This was the content of Anne’s letter, but not of her heart. It was the truth, but not all of it, for however much she trusted her brother, who was her dearest friend as well as closest ally, she did not trust her heart and all the conflicting emotions which were waging war within her. She did not, for instance, mention the new sensations which had begun to plague her whenever she was in the Ambassador’s presence, for she was not herself sure of what they meant, but neither could she laugh them away with the old satiric mirth which had protected her from any vulnerability toward the male sex in the whole course of her life. Neither reason nor understanding served to make them comprehensible, for in many ways Sir Basil still seemed to her the very antithesis of what an amiable man ought to be.
But amiability, as any woman will attest, is not always the first requisite of a tender sentiment, and very often it is the exact opposite quality which first excites those instincts capable of making the feminine heart leap up. As to that, in fact, Sir Basil had already upset her first prejudice against him, which had been founded, if the truth must be known, as much upon her own vision as upon what that vision saw. He had proved himself, if not exactly disposed to warmth, at least less icy than she had first thought, and there had been moments, sometimes no more than flashes, when she thought she had detected something more. In any case, he was more in the way of a man than she had ever had to deal with: more experienced, more seasoned, more intelligent, and certainly more handsome. So many commendable qualities are seldom met with by a female without some slight emotion, and Anne, for all her stubborn intractability, was no exception. But the quality which had first touched her, had been his awkwardness in the face of his new responsibilities. That such a man, a man used to dealing with great issues without a flicker of self-doubt, should have been brought up short before the idea of fatherhood, had amused her at first, and had gradually made him what nothing else could have done in her eyes—human. From there it was a short step to liking, and for all her determination to the contrary, she had found herself touched, moved, and flattered by the humility with which he had invoked her approval that night before the visit to Carlton House. Since then, there had been more to make her stop and think, more even than the issue of Nicole’s parentage, which had certainly done much to sober her.
The very night of the visit to the Prince, Sir Basil had again requested her to stay with him after the child had been put to bed, and this time his conduct had been such that she could not help liking him. The suspicion in her heart, founded upon the Princess Lieven’s peculiar conversation that afternoon, however, had ruined her enjoyment of the interview, which ought to have been the cause of some elation. But all Sir Basil’s geniality toward herself, all his interest in her opinions and invitations to express her ideas, had been marred by the confusion in her heart.
Sir Basil seemed to have no point in requesting the interview, and commenced it by excusing himself.
“I hope I am not keeping you from some more enjoyable occupation,” said he in a rather muffled tone as soon as they had been served their coffee.
“Oh, no!” responded Anne, perhaps too quickly
“Are you sure? You need not stand upon ceremony, you know.”
“I am perfectly sure, Sir Basil,” replied Anne, smiling now. “I was only going to read a book. But I am so much stimulated by the day’s events that I doubt I should be capable of any concentration.”
“Ah! Did you enjoy yourself? I hope it was not too dull.”
“Dull! No, nothing like it! I believe I was more amused than Nicole.”
Astonishingly, Sir Basil put back his head and laughed.
“Sir?” inquired Anne.
“I was just thinking of what the others must have thought when she asked if the King was better.”
Anne smiled uncertainly. “The Prince did not take any offense. He looked rather more amused than angry. It was only the others———”
“Ha! I can imagine. I should have done a great deal to see Lady Jersey’s face.”
“It was rather comical, Sir.”
Sir Basil smiled and turned about his coffee cup upon its saucer. There was a moment’s pause.
“And what did you do, whilst the little ones stuffed their mouths?” he demanded in a moment.
“I was very well looked after by the Princess Lieven, Sir. She took me under her care during the whole of tea, and asked me a great many questions.”
Anne glanced uncertainly up. Sir Basil, however, was still immersed in his coffee cup, and gave no sign of any keener attention than the outward response required. For an instant she was tempted to blurt out what she suspected, but a moment’s thought made her keep her peace.
“A very beautiful woman, Livvy.”
