A Spinster by the Sea Page 11

  I will never find another like him, and I must find the strength to be honest with him. The sentiment settled over Anne’s heart as peacefully as moonlight illuminates a seascape. Tindale had divined the scandal in Anne’s past without Anne saying so much as a word, and his reaction had been to take her hand.

  To take her part.

  “There was a child,” she said as they gained the trail that led down to the sea. “A girl. She lived to be four. My solicitors arranged everything. Measles took her.” A handful of simple sentences to describe enough joy and sorrow for a lifetime.

  “Tell me about her.”

  Anne had to stop on the path and lean into Tindale to withstand the caring in that simple request. Words that had reverberated silently inside Anne’s heart—my daughter, precious, darling, beautiful, perfect—found their way into the night air, slowly at first. More tears came as well, along with remembered joy and abiding love.

  Anne was still talking—jabbering—by the time she and Tindale were climbing the path that led to the cottage. She’d taken off her slippers and stockings to cross the beach and had to go carefully on the trail in the dark.

  “Christina was so bright,” Anne said, “so inquisitive. She had my curiosity and her father’s quiet nature and his fair coloring. Her parents adored her.”

  “Her foster parents,” Tindale said. “You were her mother. Did her father know?”

  Anne shook her head. “Christian had sailed before I realized I was carrying. To summon him back would have been to cut short his life. He would have returned, too, to marry me, and then he would have been trapped. He believed consumption was contagious, and ours would have been a marriage in name only. He did not deserve that, and I had the means to deal with the situation.”

  Augustus escorted her up the steps to the cottage’s front porch. “Those means allowed you to know your daughter.”

  “I spent the first three months of her life with her. After that, I was her godmother, as far as she knew. An old friend of her mother’s. I had hoped that someday Christina might learn the truth, but that day never came.”

  “What of your family? Your aunt and uncle?”

  “They knew I had cared for Christian. When I announced a plan to take an extended tour of the Lakes, they did not interfere. I hired a discreet companion and a year later sent her on her way with enough coin to ensure her silence. My solicitors are not my uncle’s solicitors, and thus I have avoided scandal.”

  “So far,” Tindale said.

  Anne was tired to her bones, from crying, from pretending, from revisiting a time in her life that had nearly broken her.

  “When I came back south, my aunt and uncle were determined that I take my proper place in Society, and, Augustus, they would not let up. They threw bachelors and widowers, officers and heirs at me like an infantry square fires at the oncoming enemy. I realized I would have to choose a husband or leave England altogether.”

  Leaving England had begun to look appallingly attractive, which brought another lump to Anne’s throat. “Thank you for seeing me home, Tindale.”

  He stood at the front door to the cottage, his features obscured by the moon shadows. “You are sending me on my way?”

  “If you don’t return promptly…” She would never be able to let him go. Anne watched the waves on the beach, and told herself not to start crying again.

  “I do not give that,”—fingers snapped crisply in the darkness—“for what that crowd of lackwits thinks of me, Anne, but if you care what they think of you, then I will march off to play bedamned whist and swill tepid punch while making inane small talk.”

  “You are angry,” Anne said, both longing to slip into the peace and quiet of the cottage and loath to part from Augustus when he was in a temper. “I am sorry, Tindale. The habit of guarding my privacy is ingrained, and I never meant to offend you.”

  He paced away and took a piece of Anne’s heart with him. “You thought to marry Lord Hume Billingsley because he was too destitute to inquire closely into your situation. Thank heavens the solicitors intervened. Then you thought to marry Corbett because he’s too stupid to even wonder about your past. Divine providence alone spared you from that purgatory.”

  Augustus strode toward Anne, stopping three feet away. “I understand that you sought to placate your family and appease convention—or some such rot—by marrying, but why in the hell won’t you marry me?”

  “Your duchess, of all duchesses, must be above approach, Tindale.”

  “My duchess won’t organize her life around the opinions of a lot of petty gossips, and neither will her duke. Tell me the truth. Did I bungle the lovemaking? Is a former solicitor too lowly? Tell me what I must do, who I must be… Please, Anne, tell me the truth.”

