But he had a sudden vision of children running across the lawn at Westwick, chasing each other, laughing. Girls perhaps, with black curls spilling down their backs, vivid blue eyes anda forthright way of explaining precisely why they had to have another doll or gown or pony, and not taking no for an answer.
The image made him laugh out loud. Of course he wanted to marry, and have a string of children just like their mama.
Bea turned on the half-landing, her foot still on the last step. “Bertram, whatever has got into you these days? Is the moon full just now? Are you going mad?”
And she laughed up at him, her blue eyes and dancing curls so bewitchingly like the child in his mind that he laughed again, but he could not speak a word, only smile at her. Such enchanting eyes, and those tempting lips… if only he could taste them again…
“Will you ride with me this afternoon?” she went on, one hand resting on his lapel. “I should like you to explain about questions again. Would you mind?”
He shook his head, and laughed a little more. “Bea Franklyn, you are the most astonishing girl I have ever met.” Then he leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the lips. “I hope one day you find a man worthy of you.”
15: Poetry And A Proposal
Bea blushed again and again, keeping her face averted as they descended the stairs, hoping he would not notice her discomposure. He had caught her completely off her guard with that kiss, not even a proper kiss, no more than a peck on the lips, but she could feel the warmth all the way to her toes. She tingled with it, as if she were standing too close to the fire. It was most unnerving.
He had asked her if she had a heart to break, and oh, how she longed to answer him truthfully! Yet she could hardly tell him that his was the kiss which set her on fire. She had promised, and she would keep to her word, whatever happened. She wouldnotpursue Bertram, no matter how tempting. For the moment, her primary target must be the amusing Lord Grayling, and if she could inveigle a kiss from him, then she would be able to make a choice.
And yet… if only it could be Bertram! He was not handsome like Walter, nor was he powerful like Lord Grayling, a man who walked with a sort of swagger that was more thanmere aristocratic haughtiness. She had seen enough of that at Marshfields to understand the arrogance of the nobleman. The baron had that, true enough, but he also exuded a physical presence that she could not quite explain, yet it made her a little uneasy. Whereas Bertram was as comfortable as her old walking boots, which were worn and misshapen, but raised her spirits every time she put them on. Which was a very odd comparison, now that she thought about it.
There was no time to consider the matter further, for as soon as they reached the breakfast parlour, she was surrounded by Bertram’s friends, all talking to her in Latin, and she had to concentrate to answer them with her limited vocabulary. They professed themselves delighted to hear that she was to join them for the meeting that morning.
“An excellent day to choose,” Mr Fielding said. “Embleton’s poetry is glorious — you will not find better, even in Horace.”
Bertram took exception to this slur on his favourite, and the conversation rapidly became too difficult for Bea to follow. Once breakfast was over, Bertram escorted her courteously to a prime seat in the old chapel, right in the front row. With a grin of triumph, Fielding was quick to take the seat beside her, but since she was positioned on the end of the row, Lord Brockscombe and Lord Thomas were obliged to sit behind her. The rest of the seats filled up, but Bea was the only lady present. One or two of the gentlemen frowned as they saw her, but the marquess smiled and waved as he passed her by.
Bertram began almost at once, standing at the front with an assurance she had seldom seen in him. He was a self-effacing man as a rule, but here he conveyed a quiet authority which commanded respect. The audience fell immediately into silence as he spoke, and listened intently.
She could understand little of it. She caught the marquess’s name once or twice, and‘poeta’, which was easy to translate, butafter that, it was only an occasional word. It hardly mattered. She had Bertram’s warm voice to listen to, and the cadences of the poems themselves, each one different from the one before, the words hovering in the air like the notes of a musical piece, weaving themselves into a magical whole. It was wonderful, and Bertram read with such feeling that she almost felt she could understand the meaning from his voice alone. Sometimes, at the end of one or other piece, she would be moved almost to tears, and a soft sigh ran round the room from the gentlemen. But no one spoke or clapped or made any sort of noise
After a while, Bertram stopped reading and said something directly to the audience, and at once they began talking amongst themselves, but that, too, was in Latin and beyond her comprehension.
Mr Fielding turned to her. “Did you make anything of that, Miss Franklyn? Embleton is an excellent poet but convoluted, sometimes.”
“I did not understand any of it, but I very much enjoyed listening to Bertram’s reading. What is happening now? What is everyone talking about?”
“We will form small groups and discuss the poems — the metre, the structure, the word choices and so on. It gets rather technical.”
“There are no more poems to be read?”
“No, although one or two might be read again at the end. I am afraid this part of the meeting will not greatly interest you. Should you care to return to the other ladies now?”
She pulled a face. “Embroidery is very tame by comparison, but I had better go and find my mama, and see if she has any duties for me this morning.”
“Then allow me to escort you.”
Mr Fielding offered her his arm, and although she could find her way perfectly well, she had no wish to appear rude, so she smiled and placed her hand on his arm.
“Shall we walk around for a little while?” he said, as soon as they had left the chapel. “It is pleasant to stretch one’s legs a little after sitting in one attitude for so long.”
Bea never minded a walk in fine weather, for she had always plenty of energy which sitting about with books or embroidery did nothing to dissipate, so they walked out into the colonnade and thence into the summer warmth of the southern garden. She laughed and turned her face to the sun in delight, but her moment of happiness was cut short.
“Miss Franklyn, oh,dearMiss Franklyn!” Mr Fielding spun her round, seizing her roughly by her arms so abruptly that she gave a squeak of alarm. “Forgive me, but I must speak or I shall burst! From the moment I first saw you, I have been your devoted slave, and I know I have no great title or fortune, nothing to set my claim above others who might also be drawn to you, nothing but my very great admiration and affection… my undying love and devotion… and a house, as snug a parsonage as you could wish for, and a sufficient income… it is not much, I know, and quite unworthy of you…Iam unworthy, but your father encouraged me to—”
“My father encouraged you?” she cried, this revelation startling her into utterance. “Why?”
“Why?” He licked his lips, a frown crossing his face. “Well… he said… he said… he wished me well in the endeavour.”
“Yes, butwhy?Why would he imagine I would marryyou?”Anger and surprise made her abrupt. “I was betrothed to Viscount Birtwell, Mr Fielding, when hewasViscount Birtwell and heir to the Earl of Rennington, and I broke that engagement when he would no longer inherit. I have no objection to you personally, for you are as agreeable a man as I ever met, but whywould I marry aclergyman, no matter how snug the parsonage may be? And frankly, I am not accustomed to snug houses, sir. They sound most disagreeable. I am very sorry if you have harboured unrealistic hopes, but I should very much prefer to live in a house with a dozen bedrooms, at least, and a gallery long enough to hold a ball in comfort.”