“Exceedingly beautiful, Sir. And exceedingly charming.”
“Makes a profession of it. She has two or three children herself, but I cannot fathom where she finds the time to see them. She is so much in demand about Town, I hardly think she glimpses her own husband above once a week.”
“She was most interested in Nicole.”
“Was she? How kind of her.” Sir Basil smiled ironically. “I did not know she was a lover of orphans.”
Now Anne was sorely tempted to divulge the matter which had been uppermost in her mind all afternoon, but again, refrained. She satisfied herself by saying, instead, “Of some orphans, I suppose. She spoke in glowing terms of you, Sir.”
“Did she?” The Baronet raised an eyebrow. “Well, well. That would not be the first time Livvy ever spoke glowingly of anyone.”
Anne hesitated. “She spoke very highly of Lady Cardovan as well.”
“Ah! Well, of course. Lady Cardovan is deserving of high praise from everyone.”
“Indeed, Sir.” Anne felt a sudden sinking sensation, the cause of which she could not fathom. “Lady Cardovan is the greatest lady I have ever met.”
“You show very good taste, then, Miss Calder,” replied Sir Basil with feeling. “She is the greatest lady I have ever met, as well. Had it not been for her—ah, well. . . .” The Baronet’s voice trailed off.
Anne had leaned forward eagerly, ready to catch whatever Sir Basil, in his instant of ingenuous confidence, would tell her. But the instant passed, the Baronet’s face mirrored a change of heart, and a moment later he had struck up the conversation again on quite a different note.
“So! Now you have seen the Prince. And what do you think of him?”
Anne, rather disappointed, replied that she had been amazed by him, but that “as to her reaction she could not tell on such short acquaintance.”
Sir Basil laughed, a hearty, frank laugh which brought a smile to Anne’s face as well.
“You are too reserved, Miss Calder. By Jove—I never thought I should say that to you! But you must feel under no obligation to dissimulate with me. Goodness knows, I have spoken freely enough to you. And now you must do me the honour of responding in kind.”
“Sir?”
“Tell me, Miss Calder, under pain of dismissal, your true reaction to the Regent.”
“That is very strict, Your Excellency. Am I under pain of dismissal to think poorly of him, or well?”
For a moment, their eyes met. There was an expression of astonishment in those of the Baronet, one of challenge in Anne’s.
“The truth, Miss Calder, I demand the truth. I believe I may count upon you to be honest.”
Anne smiled, a trifle ironically. “Well, I am glad of that at least, Sir. I thought him very fat, which was no surprise, and rather jolly, which was. I cannot be a judge of his rule, Sir—but as a most expansive and genial host, he outdoes every expectation.”
Sir Basil’s eyes narrowed as he continued to stare keenly at the governess, whose cheeks grew hot beneath their gaze. His words, spoken a moment later on an expulsion of breath, however, were hardly critical.
“A most remarkable young woman.”
It was spoken like an appraisal more than a compliment, and Anne, bridling with the feeling that she was being remarked upon as if she were a child, or a horse, or absent from the room, cannot be much blamed for taking offense. She could not reply, and hardly knew where to look. Therefore, she kept her gaze fastened upon her hands. Sir Basil did not seem to mind.
“You have family in Devonshire, do you not?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“And your father is a clergyman. No doubt it is owing to that that you seem incapable of dissimulation. And yet you have not a very high opinion of the clergy, as I recall.”
“Only of those clergymen who have taken up their profession to satisfy their own pockets, or vanity, or because they suppose they shall not be required to make any exertion.”
“And your father, I suppose, is not one of those?”
“No, Sir, he is not. My father has always exceeded what was required of him in every way.”
“Certainly in the way of children,” responded Sir Basil with a little smile. “You have eight brothers and sisters?”
Anne nodded.
“Five brothers and three sisters.”
“Good God! And are they all like you?”
Now Anne could not suppress her smiles. “No—at least, that is what my mother tells me. I am the only undutiful one.”
