‘And there was a child.’
‘Oh yes. Left her with a broken heart and a mewling memento, he did. Tyneham bluffed his way through, not out of kindness, of course, just to save his face. Clarissa never left Tyneham again except to visit her sister once or twice, and he kept the son away from her as much as he could. As I said, she was a lonely fool.’
‘And the child was all she had.’ Sir Esmond was speaking more to himself.
‘No idea about the child. Nobody ever saw it. A girl, I think, especially since Tyneham would not want any doubt over the succession if the son should predecease him.’
‘Well, she is a beauty, though Rothley dark, not Tyneham fair.’
‘Have you fallen for a beautiful … by-blow, my boy?’
‘Yes, but not because she is beautiful.’
‘Ah, we now hear about her “sweet nature” and “delightful singing voice”. Mawkish, I call that.’ Lady Cottingham looked severely at her nephew.
‘I have no idea if Miss Tyneham can sing a note, and her nature is far from sweet.’
The old lady raised an eyebrow.
‘Then you interest me more.’
‘She is selfish to the point where I do not think she understands the concept that others have feelings. She delights in entrapping young men with her beauty and making them dance to her tune, whilst she torments them by flirting with others; she has nearly got herself and her long-suffering Hadlow cousins thrown out of Almack’s, and has recently tried to blackmail an army officer into running off with her with threats of doing away with herself.’
‘Good God, and you want to marry this girl? Why?’
‘It is hard to explain, even to myself, and I promise you I have tried. You see, she is, like her mother, very lonely, and very afraid.’
‘Doesn’t sound afraid to me. Sounds a hoyden.’
‘She acts the hoyden but sometimes I have caught the look in her eyes and … Think of it, ma’am. She grew up in seclusion as her mother’s only company, her mother’s sole outlet for affection. From what I hear, Lady Tyneham would not have her shown any boundaries to behaviour, as if to counter the imprisonment they shared. But the child did see that her mother was weak, and that the man she believed to be her father was uncaring. So I think she decided that the only person she had to look after her was herself, and that men should pay for what happened to her mother, to her. She is afraid of being incarcerated at Tyneham, but afraid of being a man’s chattel also. She has never learnt to make friends with other young women, trusts nobody, and yet she stands there all alone, daring the world, challenging it. She is terribly afraid, and rather brave.’
‘She could still be a heartless minx.’
‘Yes. I know. But she is worth saving.’
‘The thing about saving someone is that they need to want to be saved, otherwise they drag you down and you drown with them. Does she?’
‘I do not think she even thinks anyone could want to save her. She believes it is her against the world, just her. I hope, I believe, that if she was supported and loved, not in the foolish “let her have her way in all things” way, but by being shown that she is not on her own, that there is someone always on her side, then I think she would be not cold and calculating and, yes, cruel. She would be passionate, vital, perhaps always a little challenging, and not a wife who sits there, meek as a nun’s hen, and hems shirts, but a wonderful wife.’
‘An ability to stitch neatly is a good thing in a wife,’ Lady Cottingham murmured.
‘Quite possibly, but not the sum of my aspirations, ma’am. I have viewed the “modern misses”, as you call them, for the better part of a decade without any one of them inspiring me to contemplate giving up my bachelor existence. Many, if not all, have been better behaved, and full of maidenly virtues, but my heart has settled upon a remarkable minx, whom I want to protect, and nurture, and love.’
‘Well, I can’t stop you. If you want to risk making a fool of yourself, it is up to you.’
‘Actually, it is more up to her. She might just accept me if no other offers are forthcoming.’
Lady Cottingham shook her head.
‘She will either make your life a misery or make you the happiest man in England, and I don’t think you would like to know which I think more likely.’
Sir Esmond sighed.
‘Common sense, and you have always been a fount of that, ma’am, tells me the same, and yet … I may regret it if I do, but I am damned near certain, forgiving your presence, that if I let her go, I will regret it every day of my life.’
‘Then you had best return to London before she sets the Polite World by the ears, and I wish you luck of her. If you can call that approval, then you have it.’
‘Thank you, ma’am. The degree of ambivalence is … honest.’
