“Couldhe?” she asked.
“No.” He smiled. “But he could make my life dashed uncomfortable. He will not do so. He is far fonder of his children than he will ever admit. And he is far more firmly under my mother’s thumb than he knows.”
“I cannot give you children,” she said.
“Do you know that for certain?” he asked her.
“No,” she admitted.
“Any girl fresh from the schoolroom might not be able to if I married her,” he said. “Many women cannot, you know. And perhaps you can. Ihopeyou can, I must confess. There is all that dreary business of securing the succession, of course, but more important than that, I wouldliketo have children with you, Claudia. But all Ireallywant is to spend the rest of my life with you. And we would not be childless. We would have Lizzie.”
“I cannot be a marchioness,” she said, “or a duchess. I know nothing about what would be expected of me, and I am far too old to learn. I am not sure I would want to learn anyway. I like myself as I am. That is a conceited thing to say, perhaps, and suggests an unwillingness ever to change and grow. Iamwilling to do both, but I would rather choose ways in which to grow.”
“Choose to change sufficiently to allow me into your life, then,” he said. “Please, Claudia. It is all I ask. If you are not willing to have Lizzie and me live in Bath with you, then come to live at Willowgreen with us. Make it your home. Make it your life. Make it anything you want. But come. Please come.”
She felt all the unreality of the situation suddenly. It was as if she took a step back from herself and saw him as a stranger again—as he had first appeared to her in the visitors’ parlor at school. She saw how very handsome and elegant and aristocratic and self-assured he was. Could he possibly now be begging her to marry him? Could he possibly love her? But she knew he did. And she knew she could hold this image of him in her mind for no longer than a few seconds. Looking at him again, she saw only her beloved Joseph.
“I think we should make Willowgreen like my school,” she said. “Only different. The challenge of educating Lizzie, when I thought she might be a pupil, has excited me, for of course I have seen that it is altogether possible to fill her with the joy of learning. I do not know why I have never thought of including children with handicaps among my pupils. There could be some at Willowgreen. We could take some in, even adopt some—other blind children, children with other handicaps, both physical and mental. Anne was once governess to the Marquess of Hallmere’s cousin, who was thought of as simpleminded. She is the sweetest young woman imaginable. She married a fisherman and bore him sturdy sons and runs his home and is as happy as it is possible to be.”
“We will adopt a dozen such children,” he said quietly, “and Willowgreen will be their school and their home. We will love them, Claudia.”
She looked at him and sighed.
“It would not work,” she said. “It is altogether too ambitious a dream.”
“But that is what life is all about,” he said. “It is about dreaming and making those dreams come true with effort and determination—and love.”
She stared mutely at him.
That was when they were interrupted.
The Marquess and Marchioness of Hallmere with their two elder children and the Earl and Countess of Rosthorn with their boys appeared from among the trees, returning, it seemed, from a walk. They all waved cheerfully from some distance away and would soon have been out of sight if the marchioness had not stopped suddenly to stare intently at them. Then she detached herself from the group and came striding toward them. The marquess came after her more slowly while the others continued on their way to the house.
Claudia had made the grudging admission to herself during the past week that the former Lady Freyja Bedwyn really was not the monster she had been as a girl. Even so, she deeply resented this intrusion upon what was obviously a private tête-à-tête.
“Miss Martin,” she said after favoring Joseph with a mere nod, “I hear you are thinking of giving up your school to Eleanor.”
Claudia raised her eyebrows.
“I am glad you presume to know what I am thinking,” she said.
She half noticed the two men exchange a poker-faced glance.
“It seems an odd sort of thing to do just at the time when you have achieved full independence,” Lady Hallmere said. “But I must say I approve. I always admired you—after you had the courage to walk out on me—but I never liked you until this past week. You deserve your chance at happiness.”
“Freyja,” the marquess said, taking her by the elbow, “I think we are interrupting something here. And your words are only going to cause embarrassment.”
But Claudia scarcely heard him. She was looking intently at Lady Hallmere.
“How do you know,” she asked, “that I have just achieved independence? How do youknowabout my benefactor?”
Lady Hallmere opened her mouth as if she were about to speak, and then closed it again and shrugged.
“Is it not common knowledge?” she asked carelessly.
Perhaps Eleanor had said something. Or Susanna. Or Anne. Or even Joseph.
But Claudia felt somehow as if someone had just taken a large mallet and hit her over the head with it. Except that such violence might have clouded her thoughts, whereas she felt now as if her mind had never been more crystal clear. She was able to think of several things all at once.
