Page 33

Miss Constantine could not help but be fascinated by this insight into Xan’s unlucky first marriage, but it could be no affair of hers, after all. ‘I understand then why you do not wish him to marry a naïve young girl who may cherish illusions about his feelings for her through no fault of his. And I can see too that you may have some grounds for thinking that Adrian and I would deal excellently together. And as for Lord Fairmount and I, you know some part of our history… I suppose I cannot blame you for refining more upon that than you should. But you have no reason in the world to think that I wish to marry him.’

‘Don’t I?’ Lady Deborah had turned in her seat to regard Bianca full in the face, which was most alarming at such close quarters. ‘Don’t I, really, Miss Constantine? Look me in the eye and tell me that, and I may – I say may – believe you.’

53

Bianca was very quiet on the way back to Lord Fairmount’s house, and Lady Deborah had some mercy at last and ceased to press her. The afternoon was growing cloudy and a little colder, which most definitely suited her mood.

The Dowager had asked her bluntly what she really wanted in life, if it was not Xan, and she had found it very difficult to answer with honesty. It might be the case that Lady Deborah, a relative stranger, had no right at all to demand such a confession of her innermost feelings from her. But she did at least owe such clarity to herself, and the plain truth was, she did not know.

She had come back to London – she might as well face it now – because she was lonely; because the solitary, free life she had made for herself in Italy, at no little cost, gave her a great deal, in the way of artistic and personal liberty, but not everything. The idea that everything was not to be had, by her or by anyone, was an uncomfortable one. It meant that compromises must be made – but which ones? The decisions she made now might well be irrevocable – they felt as though they would be – and she would only know what was wrong and what was right when it was far too late to change her course. Maybe in the end she never would know.

But she could not stay forever as a guest in Sabrina’s home, or Viola’s, or Allegra’s. She had no doubt that they would welcome her, as would their families in every case, but still it would not be wise. Her loneliness could not be banished by borrowing someone else’s life and pretending it was her own. The constant bustle and cheerful chaos of Mrs Da Costa’s home, or the Duchess’s mansion, or Allegra’s, could obscure that uncomfortable fact for a good long while, maybe for years, but not forever. Had Rosalba Carriera, that most devoted of sisters, ever felt this? Bianca wished she could ask her.

She needed a place of her own – and she was luckier than most, because she had one. The rambling Tudor house in Suffolk was always waiting for her. Bea was there, with Vivienne, but it was a large enough manor that they could have their own private spaces and meet only when they chose to; Bea was not one to make demands on her, but would always welcome her company. Cecilia lived with her husband now, just across the bay, and it would be good to be close to them too, to meet her new niece or nephew when they arrived, and pick up those threads of daily sisterly intimacy that she had dropped when she went away three years ago. But would that be enough for her? Would it not in some sense be a retreat from life, a flight, instead of an embracing of it?

She could accept the loneliness as inevitable and set back off on her travels. There were parts of Europe and beyond that she had not reached, and nothing was stopping her from exploring them. She had money, time, health and liberty, as much as a woman could. There was art to see, artists to learn from, and her skills could be pushed and tested in ways she could not even imagine at present. The thought was both exhilarating and frightening.

Or, in stark contrast, she could let matters with Xan continue on the course they currently appeared to be following, he would propose – Lady Deborah seemed confident that he was about to, and she did not disagree – and she could choose that life. Unlike all the others, it offered her passion. A ready-made family, and more children, probably, if they came. Nights in Xan’s arms, days in his company. She could not imagine, knowing him as she did, that he would attempt to stop her from painting; he had always shown the greatest respect for her work.

But she would be, as Lady Deborah had pointed out, a countess. Such connections could easily turn into chains. Would she be able to take commissions still, to spend her time as she wished, to travel, even, as a free woman? She would not be a free woman. She knew well enough that he was not even the chief problem – her own feelings were. She might lose herself, and wake up one morning, Countess of Fairmount, respected, admired and even envied, not knowing who she truly was or where she had gone astray. And by then, of course, it would be far too late to mend matters, or to change her life without causing terrible pain to everyone, not least herself.

54

Xan had sat for a good part of the afternoon with Adrian, who was undoubtedly much better, and beginning to chafe a little against the confinement in his bed and bedroom, which must be considered a good sign. It was more than unfortunate that they should be in Town just now, Lord Fairmount thought; if they’d been down in Somerset, Adrian could have spent a little time outside on the terrace as long as the weather was good enough, well wrapped against any sudden chill, but here, it was more difficult. There was the square’s garden, as long as other children could be kept away, and there was the option of a short ride in Aunt Deborah’s barouche, perhaps tomorrow afternoon; no other suitable suggestions presented themselves.

And yet if they had been at Fairmount when Adrian had fallen ill, there would have been no chance of Bianca coming to soothe the poor child’s fevered mind, and divert him with her clever sketches. She could have been summoned by letter – begged to come, in truth – but even if she had responded, it would have taken many days and might have been… Xan did not want to say or even think too late. The truth was, he’d never know what might have happened if the circumstances had been different, and he must be content to have it so.

