Page 32

‘That’s very good!’ Adrian cried. ‘I did not know you would do me as well. Do you not think that it is very fine, Papa?’

Lord Fairmount was silent for a moment, and Adrian began to look anxious, but then he said in a low tone, ‘It is extraordinarily fine. I cannot… This must certainly be framed. It could be by Rembrandt, or some other great master. No, I’m quite serious. It’s wonderful. May I keep it?’

Another child might have objected, even thrown a tantrum, insisting it had been produced at his direction and should be his and nobody else’s, not even his father, but Adrian was pleased to hear such genuine praise, and said that he was glad his father liked it, while Bianca said nothing at all beyond politely murmured thanks. If necessary, she could make Adrian another portrait of his father that would be his and his alone. Xan didn’t even need to be there while she did it, and Nanny and Lady Deborah had not been; God knows his image above all others was sufficiently engraved on her memory, so that she could almost draw him with her eyes closed.

She could not go home today, and probably not tomorrow either – she had no idea how long the risk of infection might be presumed to last; they would have to ask the doctor when he came later today – but nonetheless she must leave as soon as she could, as long as it was compatible with baby Anna’s health and that of her siblings. It was not safe to stay here, for several reasons. It made her imagine a life that was not her life, but should belong by rights to some other woman, who would appreciate all of it – not just these quiet, intimate moments – as she would not. She rose, and made some excuse, leaving father and son alone together, as was only right.

52

Lady Deborah insisted on taking Miss Constantine out for a drive in her barouche – or possibly Xan’s barouche, it was unclear – that afternoon, saying that some air would do them both good. Obviously a painting session with the Arbuthnots in Brook Street was out of the question, even if there was in truth little chance of Bianca passing on infection to a household already vaccinated; their mama had been informed of the circumstances and agreed to err on the side of safety. The portrait must be considered finished, as in truth it was.

She’d never done this before, Miss Constantine realised, even during her come-out into society. Viola possibly owned such a vehicle, but she was not the sort of person to spend her afternoons seeing and being seen by the ton, and besides had been decidedly otherwise occupied – giving birth to her daughter Leonie – during Bianca’s first and only complete Season in 1814.

Lady Deborah, though, was quite at home in such a setting, inclining her head in a stately fashion from under her parasol at the many people of fashion who greeted her from horseback or from other elegant equipages. Bianca had been lent a fine parasol too – Sabrina unaccountably having failed to send her one – which she was deploying in imitation, but could not flatter herself that any of these acknowledgements were for her, since almost none of these people could know her to speak to. And she had an uneasy feeling that she was here not to be shown off as a close friend of the Challender family – the previous campaign against Lady Wellbeloved’s gossiping appeared to have worked, or if it had not, nobody had told her that it was still a problem to be addressed – but so that Xan’s aunt could speak to her in private. She most decidedly didn’t want to be spoken to in private, but here she was and must endure it. Perhaps the carriage ride had been chosen simply because there was no easy way that she could escape from it.

‘I do not think that I have thanked you personally for staying with us and spending so much time with poor Dawbney, Miss Constantine,’ the Dowager was saying now, which felt uncomfortably like a prelude to something else of a much more intimate and unwelcome nature.

‘There is not the least need, ma’am. I only did what anyone would do in the same situation, and I am sure your nephew has thanked me enough for several people.’

‘It does not matter if others would have done it or not; you were the one the child wanted – needed – and you came to him without delay or thought of the possible consequences. He is plainly very fond of you.’

‘And I of him,’ Bianca murmured feebly. She thought villagers must feel like this when they could see that a river in full spate was about to burst its banks and overwhelm their houses, farms and gardens: it was a terrifying force of nature, and there was nothing in the world that they could do to stop it. Later there would be wreckage, and a mess to clear up. The river itself would flow on, undisturbed.

‘I can see that you are. You would make him an excellent mother – I do not say stepmother, for, if one is a woman of character, there should be no difference between such children and one’s own.’ Lady Deborah, as far as Bianca knew, had never been anybody’s stepmother, but it was pointless imagining that such a frivolous comment would divert her from her purpose.

‘I know you want to see your nephew married…’ Miss Constantine was trying to keep her voice low so that the groom and footman who sat a few feet away from them on the box of the open carriage could not hear her words, but Lady Deborah appeared to experience no such qualms.

‘Indeed I do. But I want him married to you, not to some silly debutante who will not treat him or the child as well as they deserve. If you are only just now becoming aware of that fact, you are more obtuse than I gave you credit for – or perhaps you did not wish to see it, which I suppose is understandable.’

‘Good God,’ Bianca blurted out in sudden realisation. ‘This whole scheme to clear our names by having us spend time in public in each other’s company, forcing Lady Wellbeloved out of your daughter’s house… That was so much nonsense. You were matchmaking all the time. And Sabrina and Viola were part of it too! That’s why Ventris delivered me straight into Lord Fairmount’s arms so I was obliged to dance with him! I thought it was most strange at the time, but I forgot it afterwards.’

‘Of course I was matchmaking,’ the Dowager said impatiently. ‘And of course your sister agreed to help me – both your sisters. They are women of great good sense, and we are as one in desiring this most appropriate marriage for you.’ She was still nodding to acquaintances as they passed, but this did not appear to affect her powers of concentration in the slightest, unfortunately.