  She put her hand over his mouth. “You must be yourself. I must be myself, and those two people cannot succeed if they are married to one another. Someday, somebody will whisper in your ear that your duchess is not all that she should be. You will shrug that off, but then another somebody will whisper that the mother of your children has a past. That she mis-stepped, and then it will be too late, Augustus. You’ll be s-stuck with me, and I could not bear…”

  He pulled her hand away and enveloped it in both of his. “My dearest, darling Anne, you seek to protect yourself, because nobody has ever done a proper job of assisting you in that regard. You think I will turn from you because your past at some point could become known.”

  Now that Anne could not see his features clearly, she wished for light.

  “My family would have turned from me,” she went on. “Helen might suspect—few young ladies prefer an extended tour of the Lakes to making their come out. My aunt and uncle would be scandalized. Lily reminded me that solicitors know all the secrets, and if you did not hear my story from some gossip, you might eventually hear it from a former legal associate. My family will leave me in peace after this, but the gossips never go quiet for long.”

  Tindale tugged on Anne’s hand, drawing her into his arms. “I probably have heard your story, though without enough details to identify the parties involved. A young woman, anticipating vows, cheated of marriage by death or misfortune, scurrying away before polite society has a chance to form any impression of her… It happens more often than you think, Anne.”

  She let herself rest against him, let herself feel the warmth of his embrace. “But this happened to me, and I would rather have one stolen moment with you by the sea than see your regard for me slowly erode, year by year, as the comments at the club and the veiled allusions at Angelo’s chip away at your esteem. Sooner or later, there will be talk, Tindale.”

  His arms settled around Anne more securely. “Oh, probably, and we will ignore the talk, or we will order a magnificent headstone for the child’s grave, and everybody will assume she was my by-blow.”

  The words were simple, but the emotions they evoked—bewilderment, wonder, gratitude, hope—were not. “You would acknowledge my daughter as your offspring?”

  “Anne Baxter, if we are to be duke and duchess, then we need not acknowledge, explain, or make excuses for anything. Your past and my past are nobody’s business. You are absolutely right that we will be in the public eye to some unavoidable extent, but we will be there together. When you thought Corbett Hobbs might tempt me to stupidity, you rushed to my side. When you need me, I will rush to your side as well. That’s what the vows are about.”

  “I think I’m about to cry again.” Tindale would mean his vows. He’d take that cherishing part very seriously.

  So would Anne.

  He passed her a handkerchief. “I suspect you have held back an ocean of tears. This cottage has a lovely little terrace, out of the wind, with a fine view of the sea. When you have finished with your next bout of the weeps, we can watch the stars come out together.”

  Together. Not a word Anne had much experience with. She contemplated that word while snuggled in Tindale’s lap as the stars winked into view, and the rhythm of the surf lulled her to sleep.

  She awoke to bright sunlight streaming in her bedroom window. Some considerate fellow had removed her slippers and stockings, undone her hooks, and loosened her stays, but she was in her bed alone, and no sweet little note graced her night table.

  “I sent a note with yesterday’s flowers,” Augustus said. “Anne did not reply.” He paced Lily’s sitting room, trying to will the sun to set.

  Lily wheeled herself to the open French doors that led to her balcony. “What did you send, Tindale?”

  Augustus wanted to stare down the drive until his coach appeared. Instead, he guided Lily’s Bath chair over the threshold and onto the balcony. “Purple gladiolus. Purple is the dominant color on the Tindale crest.”

  “Gladiolus, for remembrance, faithfulness, and sincerity. Interesting choice. And today’s flowers?”

  “Which Anne has also not acknowledged.” Nor had she responded to Augustus’s note informing her that his carriage would pick her up at half past the hour. “Today, I sent red roses and lavender.”

  “And you are wearing that combination in your boutonniere—passionate love and devotion. You will cause quite a stir. Thurlow has asked the younger Daley sister for permission to pay his addresses. Some communication from the admiralty courts has put the lieutenant in fine spirits.”