Adrian was sleeping now, with Nanny Hodge sitting nodding over her knitting in case he should wake, and Xan was alone in his library, which he had made his own particular sanctuary as soon as he had taken over the house. His father had used the comfortable room even though he had not been a great reader; his brother, as far as he could tell, had barely set foot in the place. Xan could not discover that Philip had spent very much time at home at all during his short time as Earl, though he understood from Lewis, the stately butler, that there had been parties, and also understood that this most correct of servants had no desire whatsoever to give any further details of what sort of parties they might have been, and even less so the nature of the guests. So perhaps these gilded leather volumes and dark oak shelves could tell a tale or two, but like Lewis, they never would. If the room’s tranquillity had ever been disturbed over the course of the chaotic few years of Philip’s custodianship, it was impossible to imagine it now.

Xan had replaced his father’s worn old library chairs with more deeply padded modern ones covered in butter-soft leather, and he was sitting in one now, gazing intently at the sketch Bianca had made this morning. He hadn’t been exaggerating when he had praised it so highly; it was an extraordinary piece of work, and in his opinion worthy of comparison with any number of much-lauded drawings he had seen, done by famous dead men. But of course he must acknowledge that he was not an impartial observer. The point was, as far as he could tell, Miss Constantine, in doing it, had not been either.

He was not sure he had the vocabulary to express all that the swiftly made marks on a piece of paper caused him to feel. But the first word that sprang to mind was tenderness. There was great tenderness as well as technical skill in the way that his own figure, leaning protectively towards his son’s, was portrayed. Anyone of the slightest sensibility who saw it, he considered, would be able to divine immediately that the child in the little bed was or had been unwell, and that the father – it was very plain that the two people shown here were father and son – had suffered the greatest anxiety because of it. The child was looking trustingly up at him, and that unquestioning reliance, which he felt he had hardly earned in his years as a parent but was shown unmistakeably here, brought tears to his eyes. He must be careful not to let them fall upon the fragile paper and ruin it, because this was something he meant to treasure forever, and pass on to Adrian when his time, short or long, should be done.

The piece would entirely overset anyone who had lost a child, or come close to losing one – he must make sure that Aunt Deborah never set eyes on it. He would hang it in his bedchamber where he could see it before sleeping and on waking.

But the tenderness he saw, he liked to think, was not merely in the way the two figures related to each other, but in the way the artist seemed to have regarded them. Regarded him – because he knew already that she cared greatly for Adrian; she had admitted as much quite openly, so that was not the topic in question. He had no logical basis for such a feeling, but it was there in his heart all the same, and it gave him hope. He’d an idea during the long, wakeful hours of last night, as he sat in silence by Adrian’s bed – a mad, outlandish, unprecedented idea that he had not yet spoken aloud to anybody – and that gave him hope too. If it was sadly misplaced, he would find out soon enough.

55

Bianca was taking off her bonnet and pelisse, glad of a little time for quiet reflection after a very trying outing with Lady Deborah, when one of the maids came to her door and, curtseying, told her that Lord Fairmount would be very glad of the honour of a word or two in his library, if it might be convenient just now. If the young woman thought that there was anything odd about such a request, she did not let that knowledge show on her face. Perhaps the house was a hotbed of gossip and every servant in the place, from Lewis to the boy who cleaned the boots, had an opinion about what was going on between her and their employer. Perhaps not. She had no time to worry about that now. She brushed and rearranged her hair, which had not been improved by its time spent under her bonnet, wishing that her hands would not shake so. It made it very vexing to try to get her parting straight.

She came sedately down the stairs, and a footman opened the library door for her – it was another room she had not entered before, but she had no time to take it in, or attention to spare for it. Xan jumped to his feet and greeted her; he looked a little serious, which did not help her nerves.

‘How is Adrian?’ she asked, hoping but not really believing that that was to be the sole topic of conversation.

‘He continues to improve, I am very glad to say. He is fretting now to leave his room, and I have told him he may do so for a short time tomorrow.’

There was no dodging reality, and she had been weak to think she could. ‘I am so glad to hear that, but I should leave you tomorrow, I think, now he is so much better. I will be sure to avoid any contact with Sabrina’s younger children, or any others, for a few days, but… it is high time that I go.’

‘I suppose you must,’ he said sombrely. ‘But I confess, I wish you would not. I wish you would stay forever. It is nothing short of wonderful to me to have you here.’

When she made no reply, because she was not sure she could, he went on, ‘I asked you to marry me once, in a highly insulting manner. I wish I could take those words back and expunge them from both our memories. Can you ever forgive me for them, and for all the other dreadful things I said to you back then? I know it was not very long ago, in truth, but I almost feel I am a different person now. Certainly my feelings have undergone a great revolution in the intervening time, and I dare to hope that yours have too.’

‘I do forgive you,’ she said readily. This was true, and she was glad to be able to say it. ‘I think you have forgiven me for the abrupt and heartless manner in which I left you, so it is only fair that I should return the favour. We have both done and said things of which our better selves cannot be proud. Let us put them out of our minds.’

He smiled, but it seemed to cost him some effort. In a sudden movement he was on his knees at her feet, looking up at her, his face a mix of warring emotions. ‘My dear, I am happy to do so. But I want to be sure that you know that when I ask you to marry me again, it is in a quite different spirit. Bianca, my darling, I love you with all my heart and soul, as I have never loved another woman, and I want nothing more from life than to make you my wife. But I am all too aware that there is not much I can offer you that you do not have already, or could not easily find in a dozen other places. And even more than that, I fear that you will think my offer threatens to deprive you of things that you value very dearly. I hope to show you that this is not true at all.’

Her heart was beating in a manner that almost made her dizzy. She did not know what to say to him. She should not play for time, she should answer him directly, despite the seductive power of his speech she should refuse him directly, but… ‘What do you mean, Xan?’