Corisande did not take her eyes from Cord’s face.
“That’s right,” she said, adding waspishly, “I apprehend that you wish to take me aside for the proposal you delayed for so long. As you can see, however, you delayed a trifle too long.”
For a moment. Cord found it impossible to take in her words. Wilfred? Lord Culver? Corisande—his lady? A wave of relief swept over him, so powerful that he was forced to grip a nearby table in order to prevent himself from falling to the floor in mindless gratitude to whatever gods had taken a hand in his affairs. A small sound caught his ear, and he turned to watch Gillian put her fingertips to her mouth to cover the gasp she had just uttered.
Cord moved to Corisande. He took her hand and covered it with his own. “I wish you happy, my dear.” To Wilfred, he said, “And I congratulate you, brother mine, on your new bride—and your new title. I wish you the greatest happiness in both.” With which graceful speech, he swiveled to face his aunt once more.
This lady, however, ashen-faced and trembling, had sunk into a settee. Her husband sat beside her, patting her hand in a futile gesture.
“Title?” she quavered. “Married?
Corisande?
B-but, Cord, she was for
you!
All these years . . . the planning . . .” She trailed off dismally.
“Now, now, Bessie,” murmured George consolingly. “It’s all for the best, I’ve no doubt.”
“Yes,
but—”
“Yes,” echoed Cord firmly. “Absolutely all for the best.” He rubbed his hands together briskly. “And now, may I suggest you all repair to Wildehaven? You are welcome to stay as long as you please, of course, and—”
“No,” said Corisande again, with great firmness. To the marquess and marchioness, she declared. “Please do what you wish, my lady—my lord, but as for
me—” She turned to grasp the hand of her betrothed. “Oh, Wilfred, take me home, please. Now.”
Wilfred, not surprisingly, drew her to him. “Of course, my dearest girl. Only, we have no transportation. Cord?”
Cord opened his mouth to offer a carriage, horses and whatever else might be required to see the new peer and his betrothed on their way. He was forestalled by a now-recovered Lady Binsted.
“Nonsense,” she said briskly. “Since you two”—she glared briefly at both the Culver brothers—”are apparently completely lost to your family obligations, I see no point in remaining here any longer. Come, George, we will go home now.” To Cord she said, “I shall, of course, begin anew to find a bride for you, Cordray. The Duke of Grantchester’s daughter was presented last month. She’s a lovely little thing. And then there’s Frances Morecombe. She—”
Cord rather regretted throwing a spanner into his aunt’s plans, for she had brightened markedly at the prospect of sifting through the marriage mart once more. However, he realized that now was the time for the nipping of buds and halting in tracks.
“That won’t be necessary, Aunt. You will be pleased to hear that I plan to marry soon, but I shall choose my own bride.”
“Oh, but—” began Lady Binsted, but at the sound of that particular note in his voice, she was silenced. With one last speculative glance at Gillian, she swept from the room with a crackle of silken skirts. The marquess followed in some relief, and Corisande and Wilfred trailed behind them, Corisande’s hand resting sedately on Wilfred’s arm. Mr. McSorley brought up the rear, displaying the demeanor of a large dog, knowing he is unwelcome but determined to squeeze his way into the proceedings.
Cord and the Folsome family saw them out of the house and into their carriage with appropriate expressions of good will. They watched and waved as the ponderous vehicle lumbered down the drive and onto the road, after which, with relieved sighs, they returned to the house.
“I do apologize,” were Cord’s first words on re-entering the parlor. He laughed ruefully. “I seem to be doing a lot of that this morning. I rather suspected my family would appear at some time to rein me in, but I had no idea they would pursue me to your front door.”
He shot a glance at Gillian, but that lady was busy removing a piece of lint from the sleeve of her riding habit. Aunt Louisa chuckled.
“Think nothing of it, dear boy. We were pleased to make their acquaintance—and their arrival enlivened our morning. Not that we needed enlivening after Henry’s discovery.”
She shot a look at her brother, who had sunk into a wing chair and was now staring ahead of him in a fit of distraction. “Henry?”
Sir Henry jerked to attention. “I have been thinking,” he said without preamble, “about the diary. As I said, I must go into Cambridge—to speak with Mr. Neville.” He paused for a moment. “On consideration, I have decided not to attempt the translation of the diary myself.”
“Henry!” gasped Aunt Louisa, echoed by Cord and Gillian.
“But, after all your work! Your study! You have earned—”
“Yes, my dear. I have earned the right. However, young John Smith has also worked very hard. If it were he who had stumbled on to the
Tachygraphy,
I’m sure he would have made the connection.
“I have enjoyed a long and productive career. John is just starting on his. In addition,” he said with a small smile, “the translation itself will no doubt prove tedious. I enjoyed the challenge, but now I’m ready to move on to something else. In fact,” Sir Henry continued, steepling his fingers before him, “I’ve been hearing a great deal lately about the stone found several years ago in Egypt—near Rashid, or as they’re calling it now, Rosetta. I am no expert in the field of Egyptian study, of course, but I am, I think I may say in all modesty, skilled in letters. Perhaps I could aid—Thomas Young, I think his name is—in the translation of what will no doubt become a cornerstone in our understanding of that ancient land.”
Ignoring the faint moans issuing from his nearest and dearest, he added, “I’m afraid I have not quite the nobility of spirit to let John take all the credit. I shall inform Neville that I have hit on the method of translating the diary, after which—again with your permission. Cord— I’ll hand over the
Tachygraphy to
him, to be passed on to John. I shall, of course, be happy to lend my assistance, but I’ll stay in the background.”
“Oh, Uncle,” breathed Gillian, moving to embrace Sir Henry. “How very good you are. This will mean so much to John.”