  “So he’ll be wearing red roses too?” Not that Augustus cared.

  “And the older Daley sister was seen emerging from Lord Corbett’s bedchamber last evening by no less than Camelia’s lady’s maid, who felt compelled to report that scandalous development to her employer.”

  Where was Anne? Would she attend the ball, and if she did not, was Augustus to conclude that she meant to enjoy her hard-earned freedom for the rest of her life? Was he to give her time to find her bearings? Court her publicly?

  “Roberta and Corbett will manage splendidly,” Augustus said, “if the opening maneuvers are any indication. What about you? Will you swear off allowing Camelia to hold her house parties here?”

  “Might I have my shawl, Tindale?”

  Augustus took the shawl from the back of the Bath chair, a pretty blue silk that went well with Lily’s fair coloring. “What aren’t you telling me, Lily?”

  “I partnered Lord Hume at the last cards night.”

  “And he was your dinner companion at last night’s buffet.” A very attentive dinner companion.

  “He is eight years my junior.”

  “And a decent enough fellow, though I won’t envy you your in-laws.”

  “I’ve already told him that his mother is not to visit, and my daughter will think I’m daft.”

  “Your daughter is one-and-twenty, Lily, and newly married.” Augustus had handled the settlements. “She has always been an authority on everything, and now you need no longer worry about her. Marry Lord Hume, and she might worry a bit less about you.”

  Lily took his hand and squeezed it. “The legal profession lost a fine counselor when you went for a duke, Tindale. I am lonely, and this house longs for children to fill it with noise and activity. Lord Hume is settled, solvent, and a fine… conversationalist.”

  “Lily Northrup, I’m shocked.” Also pleased. So very, very pleased.

  “You will attend the wedding?”

  “I will give away the bride, if you choose to so honor me, though I am done with being anybody’s best man.”

  Lord Hume was coming up the steps on the terrace below the balcony. He waved to Lily, who waved back.

  “Shoo, Tindale. Miss Baxter will be here soon—Mrs. Saunders asked for the loan of a pair of my ruby earbobs, because only rubies would do for Miss Baxter’s ensemble. Your place is to wait patiently at the foot of the ballroom stairs.”

  “My place is at Anne Baxter’s side.” If she’ll have me.

  “Away with you. Hume is due to pay a call, and for that, I need no chaperone.”

  Augustus kissed Lily’s cheek and took himself off. He passed Billingsley on the landing and paused long enough to spear his lordship with a look.

  “If you make Lily unhappy, if you disappoint her, if you give her any reason to regret trusting you with her future…”

  Billingsley smiled. “If you make Anne unhappy, if you disappoint her, if you give her any reason to regret trusting you with her future…”

  “We understand each other.” Augustus would have tarried on the landing, practicing his ducal glower, but the sound of heavy carriage wheels on the front drive had him instead trotting down the steps.

  He considered lurking in the foyer and discarded the notion. Anne deserved to make an entrance, and besides, there was Lord Bertram, looking quite splendid—and nervous—in his evening regalia.

  Augustus instead took himself to the ballroom, where guests were milling about as the string quartet tuned up. The scent of beeswax tapers blended with the fragrance of lavender and the perfumes and pomades of scores of guests. The house-party assemblage had been joined by local gentry, a few luminaries from the Brighton crowd, and some of the more distinguished guests from the inn.

  Ten feet from the men’s punch bowl—a location only slight less visible than the top of the steps—Roberta Daley was plastered to Corbett Hobbs’s side, while Hobbs wore the dazed expression of a man who found a lady’s bosom pressed to his arm and wasn’t sure what to do about it.

  Thurlow and Charlotte Daley were being more decorous, but only just.

  The herald announced some squire or other, a dowager viscountess, and then… Mrs. Helen Saunders and the Right Honorable Lord Bertram. Helen and her escort came down the steps at a dignified pace, which meant Augustus had a long moment to behold his beloved.

