CHAPTER 9

For several seconds, Deirdre was bereft of speech. How could Jonas possibly have known of the decision she had made only the night before? He could not, of course, yet here he was, putting her resolve to the test at the first opportunity. Examining her feelings, she discovered few she had expected to feel at her first proposal of marriage. There was surprise, of course, but instead of the elation, the excitement, the joy an incipient bride should surely feel, she experienced a sinking feeling tinged with fear.

Some of this must have shown in her face, for Jonas spoke again before she was near to composing an answer. "I have caught you unawares, my dear, and must apologize. I had intended to go more slowly, to let you know my intentions and gauge your own feelings. But being confronted by your beauty, and seeing you unexpectedly alone, I dared to state my love for you boldly."

Love. That, Deirdre knew suddenly, was the problem, the one factor she had not entered into her equations the night before. Life with Jonas might hold much that was pleasant, but she did not love him. Looking at him now, with his gaudy chartreuse waistcoat and froths of lace, she somehow knew that she never would.

"Jonas, I…" she began hesitantly, hating herself for what she must say. Had she not encouraged him last night, however innocently?

"No, no, my sweet, I see that you were not prepared for this," he interrupted, stepping back and striking what was no doubt intended to be an heroic pose, but which on him looked rather silly. "I shall not press you for an answer just yet. Now that you know my feelings, my wishes, you may consider my offer at your leisure and give me your decision when you will." He stole a sideways look to see how he was affecting her and Deirdre had to smile.

"Very well, Jonas," she replied, gratefully taking the chance for delay he had offered her, even while knowing she was craven to do so. "I will consider your offer and give you my answer once I have done so."

"You… you won't take too long to decide, will you?" asked Jonas pleadingly, dropping his pose.

"I'll let you know within a few days, Jonas, I promise. I pray you not ask me to rush this decision."

Lady Penrose and Celeste entered the room just then, to Deirdre's relief, and the subject was perforce abandoned for the moment. Jonas greeted the other ladies before turning back to Deirdre with a literary question, only his eyes betraying what had gone before. Deirdre answered his question with alacrity, trying to forget the disturbing interlude and desirous of concealing any hint of it from her mother.

As soon as he took his leave, the ladies prepared to go out, for Lady Penrose had informed her daughters at breakfast that it was high time they made some calls of their own. They spent the morning, therefore, visiting various highly placed Society matrons and cementing the connections which were so crucial to social success in London. They ended at Mrs. Jameson's house, and found Lady Thumble already there, visiting her sister and nephew with little Theodore.

"Why, we have quite a family gathering, do we not?" exclaimed Althea as they entered. "Celeste, come help me to keep the boys from fighting over this ball and tell me about your successes; you are quite the reigning belle, I perceive!"

Celeste complied readily, seating herself without ceremony on the floor between her two nephews and taking up the ball herself. Deirdre, meanwhile, took a chair near Beata while Lady Penrose positioned herself on the sofa near the group on the floor, where she could best observe her four favourite young people in the world.

"So have you narrowed the field yet, Celeste?" asked Althea, once the boys were again happily occupied. "Who are you favouring thus far?"

Celeste glanced uncomfortably at her mother. "Well, Sir Malcolm Digby is very handsome, and most attentive, but..."

"Oh, darling, you are playing with fire there, I fear!" broke in Althea, to Lady Penrose's evident satisfaction. "Why, even since my marriage, he has flirted most outrageously with me, and I daresay with a great many others, as well. Besides, he is not particularly plump in the pocket, I hear."

"But surely, Althea, wealth should not be my prime consideration in choosing a husband?" asked Celeste.

"Oh, I would be the last one to suggest that you must completely forswear romance, sweetheart, but it is something to keep in mind when choosing between two or three gentlemen you are attracted to." She leaned forward, holding up the dazzling diamond-and-sapphire necklace she wore. "Isn't this lovely?" she asked. "I wheedled it out of dear Bruce only last week. Money gives a man so many more ways to show his love, you see."

Celeste eyed Althea's necklace thoughtfully before turning the discussion to other subjects.

"And what of you?" asked Beata softly of Deirdre once the others were deep in conversation. "I had no chance to speak to you last night, but I could not help but notice that Lord Wrotham took you in to supper. Does our plan appear to be working?"

"I... I suppose so," replied Deirdre, trying to smile, but Beata was not deceived for a moment.

"What, do you not care for him now that you have come to know him better? You are not obliged to accept him if he offers, you know. As long as Mama does not hear of it, that is!" she whispered teasingly.

"No, I like him quite well, actually," said Deirdre. "It is just that we seem to have so little in common, I can't help but wonder if marriage to him would be a mistake."

"Oh, fustian!" Beata dismissed her sister's concern with a wave of her hand. "How much does any woman have in common with her husband? I know next to nothing of the government matters which claim most of Mark's time, but I daresay we have as happy a marriage as you'll find anywhere, none the less." Glancing across the room, she ascertained that the others were still engrossed in the little boys' antics and lowered her voice. "The question, Didi, is whether you love him."

Deirdre sighed. "I... I'm rather afraid I do, Beata. But you haven't heard the worst yet. Lord Wrotham hates poetry!"

