Richard and Ellen Greenfield, though surely somewhat uneasy about the tender age of their daughter, nevertheless must be very conscious of the great honor being bestowed upon her and the dazzling prospects such a marriage would bring her. She would be the Countess of Stratton, with all the prestige and security of position and untold wealth the marriage would bring her. And she would remain relatively close by at Ravenswood. It would have been strange indeed if they had not encouraged the match.
They had not pressed it upon Clarissa, however. Indeed, they had been careful to point out to her that she was very young, thatit would be perfectly understandable if she wished to have a few more years to enjoy all the pleasures of a presentation at court and a social Season in London, where she could hope to capture the attention of numerous eligible young gentlemen. If that was her wish, then her father would inform Stratton of her decision before he could embarrass himself by making her a formal offer.
Their caution and consideration for the feelings of their daughter were typical of them. They had raised her to be a lady with high expectations, but they would never force her to do anything about which she had any doubt.
Clarissa was hugely flattered, however. And excited. The prospect of an early marriage and of a title and new home at Ravenswood of all places would not perhaps have been enough in themselves to sway her, but…well, there was the Earl of Stratton himself. She had seen him only a few times in the past and mostly from afar until he came for tea with his mother, but…Well.
“He is so gorgeous,” she had told Matthew. And he had understood that she was quite in love with the man, though she did not know him at all.
She had known him, Matthew Taylor, almost all her life. They had been close friends for years, but only friends, Matthew reminded himself as he stood, feet slightly apart, hands clasped loosely behind his back, watching her gaze off into the distance.
He wished he could capture this moment for all time. But he had never been much good with paint and brushes. Somewhere between the picture he saw in his head and the image that came through his hand onto paper or canvas, there was a gap in communication. It was very frustrating, because the images were always vivid and insistent. His fingers itched at his back at the thought andhe flexed them. He would love to carve her out of wood. Not that he had any great skill at whittling either, but it was wood carving he yearned to do almost more than anything else. He saw life and shape in wood. He saw soul there and longed to reveal it with the aid of his knife.
But he had never been encouraged to discover any real talent he might have. Quite the opposite, in fact. So he had never been able to develop his meager skills. One day, perhaps…Oh, one day he would carve this scene.
Or would he simply forget?
No. He would never forget.
She had no idea that he loved her not just as a friend but as a lover. He was in love with her and had been for some time. For the last year or so anyway. It was not a love he would ever reveal to anyone, of course, least of all to her. For he was the younger son of a landed gentleman of only modest means, while she was the daughter of Richard Greenfield, who was untitled but nevertheless of the upper gentry, with an impeccable lineage on both his side and his wife’s. He had a home and park at least twice the size of the Taylors’, a correspondingly profitable farm, and a sizable fortune. The Greenfields had always been kind to Matthew, but there could never be any question of his marrying their only daughter. Everyone understood that. It had never had to be put into words. Matthew had understood it, even as he was falling in love with his childhood friend. He had known that in doing so he was dooming himself to heartache, even heartbreak. For the time would come when she would inevitably marry.
Someone else, that was.
He had just not expected it to happen so soon. He had beentotally unprepared for what she had told him today. He had not had time to fortify his heart. He had expected that he would have at least another year or two before it happened.
She had turned her head, he realized, and was gazing directly at him. She was not smiling.
“Matthew,” she said softly. “You are not happy for me?”
He strode closer and stood in front of her, cutting the sunlight from her face. Putting her in shadow.
“I am happy if you are,” he said. “Are you?”
Her eyes were searching his, but he could still not interpret her expression. Usually he could read her well.
“I am,” she said. “I believe this will be a good marriage for me—and that is surely an understatement. But it means everything will change. Even though I will not be far away, this will no longer be home, will it? I will be Clarissa Ware of Ravenswood Hall, Countess of Stratton. Yes, I am happy, Matthew. I am even excited. I believe I will be happy with him. He is amiable and charming. I was quite bowled over by him when he came with the countess to take tea with us. But what is going to happen to our friendship—yours and mine? If you were female, it would continue regardless, but there is the minor inconvenience of your being male.”
She paused to smile at him.
“Yes,” he said.
“It would not be the thing, would it,” she said, “for us to be forever traveling back and forth to spend time with each other.”
“No,” he said. “Not the thing at all.” He tried to smile back, but he could not seem to command his facial muscles to do his will.
“What will you do with your life, Matthew?” she asked. “Do something that will make you happy.”
He shrugged. “I will find something,” he said. “Not the churchor the army or navy or a courtroom, but something. I will never be able to satisfy my father, unfortunately. He and I will never be able to sit down and discuss my options as two equals even though I am eighteen now. You must not worry about me, however. All will be well.”
“Will it?” She almost undid him then. She lifted one hand and cupped her palm about his cheek. “You are a searcher,” she said. “And one day you will find what it is you seek, and you will be happy. You must not settle for anything less, though I do not doubt your father is well-meaning in his efforts to secure your future. Seek, Matthew. Do something positive. Do not just rebel.”
There were tears in her eyes then, and he was not sure there were not some in his own too. He blinked rapidly to clear his vision.
“Promise me,” she said.
“I promise,” he told her, though he had no idea how one sought what one could not even name. Or where one went to look for it. And this was surely the first time in their long acquaintance that she had given him actual advice. Urgently, forcefully given it.
They gazed at each other, their faces only a foot or so apart, and he felt a dreadful urge to kiss her. Just once. A goodbye kiss. A good luck kiss. But it would be a terrible mistake—for her, for him, for them. For if he kissed her, she would know, and she would definitely be sad. And he would know—though he already did—that it was hopeless, that any image to which he clung of their being tragic lovers about to be driven apart by circumstances would be dashed forever. He would end up looking foolish and knowing he would feel it every time he saw her in the future—which was bound to happen from time to time.
