“Yes, ma’am.” He pushed his shoulder away from the doorframe and turned back in to her bedchamber en route to his own.
He rang for his valet when he got there.
***
As Agnes, with a newly happy Madeline trotting along quietly at her side, strode in the direction of Portman Place and looked for the right house number, she hoped fervently that the ladieswereat home and unencumbered by other visitors. At the same time, and quite irrationally, she hoped fervently that they were out.
The butler did not know but would go and see. Ordinarily it would amuse Agnes that the butler of a house should profess himself ignorant of who was in the house and who was not, but on this occasion she merely crossed her fingers on both hands and made a muddled wish.Let them be home. Let them not.
“He might have asked you to sit down while you wait,” Madeline said. “Rude, I call it, for all his uppity ways.”
Agnes did not reply.
The ladies were at home, though Agnes could see as soon as she was shown into the drawing room that they were dressed for the outdoors. Curiosity must have caused them to decide to admit her when the butler informed them of her arrival.
Both were dressed with fashionable elegance. Agnes was not. A few more of her new clothes had arrived from Madame Martin’s during the morning, and Madeline had laid out one of the walking outfits when she knew that her mistress was going to make an afternoon call. But she had not argued when Agnes had told her she would prefer to look like herself. The girl had merely given her a shrewd look, nodded briskly, and pulled out something old, which had nevertheless been freshly brushed and ironed so that it looked at least two years younger than it was.
“Lady Ponsonby, how delightful,” Lady Frome said, smiling as she indicated with one hand that Agnes should take a seat. “But your mama-in-law has not come with you?”
The countess meanwhile had come hurrying across the room, a smile of warm welcome on her face, both hands outstretched.
“How kind of you to call,” she said. “I said to Mama yesterday after I had met you at Hookham’s Library that I hoped we would become close and dear friends as well as just neighbors. Did I not, Mama? And here you are the very next day. But without Flavian?”
Agnes offered just her right hand, and the countess shook it before they all seated themselves.
“I came alone from choice,” she said.
Both ladies looked expectantly at her.
“I wished to make it clear,” Agnes said, addressing herself to the older lady, “that I regret the embarrassment my unexpected appearance in town as Flavian’s wife caused you. It was never my intention to hurt anyone.”
Lady Frome looked embarrassed anyway.
“We were certainly taken by surprise,” she said. “And so, of course, were Lady Ponsonby and Marianne. We cut short our visit because our continued presence in your drawing room would have been an intrusion upon what was clearly a private family matter. I hope we did not give offense by leaving so abruptly. I would not have any hard feeling between our families for worlds. We are neighbors, you know. But of course you know. Our two families have always been on the best of terms.”
It was a gracious response, and Agnes instinctively liked the lady. For a moment she was tempted simply to smile and change the subject and remain for a decent time before taking her leave. Perhaps it would be best to say no more. But she abandoned the idea with some reluctance. She had come to do some plain speaking, and if she did not do it now, she never would, and something, some mutual wound, would fester beneath the surface of all their future dealings.
Enough had been suppressed in her own family life for her to want to avoid its happening again within her marriage.
“I hope our families will remain on as good terms as they always have been, ma’am,” Agnes said. “We must speak first, though, about what threatens to be an embarrassment. I think it must have been extremely sad for you all, and for you in particular, Lady Hazeltine, when the late Lord Ponsonby—David, I mean—judged himself too ill to continue with the marriage plans both your families had encouraged. That is to say, it must have been very sad for you when he set you free.”
The countess turned rather pale.
“I was dearly fond of him all my life,” she said, “and I yearned to marry him and give him some happiness, even though it was perfectly clear he would not live long. But he was so foolishlynobleand would not let me do it. I begged and I wept, but it was all to no avail. He would not have me. He insisted that I be free to marry someone who had a life ahead of him, someone I loved. Though I lovedhim.”
She sounded sincere enough.
“He was the dearest, sweetest young man,” Lady Frome said. “I am sure he loved Velma very much, but once he had decided that it would be selfish to tie her to a dying man, there was no shifting him.”
“It must have seemed like double punishment,” Agnes continued, addressing herself now to the countess, “when Flavian was so badly wounded in the Peninsula after you had transferred your love to him and had celebrated your betrothal to him with such joyful festivities.”
Lady Hazeltine bit her lip and looked stricken.
“He hastoldyou,” she said. “But I suppose it was inevitablesomeonewould have done so sooner or later. Wewerein love, Lady Ponsonby. I will not deny it even if Flavian does. I will even go farther. I was dearly fond of David and wished more than anything to marry him and make him happy. But it was Flavian Iloved. Just as he adored me. We had loved each other quite hopelessly for years before David set us free. Yes, and he did itbecausehe knew we loved each other and he loved us both. He was the dearest of men. “
“My love.” Lady Frome sounded reproachful. “This is hardly—”
“No, Mama,” her daughter said, two spots of color blossoming in her cheeks, her eyes flashing, “sheoughtto know the truth, since she is the one who broached the subject. I would not have said a word if she had not. Flavian was out of his mind when he was brought home, Lady Ponsonby. He did not know anyone or anything. And he wasviolent. He was little more than a wild animal. His physician informed us all he would never be any better, that sooner or later he would have to be confined to an asylum, where he could harm no one but himself. What was I to do? It was worse than if he had died. And Leonard was dreadfully upset too. He was Flavian’s dearest friend in the world, and kept blaming himself for selling his own commission a few months before Flavian was wounded, and leaving Flavian alone—as if his staying could somehow have averted disaster. He was distraught. We both were. And we turned to each other for comfort. We married. But I never loved him or he me. Indeed, I think we came to hate each other.”
