeste so that she might dress and plan her day and attempt to forget her night, she had been advised against any daylight excursions. For as Celeste had said, casting a knowing glance through the windows, rain might be the least of the weather woes such a morning sky betokened.

But she refused to stay caged-up in her room. That, she thought rebelliously, would be a cowardly act. In a bit more vengeful spirit, she decided that it would be conceding her opponent a victory that in truth only the weather had won. So, after breakfasting, she made inquiries of the manager of the hotel and was shown to a snug little combination waiting room-writing room-library on the main floor that had been arranged for the comfort of hotel patrons.

It was very charming, to be sure, but there was little question that her own room would have been far more comfortable. For though she had an elegant little gold-inlaid writing desk to work at, she was not alone in the room. There were a few gentleman reading newspapers, and a few ladies waiting for the rain to let up. It was not that Julia had grown antisocial, even if she had, her fellow travelers quite correctly paid her little attention. But the windows had been shut tight against the weather. And one of the gentlemen smoked a particularly noxious cigar which beclouded the warm and airless room, and a few of the ladies seemed to have embarked upon a war of the senses with their lavishly applied competing perfumery
.
Yet Julia sat stoically and composed her letter, and would not have left her station even if the gentlemen had taken to pouring scent over themselves and the ladies had lit up their own little cigars. It was almost lunchtime and she had not seen the baron. But should he appear, she reasoned, he should not have the satisfaction of seeing her pent-up in her rooms in embarrassed confusion after his outrageous offer.

Although her pen kept up an even, flowing pace, it was not an easy letter for Julia to write, and not only because the closeness of the room made breathing increasingly difficult. There were a great many facts in the letter, but very little personal truth. For Papa, William, and Harry, she wrote of exactly how many stone steps there were in the great cathedral of Notre Dame; for Mama and the girls, she expanded upon the current fashions she had seen here in Paris. But for everyone, there was only the little line about what a fine position she had, and a tiny, writhing, embarrassed little squiggle she managed to pin down at the very bottom of the letter as though she had run out of room, when she had, in fact, run out of courage, about how charming Lady Cunningham and the children were. Perhaps someday, some great time later, the truth could be let out. But even then it could never be in a letter, she realized, as she concluded the missive with her love and a relieved sigh.

She hadn’t even had time to
wonder if she ought to begin another letter to take up the time until luncheon when she heard a voice that had become intimately familiar to her through both hearing it in actuality and remembering every syllable it had ever uttered, say pleasantly, “Ah, and here she is. Good morning, Miss Hastings. Did you pass a good night? I do hope so. I have been looking everywhere for you, my dear. Allow me to present Lady Preston. Miss Julia Hastings, Lady Mary Preston.”

Julia looked up from her letter to see the baron standing with a slight, rather washed-out looking female of indeterminate years in a frock that was in much the same condition as its wearer. But the lady wore a rather anxious expression as well as her unfashionable dress as she put out a thin hand and spoke a hesitant “How do you do?” in one of the most weary little voices Julia had ever heard.

Julia spoke her proper greeting but didn’t have the slightest idea of what to say next. She had deliberately not been introduced to anyone for the whole of the journey so far, and she had believed that as they had begun, so they would continue. She hadn’t the vaguest notion as to why the baron stood there, smiling down at the two indecisive females with the most pleased, contented expression upon his face.

“I know,” he said presently, when the continued silence between the two women began to draw some attention to themselves from the others in the room, “that you two will get on beautifully together. My dear Lady Preston, I shall take Miss Hastings in to luncheon today. You must have some unpacking to do, so why don’t you go along to your rooms and have some rest and then some luncheon there for today at least?”

“Oh
yes. Thank you. I shall, and thank you,” Lady Preston said, bobbing and curtsying to them both before she backed away and gratefully took herself off and left them alone.

Julia fixed the baron with the most speaking stare as he smiled down at her and then motioned her to
take a seat beside him near a large bow window which overlooked the streaming street.

“I should have liked a smoke as well,” he complained, seemingly unaware of the pressing questions she was about to ask as he settled himself, crossed his legs, and cleared some moisture from the pane to have a look outside, “but the other fellow has done it for me, and all I have to do is to breathe in to get the benefits. But I didn’t know you cared for tobacco, so I was rather surprised to find you in this room. And the other scents in here! That can never be just you, can it Julia?