Anne would have been glad to leave off the conversation here, for having so recently been praised for her honesty, she thought she might very soon be forced to lie. But Sir Basil’s curiosity had only been whetted, or so it would seem.
“Undutiful!” exclaimed he. “But are you not doing your duty now?”
“I am doing what I must do to keep myself,” replied Anne carefully, silently offering up a prayer for mercy for any untruths she might utter.
“Ah! To keep yourself. Well, well. I suppose no living would suffice to keep nine children. Are your brothers employed?”
“I have a brother in the Navy, and another who is himself studying for the ministry. The youngest is still in school, and the eldest is unwell.”
“I am sorry to hear that,” said the Baronet with real kindness. “I know what havoc illness can cause in a family. My own mother was unwell during most of my childhood, until she died. I do not remember much about her, of course—for I was very young—but I recollect a perpetual gloom about the house, and my father was made miserable by her suffering.”
Anne was grateful for his sympathy, for indeed, Ben’s illness had been a great weight upon the family happiness for several years. They were forever living in hopes that some one of the doctors called in to see him would offer up some cure, but the disease was an obscure one, and no treatment seemed to avail.
“And your sisters? Are they all like you?”
Anne could not help smiling at the idea.
“Hardly, Sir!”
Again, those keen gray eyes peered at her, as if trying to see quite into her mind.
“No—no, I suppose they are not.”
Sir Basil seemed at last to have satified himself upon every point of his governess’s background and family. The conversation continued a little longer, having shifted to more general subjects, and after twenty minutes, Anne rose to leave. It seemed a suitable time to go, for they had done with their coffee and Sir Basil had drunk his glass of port. She did not rise willingly, however, for it had been among the most enjoyable half hours she had known in some time, and Sir Basil’s look, as she did so, mirrored his own feelings of reluctance at seeing the interview ended.
If there was some resentment in her mind that night, however, that so congenial a friendship should have been struck up between people whose stations and lives prevented it ever being advanced, that resentment was only increased the following evening.
Lady Cardovan had come to dine, as she had promised to do for some time, breaking, as she said, her general rule of never dining abroad. She was as eager as Sir Basil to discover the events of the tea party at Carlton House, and once more Nicole and Anne recited them. But now the governess had more cause for restraint than in either of her previous recitations. The intervening night and day had seen her opinion changed a dozen times upon the subject of Nicole’s parentage. The little girl, oblivious to the scrutiny she had been under during her morning’s lessons—to find what the Princess Lieven had called “this striking familial resemblance”—had in her own way helped to increase Annie’s suspicions, and with them her fears, uneasiness, and pity. In no way did she resemble, by any outward feature, either of the supposed parents. There was, perhaps, some trace of Sir Basil about the mouth, though the eyes, contrary to the Princess’s assessment, were nothing like his. But the more Anne looked, with less of disinterest than she would admit to herself, the more she thought she could detect a something of Lady Cardovan in her. It was not so easy as the shape of the nose, the colour of flesh or hair; it amounted at the most to a certain quickness, an inner animation, and above all, a kind of inbred elegance of mind. That elegance could not be ascribed, Anne thought at first, to the heritage of a country solicitor. What was known of the child’s background, once more, was so slight, amounting really only to what Nicole herself had been able to impart and the summary description offered by Lady Cardovan at that first interview. Was not it altogether likely, was not it, in fact, highly probable, that the offspring of such a forbidden alliance should have been hidden away in a remote part of Lincolnshire? She would have been found the most auspicious guardian—a distant cousin, unknown about the Capital, perhaps in need of money, and willing to exchange his service as a father, and his wife’s as a mother, for the guarantee of a decent living. That the surrogate father should have turned out to be so open-hearted and kind a man, must have come as a blessed surprise.