‘One plays the hand one is dealt, Miss Constantine. I could see quite quickly that you were perfect for him – in this instance I am referring to my nephew Alexander – and, because I am a person who pays attention to the world around me, as I believe I have told you before, I also noticed that he cannot take his eyes off you. Nor you from him, for that matter.’

And then, as if that were not bad enough, the accusation Bianca had been dreading came at last. Lady Deborah said matter-of-factly, ‘The gossip is in fact entirely true, is it not? You did know each other before, in Italy, and every bit as well as Lettice Wellbeloved claims.’

It wasn’t even phrased as a question, and Miss Constantine found she did not have the brass face to deny it. ‘Yes,’ she said quietly. What could the truth matter now?

The Dowager was smiling; she did not appear to disapprove of the shocking news she had just heard confirmed, but rather to find it entertaining for some reason of her own. ‘I always knew Alexander had hidden depths. This cousin of yours, she does not exist, then? Of course she does not. Though I congratulate you on your invention – few people could have come up with such a plausible story on the spur of the moment, I think.’

‘No, she is a fiction. But I was travelling and living under that name, so that I might avoid irksome chaperonage, and therefore the idea came to me quite readily.’

‘I do think an ability to lie convincingly on the spur of the moment is an excellent quality in a woman,’ Lady Deborah said thoughtfully. ‘I have always found it most useful. We have so few weapons in life, and must employ them all. I am happy to see that you are able to do so; you will find soon enough that the Countess of Fairmount has great need of such skills.’

‘No, I won’t discover anything of the kind, because the whole idea is quite preposterous!’ Miss Constantine said with a rather belated burst of spirit. She was about to say that she was sure Xan had no desire whatsoever to marry her, but then thought better of it. It was perfectly true that he had asked her not long ago, and might easily do so again, judging by the warmth of his expression over the last couple of days. But that must be entirely beside the point. Best to change the subject, as far as she was able. ‘I don’t know why you are so keen for me to marry His Lordship,’ she went on. ‘I’m sure it can’t just be because of my fortune. And there must be many eligible women who would be kind to Adrian. Debutantes are not all monsters; such a suggestion is plainly ridiculous.’

‘A fortune must always be acceptable,’ said the Dowager in the ruthless tones of one whose ancestors had come over with the Conqueror and bequeathed their descendants a healthy eye for their own and their family’s advantage. ‘And no doubt you are right in what you say about the young women of the ton. But the outcome if Fairmount married some untested gel can only be uncertain, and God knows I have no wish for him to replay his first marriage. You must have observed that he is a serious-minded person who takes such matters to heart; I do not believe that his character and his reason would survive another such disaster.’

She sighed, and continued in a slightly softer tone, ‘The whole affair was badly mismanaged from the beginning, and so I told my brother at the time, but of course he would not listen to me, a mere woman. And do not pretend that you are not dying of curiosity to ask me what I mean by all this,’ she added suddenly, ‘because I am considerably more than seven, and will not believe you for so much as a second. Of course you are desperate to know. I am quite sure that my nephew has not spoken very much of it, given his reserved nature and the pain such a subject must give him.’

Bianca could not repress a wry smile. ‘You’re going to tell me anyway, aren’t you, ma’am? So it doesn’t matter what I think.’

Lady Deborah snorted. ‘Very well, if you must be so prickly. He was too young, of course, but that might not have mattered much. Louise Wyeth was terribly spoilt, that was the top and bottom of it. She was a very pretty girl, quite the nonpareil of her Season, and an only child. Her idiot parents had denied her nothing and indulged her every whim since birth. Instead of presenting the match to her as an arranged one that might work out well for both parties if they could be sensible – which in itself would be a great deal to ask of two young people – they told her that Alexander was madly in love with her already, from a distance, and simply too shy to tell her so. I believe they had convinced themselves of the fact, to do them justice, because of course he must be: she was a princess and deserved nothing less than his absolute adoration. And if you ask me how I come to know this last detail, when my nephew himself I believe does not, I will answer that Bess Wyeth told me so to my face, the perfect widgeon that she is, when after a few months it was quite plain that things were not working out as they had hoped.’

‘But he was not in love with her at all…’ Bianca said slowly. ‘Poor lady. Poor Xan – Lord Fairmount.’

‘Of course he was not. He was as young and overwhelmed as she was, and while he might easily have been swept away in the moment and persuaded himself that it was love, only to discover his mistake much later, it happened by ill chance that he wasn’t. No doubt he desired the pretty chit, as any young man with hot blood in his veins would, let alone one who had little experience of women. But he was not in love, not in the least, and she soon knew it from his manner, try as he might to conceal it. Of course, he did not know that he was supposed to be. And for someone like her, there was no coming back from that; her pride was hurt and never recovered; she never forgave him, as anyone but a pair of ninnies might have predicted. You note I do not say that any of this was Louise’s fault, poor green girl – the blame lies squarely with her parents and my brother, who should have insisted on an open, honest conversation among all parties, awkward though it no doubt would have been, when the match was first mooted. If she had known he did not pretend to love her, I don’t suppose for a moment that she would have agreed to marry him, no matter how much her parents urged it on her.’