Beata regarded her with surprise. "Does he indeed? That seems unlikely, from what little I know of him. But if that is true—" her tone became rallying "—you are just the one to convert him. Look on it as a challenge, Didi. Don't wilt at the first set-back!"

In spite of herself, Deirdre found herself smiling at her sister's words. "There, that's better," said Beata bracingly. "After all, he must like you, if he wished to eat his supper with you last night."

At that, Althea looked up. "Yes, Didi, I noticed you at table with Lord Wrotham at Lady Millbanke's. What a triumph for you! But pray, do not set your hopes too high. He admired me greatly as well, when I was first out, but never made an offer." Her tone implied that if her charms had not brought the Marquis to the sticking point, Deirdre's stood little chance of doing so.

"Don't mind her," whispered Beata as soon as Althea turned away. "She was never the type to appeal to him— which means he must have more in common with you than you suppose!"

* * *

Upon their return to Penrose House, the Baroness and her daughters found that a number of cards and invitations had been delivered in their absence. Among the requests for their presence at various balls, routs and teas was a note from Lord Wrotham asking Miss Deirdre Wheaton to drive out with him that afternoon if she were not previously engaged. He would call at half past four.

Lady Penrose was in transports at this further evidence of the Marquis's interest in her daughter, but Deirdre viewed the invitation with mixed emotions. Beata's counsel had gone a long way towards resolving her conflict about his lordship, making her determined to at least become better acquainted with him before passing irrevocable judgement. His note, however, seemed little short of a command, with no apology for such short notice. Was he so sure of himself? The thought pricked her pride.

And, of course, there was Jonas to consider. Her talk with Beata had firmed her resolve to refuse him, though she had not mentioned his offer to her sister or anyone else. Beata's questions had caused Deirdre to examine her feelings for Lord Wrotham, however, and she had come to realize how wrong it would be to marry Jonas with no stronger emotion than friendship for him. She must tell him as soon as possible, she knew, for delay would only make it harder for her and more painful for him.

"Didi," called Lady Penrose at twenty past four, "are you not ready yet? Lord Wrotham will be here in but ten minutes!"

"I'll be down in a moment, Mama," answered Deirdre, checking her reflection one last time in the cheval glass. Her carriage dress of white cambric trimmed with violet was becoming, and the matching bonnet and parasol completed the effect, but she was not pleased. Did Lord Wrotham truly care only about her appearance? Would it not be a fitting test of his affection to appear as "herself," in one of her drab gowns, her hair pulled back in its old bun? There was not time to change now, of course, but the idea was worth considering.

* * *

Lord Wrotham was glad that Brooks, his valet, was up to all of the latest cravat styles, for he had never been willing to give his neckwear the concentration or practice necessary to achieve a fashionable look. It seemed such a frivolous waste of time which could be better spent improving one's mind. But if he were to properly impress Miss Wheaton of his suitableness as a potential spouse, he must conform.

For, after less than a week's acquaintance, he had decided that she was indeed his choice. He had danced and spoken with more than a dozen other unexceptionable young ladies, but none had affected him half so strongly as Deirdre Wheaton. It was not her face, precisely, nor her voice, nor the things she said that attracted him, though all of those were involved. No, there was some other quality, some underlying facet of her character that he could not quite put his finger on which drew him to her.

Whatever it was, he meant to offer for her, and thereby put this silly courtship business behind him. He hoped that after they were married she would not insist that he continue in the social whirl. He had spent a month last fall in the Lake District, where he had been fortunate enough to spend some time in conversation with both William Wordsworth and Samuel Coleridge, who lived in the area. It had been such a sublime experience that he had already formed a vague idea of settling there at some point in the future, and had purchased several acres in the district against that eventuality.

Glancing at his watch, he shook his head at such airdreams. He must make very sure of Miss Wheaton before putting such a plan before her; if she were like most fashionable young ladies, the idea of living so far from the social hub of London would be anathema to her. And he was already late for their drive this afternoon!

* * *

Deirdre was a bit affronted that Lord Wrotham should be late, especially given the peremptory tone of his note. When he was shown in, however, he was all apologies for his tardiness.

"Miss Wheaton, can you forgive me? I have no right to expect it, I know, but I pray you will still be so kind as to drive out with me today."

"I suppose I must, my lord," responded Deirdre with a reluctant smile. "I have nothing else to do just now; my mother saw to that!" His chuckle gave evidence that he cared no more for Lady Penrose's match-making than did she, which she found encouraging.

As they left the house, they found Lord Ellerby mounting the steps to collect Celeste for the balloon ascension. "I won't propose making it a foursome," said Lord Wrotham, "as I see we are both driving phaetons. Besides, it would hardly suit your purpose, would it, Charles?" he asked banteringly. "Good luck!"

"No more would it suit yours," Ellerby shot back with a smile. "Good luck yourself!"

Lord Wrotham appeared somewhat disconcerted by Ellerby's remark and Deirdre was hard put not to laugh. Beata had been right; they must let the men think they did the pursuing! But it seemed that Lord Wrotham did not wish the world to know he was doing it—if that were what he was doing —nor could she blame him. Look at her mother's reaction already!