  From the top of the steps, Anne gazed out over the ballroom with an air of gracious detachment, then waved off the waiting footman and began her descent alone.

  Augustus waited at the foot of the steps, resisting the urge to go to her. The ballroom quieted, for she made an absolutely stunning picture against the steps’ red carpet.

  When she reached the third step from the bottom, Augustus held out his hand. “Miss Baxter, you wore my colors.”

  Her dress was a deep, shimmering purple velvet—the same purple adorning Augustus’s waistcoat—and her corsage was a cluster of roses and lavender.

  “Your Grace.” She took his hand and kept right on coming before kissing his cheek in front of the whole, sighing ballroom. “Helen found the fabric in Brighton, and we’ve been sewing madly for three days. Shall we promenade?”

  Augustus placed her hand over his arm. “I don’t care to perishing promenade.”

  Anne’s smile was serenity itself. “What would you rather do?”

  “Propose.” He waited for Anne’s response, for a smile, a scold, anything.

  “You needn’t, Tindale. I hope you know that.”

  “I must. I hope you know that.” He led Anne to the center of the room, kept hold of her hand, and dropped to one knee.

  “Anne Baxter,” Tindale said. “Will you marry me?”

  The ballroom had gone silent on a final squeak of a violin, and in the ensuing quiet, Tindale’s voice carried to every corner of the room. “Will you do me the very great honor of becoming my wife? Will you allow me to cherish you for the rest of our days and build a future with you, come what may? Will you build a life with me on a foundation of love, trust, and joy and take my heart into your keeping?”

  Anne could muster only one thought: They are all looking at me. The bachelors and chaperones and gossips were all looking at her, gawking, watching, her worst fear come to life.

  Except, Charlotte Daley appeared to be on the verge of tears, while Roberta was plainly envious. Lady Deschamps looked wistful, and Lord Hume Billingsley had taken Lily Northrup’s hand.

  The words Arise, Sir Knight came to mind, but this was not a farce or a melodrama or theater of any kind. This was Augustus, asking Anne for her trust and her future. The same Augustus who had heard all of her regrets and fears, who had walked barefoot with her on the shore, who had seen the truth of her loneliness.

  “I will marry you,” Anne said, drawing him to his feet. “On one condition.”

  “Name it.”

  “We will always make time to build sandcastles, Your Grace. We will wander hand in hand on the shore, watch the moonglow dance over the waves. Polite society can think of us what it will, but we will not care, as long as we have each other.”

  He swept the ballroom with his gaze, then smiled down at Anne. “We will not care in the least for the opinions of the small-minded few, and you will always have my devotion.”

  He kissed her, not exactly chastely, but Anne could taste restraint in his overture too. Applause rose around them, and the quartet swung into a lively promenade.

  “I want a special license,” Anne said as Augustus tucked her hand over his arm.

  “We will cry the banns, and for at least three weeks, I will court you within an inch of your… corset.”

  “A long courtship might be a tribulation for all concerned, Your Grace.” Anne kept her voice down, as Lily, her Bath chair pushed by Lord Hume, approached them.

  “We will do this properly, Anne,” Tindale said, nearly whispering in her ear.

  “We will do this speedily,” Anne replied. “Else we shall not do it at all.” She knew full well that Tindale would fly off to London and procure a special license, did she truly ask it of him, but the negotiation was invigorating, and really, one ought to begin as one intended to go on.

  “A fortnight, then,” Tindale said. “And I promise you my devoted attention for the duration. I know these idiots have daunted your courage. They daunt mine as well, truth be told. But I have promised you summers building sandcastles, evenings with good books, and nights of shared joy. You must allow me a fortnight to be the doting swain.”

  “And if a fortnight is too long to wait?”

  Lily came to a halt before them.

  “If you refuse me this request,” Tindale said, “I will become a spinster duke and spend all my time brooding by the sea, because the woman I love, the woman I need and adore, has refused to allow me two weeks to cherish her publicly.”