What an ironic twist this new view put upon the subject of Sir Basil’s charity in taking her in! All at once, Anne was forced to view the events of the last weeks in an altogether new light, and with that improved vision, how she smiled ruefully at her own innocence! To be sure, it explained everything. Sir Basil’s first awkwardness with the child, his pretended indifference to her, Lady Cardovan’s extraordinary kindness, her unwillingness to be seen with Nicole in public, and finally, that extreme change which came over Sir Basil on that fateful Sunday, when his open, easy manner with Nicole had changed abruptly into icy formality upon coming into the house again, and knowing himself observed. Imagine what he must have thought of her when she had dared to suggest he behave more kindly to the little girl! He must have seen then how well his scheme had worked, and perhaps at the same moment understood how he might use the governess to further the dissimulation. And with that thought, Anne could scarcely control her anger and hurt. Fancy thinking, as she had begun to do, that he really depended upon her advice and sought her approval! Far from it—he must every moment have been laughing inwardly at her, for being so close to the truth and never noticing it. Anne’s rage was only heightened by the thought of her own weakness in having begun to really admire him. She would not for a moment admit there was anything more than that in her opinion of him.
The evening of Lady Cardovan’s visit with them, then, was the cause for extreme anguish on the part of our heroine. The greater the amusement of the others, the happier they seemed, the more they laughed, the more miserable she grew. Lady Cardovan positively glowed, and looked more beautiful than ever. Sir Basil was as charming as Anne had ever seen him, and Nicole, encouraged by these two, bloomed beneath their combined attentions. Only Anne, suffering in silence, would not take part in the general levity. She forced herself to respond when she was directly addressed, but more than that, she would not do. If anyone noticed her silence, it must have been of little interest; or else, it was only the expected manner of a governess in the company of her betters.
Dinner was over at last—for Anne it had seemed an interminable interlude between the partridge and the hot-house grapes—and at length everyone rose from the table. Sir Basil would not take his port alone, and invited them all into the drawing room that they might take their coffee together. Lady Cardovan excused herself to go upstairs and look at Nicole’s bedchamber with the child. Anne contrived, in the general commotion, to slip away unnoticed.
“Why, what is the matter?” inquired Lady Diana of her as she was beginning to mount the stairs to her own apartment. “I hope you are not going away, Miss Calder?”
“I have a headache, your ladyship. I hope you will not mind if I do not come downstairs again.”
Lady Cardovan looked concerned. “Of course not, my dear. Go and lie down. I shall send a poultice up to you.”
“Oh, no! I am perfectly all right. I shall be very well if only I am able to lie down.”
“I hope it is not a migraine, my dear. I have been cursed with them all my life. Run along, then, and let us know if you need anything.”
So easily dismissed, Anne sought the solitude of her own chamber with a feeling of relief. But half an hour passed, and the sounds of laughter wafting up from the drawing room prevented her thinking of anything else. “What are they saying now?” she wondered, and thought, ironically, that she could not be much missed. Lady Cardovan and Sir Basil must welcome the opportunity to be alone with the child—their child. A sort of secret reunion of the family, prevented by circumstance and time from being reconciled for all these years. A little while later she heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs leading to Nicole’s bedchamber, and presumed, from hearing the low voice of Lady Cardovan and the high-pitched one of Nicole, that the orphan was being put to bed at last by her own mother. A moment later the door closed again, retreating footsteps sounded down the stairs, and Anne knew that the lady and gentleman were closeted alone. How seldom they must have the opportunity to meet like this! The Princess Lieven had said to her, with that significant little smile which seemed to encompass the frailties and eccentricities of all mankind, “Ah! The wonderful Lady Cardovan. Sir Basil is devoted to her. You know, her own husband deserted her years ago. I wonder why she never has remarried? In England, of course, there is nothing to prevent it. You wonderful English! You have devised so many ways to make life more enjoyable! In Russia, there is no such liberty.”
Anne could not bear to let her mind run on any further. She rose from her bed and very deliberately took out paper and writing instruments from her desk. She then sat down to compose the letter to Ben we have already seen, so different in tone and subject from the real burden in her heart and mind.