Trotting along in Lord Wrotham's elegant phaeton, his groom very properly perched up behind, Deirdre could not help thinking that they must make a very attractive picture to passers-by. "Your horses go very well," she commented, feeling that some conversation was called for. Lord Wrotham had not spoken since Lord Ellerby's embarrassing riposte.

"Yes, they are not nearly the nags they look," he replied with a sudden twinkle.

Deirdre realized that her remark had not been exactly complimentary to a man of Lord Wrotham's stature and opened her mouth to apologize when she saw his expression. He was remembering his similar remark about her appearance two days earlier, and her response —she was certain of it. She began to chuckle, and he joined in readily. Their glances meeting, they dissolved into laughter and Lord Wrotham was forced to slow the horses to a walk until he had himself back under control.

"You are revenged, I think," he gasped finally, wiping his eyes. "It would seem that neither of us are expert with pretty compliments."

"I suppose not," replied Deirdre, still smiling. "But that is hardly a profound flaw in one's character, is it? I admit I would rather have genius in other areas."

"I, too," agreed the Marquis. There! He had known she was not so shallow as the other ladies he had met, and that remark proved it. They turned into the Park gates then, perforce slowing to a walk as the fashionable hour of five was approaching and the paths were choked with their usual stylish throng.

"Is there ever a time when Hyde Park is not so crowded?" asked Miss Wheaton, looking about in some dismay. "I had thought it would be nice to walk here sometime, for I walked a good deal of the time at home, but I would not care to do so in such a press, I admit."

"Early morning is best for that," replied Wrotham, pleased to discover this titbit about his companion. "I often come here then to ride alone, to be private with my thoughts. Perhaps you would care to join me one morning?"

Deirdre pinkened slightly. "But then you would not be private with your thoughts, my lord," she pointed out.

"A great sacrifice, I admit," he said with mock seriousness, "but the company should be worth it."

Her blush deepened. "There, my lord, and you said you had no skill with a compliment!"

"Even I have my rare flashes of brilliance, I suppose," he returned. After a brief pause, which the Marquis used to strengthen his resolve, he said with studied casualness, "Have you ever had opportunity to view the Lake District, Miss Wheaton? I spent some time there a few months past and found it quite... interesting." He feared it would sound pretentious to mention the slight friendship he had struck up with Mr. Wordsworth.

"Did you?" Deirdre began excitedly. She knew that several of the great living poets either resided there or visited frequently, apparently drawing inspiration from the spectacular views. It had long been a dream of hers to go one day. "I have heard that... that the scenery there is quite breathtaking," she finished rather lamely, remembering in time Lord Wrotham's aversion to poetry. Would he even have heard of Coleridge or Wordsworth?

"Yes, it is," he assured her. "I mean to go back some day." That was as close as he dared come to revealing his long-term plans at this stage. He had no wish to frighten Miss Wheaton away, especially now that he was discovering new depths to her character.

"I... I should very much like to see it myself. Do, pray, tell me about it," she prompted him.

He went on to describe the rocks and lakes in some detail, though never mentioning what had appealed most to him about his stay, and she absorbed everything he said eagerly, wishing she dared ask about the very details he was omitting.

When Lord Wrotham returned Deirdre to Penrose House a short time later, she found that Mr. Flinder was awaiting her in the drawing-room. While she had been disappointed a moment before when Lord Wrotham had declined to come in, she was now relieved; this would be a perfect opportunity to tell Jonas that she could not marry him. Celeste had not yet returned from her outing with Lord Ellerby and Lady Penrose was busy at the back of the house berating one of the maids over some misdeed, so they would have a few moments alone.

Jonas came eagerly forward to greet her, and Deirdre could not help but notice how thin, almost gaunt, he looked compared to the Marquis. And his crimson-and-yellow waistcoat was anything but flattering to his pale complexion and muddy brown hair. Quickly, she thrust such unfair physical comparisons from her mind. She must prepare to be kind. Before she could say a word, however, he burst into speech.

"Didi, did you see it?" he asked excitedly, waving a paper in his hand.

"See what?"

"The Examiner. It just came out. Look!" He thrust the paper under her nose. "No, no, there!"

Her eyes followed his pointing finger and she saw, in black and white on the front page, her very own "Dreams of July"! Elation surged through her, to be quickly replaced by alarm until she scanned to the bottom and saw that the author was listed simply as D.

"But how...? When?" she asked dazedly, raising her eyes to Jonas's face.

"I might well ask the same!" he said accusingly. "You never told me you had sent any of your work to Mr. Hunt. I thought we were friends, Didi! I would never have known it was yours, had it not been one of the pieces you allowed me to read." His resentment was swallowed again in excitement. "You are famous, Didi! You shall be recognized as a poet, now!"

"I... I never knew he meant to print anything," she said feebly, still bemused by what had occurred. "I only wanted his opinion on whether it might be publishable. I suppose this is my answer!" She was becoming excited in her turn now.

"That explains why your name was not signed, as you did not give specific permission for the printing. But now we must tell everyone that D is really Miss Deirdre Wheaton," he declared. "My affianced wife!"

* * *