“No,” he answered himself, “for you usually bear the faintest scent of young and green things, and it is decidedly overripe in here at present. Don’t get exercised, your skin’s so fair I can see your blood begin to boil. Her name is Lady Mary Preston, and she is definitely a lady. She has eve
r
ything but funds at
p
resent, and finds herself in dire need of employment so that she can work her way home. She is a widow, she is of pure and good repute, she is of a certain age, and she is hired on as your chaperone. Now why are you gaping at me like that? She’s the most unexceptional, cleanliest, pleasantest one that I could find on a moment’s notice. If you wanted royalty, you ought to have specified it.”

“I don’t understand
...
” was all that Julia could say, dazedly.

“I may have to be off to Brussels soon, it may just be that our Robin’s nesting there at present. I thought I might travel fastest, just as the saying goes, alone. And so while you are here, as well as for the meanwhile, I thought you might need company, and,” and here his voice grew softer, “respectable chaperonage, just as you requested.”

But Julia had been thinking hard as he spoke. And as soon as she came to a deduction, it came to her lips.

“Because I turned you down!” she cried out as quickly as a cat pouncing upon a piece of string, but unfortunately so loudly as well that the only female present who had not already been eyeing her companion, now turned an interested gaze upon them.

“Because when I did, I finally convinced you of my—honesty,” Julia said happily, her triumph barely contained, lowered her voice to a fierce whisper.

“It was because of my own reasons,” he contradicted gently
.
“I dislike shattering your illusions, but I am not such a coxcomb that I believe any female who rejects my attentions must be a virginal one. Sometimes it is simply a question of their bad taste.”

“Oh,” Julia said simply, regretting her outburst profoundly. She was glad to be able to turn her head to the window as though she were looking out at the coaches splashing through the streets. And so she completely missed his uncontrollable fleeting smile.

“Well, I did wonder,” she said in an attempt to be as casual as he, “why you asked, since you said that you never understood the attraction to be found in ignorance.”

“
So I did,” the baron said idly. “But then, you presuppose that I believed you.”

“I see,” she said, reddening up.

“And,” he commented casually, “even if I did believe in your chastity, you forget that ignorance, like
the
bliss it is supposed to provide, is a very transitory state. It is a condition which can be corrected very simply, Julia.” Then, before she could think of whether it was better to be very angry, flattered, or amused at what he had said, he went on. “Just as I told your lady chaperone, Julia, it is time for lun
c
heon. Will you come in with me?”

“Yes, my lord,” she said absently.

“Now that you have a chaperone, it would be nice to hear
y
ou say ‘Yes, Nicholas,’ ” he said, rising and taking her hand is he assisted her to her feet.

“Oh,” Julia said.

“But not ‘Nick,’ ” he continued, as he put her hand on his sleeve and held it there lightly by covering it with his own. “It’s far too short. Now ‘Nicholas’ lasts an age, and takes up a good bit more of your time.”

She stopped in her tracks and looked up full into his face and spoke the truth as best she knew it from her heart.

“This is not at all fair,” she complained softly. “You have gotten me altogether off balance.”

“Yes,” he said, smiling, “I know.”

That night, a great many persons thought of Lord Nicholas Daventry, Baron Stafford, before they gave themselves up to sleep. Julia Hastings did, of course, for she still could not fathom what had brought about his new attitude toward her, if it were a new attitude, and wondered if it would last, and if she wanted it to do so, and if she could bear it if it did not.

Celeste Vitry included the baron in her evening prayer, for she had a good position that paid well, with undemanding duties, and she was a devout and grateful woman.

Lady Mary Preston folded her thin hands together and said a prayer at her bedside as well, and it did include the Baron Stafford, but then it was only proper
to give thanks for one’s employer, and Lady Preston was always proper, even with her Lord.

Sir Oliver Sidney, tossing sleeplessly upon a lumpy mattress in a pension on the high road to Belgium, thought of Baron Stafford, and the thought prevented sleep, and the thought contained some prayers that no just god would hear.

And Nicholas Daventry smiled in his sleep because he dreamed of young and green things, and in his dreams, believed in them again.