“Well,” added Aunt Louisa with a sniff, “I suppose it will be all right—as long as you get the credit for discovering the translation. Henry,” she concluded severely.
Sir Henry laughed. “I’ll get it in writing, m’dear. If you will excuse me for a moment-”
He left the room to return a moment later, a single sheet of paper in his hand.
“I worked for a little while this morning on the first page of the first volume, which I transcribed some time ago.” Reverently, he lifted the paper in his hands like an acolyte making an offering. “Would you like to hear it?”
In response to their unanimous assent. Sir Henry read:
January 1. 1659/60 Lords=day
This morning (we lying lately in the garret) I rose, put on my suit with great skirts, having not lately worn any other clothes but them.
Went to Mr. Gunnings church at Exeter-house, where he made a very good sermon upon these words: That in the fullness of time God sent his son, made of a woman, &c. shewing that by “made under the law,” is meant his circumcision, which is solemnised this day.
Dined at home in the garret, where my wife dressed the remains of a turkey, and in the doing of it she burned her hand.
I stayed at home all the afternoon, looking over my accounts.
Then went with my wife to my father’s; and in going, observed the great posts which the City hath set up at the Conduit in fleet-street.
Sir Henry let out a long breath, like a great “Amen,” and glanced about.
“Not quite what you would call an earthshaking insight into the Restoration,” he said huskily after a moment, “but, behold Mr. Sam Pepys discoursing on life in London almost two hundred years ago.”
Mrs. Ferris said nothing, but reached to touch her brother’s hand, her eyes bright with happy tears. Gillian, watching, felt her own throat tighten. She was so very happy for her uncle, she reflected, and to think that the realization of his dreams had come about because of ... She glanced at Cord. This proved to be a strategic error, for at the same moment he was looking at her. She felt his gaze as though she were being washed in a tropical sea, and she looked away, flushing.
Dear Lord what was she to do about him? About the treacherous weakness he had created in her defenses? She was honest enough to admit that she wanted nothing more than to acquiesce in his declared desire for her. The idea of spending the rest of her life with him was like looking through the gates of Heaven into an impossible vision of bliss. Conversely, she thought dismally, the concept of life without him was almost too painful to contemplate.
She reminded herself that she had lived for six-and-twenty years without the exhilarating pleasure of Cord’s company. She could exist without him for the years remaining to her. What she could not do was ruin both their lives by marrying him.
For she knew that what she felt for Cord was not love. It was an infatuation, and as sure as apple blossoms in May, the “fine madness” that Cord had spoken of earlier would dissipate. She knew with perfect clarity that Cord was not the pattern of virtue that Kenneth had been. If she could not love Kenneth, how could she possibly expect to love Cord, with all his imperfections? She, too, was flawed, of course, and Cord would soon tire of seeking love where there was none to find.
She jerked to attention, aware that Uncle Henry had donned his coat, preparatory to his trip into Cambridge. Clutching the
Tachygraphy
in his hand, the elderly academic accepted the further congratulations of his little family and his good friend. In a moment he had left the cottage and clambered aboard his gig, waving jubilantly as he clattered off down the drive.
Waving in response through the window, Aunt Louisa extended an invitation to Cord for luncheon.
“No, I cannot stay, Mrs. Ferris, thank you,” he replied courteously. “I must return to Wildehaven, for I have an appointment with Mr. Jilbert. I shall return tomorrow, however. Would you see me out, Gillian?” he asked after a moment.
Inwardly, Gillian flinched, but she replied coolly, “Of course, Cord.”
She led the way from the parlor to the hall and out the door. Once outside, Cord laid his hand on her arm. Why, she wondered absently, when his touch warmed her down to her fingertips, did the contact make her shiver?
“Gillian,” began Cord, “I cannot leave with matters in such chaos between us.”
“Please, Cord.” Gillian strove to keep her voice from trembling. “Don’t say any more. There is nothing between us—nor can there ever be.”
For several moments. Cord stared down at her in silence. When he spoke at last, his voice was ragged. “Just let me say one more thing. Even if I subscribed to the absurd notion that you were somehow responsible for Kenneth’s death, it all happened four years ago. You are not the same person you were then. Just because you attempted love once and failed does not mean you must live without love forever. Gillian, I believe there is something—something precious between us. You say you do not love me, but I’m not sure I believe you—or that you believe it yourself. I know that I love you, and I believe there is a chance for us to build a life together. I beg you not to throw it away.”
Gillian struggled for the words to disabuse Cord of his tragic fallacy. “Cord, I am honored—more than I can say—by your words, but . . . don’t you see? There is something lacking in me—something basic. Whatever I feel for you—and, oh yes, I do feel something—it is not love. It’s . . . oh, I don’t know ... a temporary infatuation or possibly pure lust.” A twisted grimace curved her lips. “I suppose the male sex is not the only one to be afflicted with that malady. “In any event—”
“For God’s sake, Gillian. Are you going to let one incident color your whole outlook on life—and love?”
“Believe me. Cord,” replied Gillian in a low voice. “Once was enough to convince me of the truth of my words.”
She backed away from him. “We have spoken enough, I think. I know I am right, and I will not embark on the ruination of your life and mine.”
Cord stared at her, and Gillian felt flayed by the pain and yearning she saw in his eyes. He spoke at last in a voice she barely recognized as his.
“Then you are right. There is no more to say. I bid you good day. Miss Tate.”
He started to turn away, but halted abruptly, and now his changeable eyes glittered like sea-washed pebbles. “In fact, since there seems to be little point in my remaining in the vicinity, I might as well bid you goodbye. I shall return to London tomorrow.”
He stood for a moment, as though waiting, but Gillian summoning all the will power at her disposal, merely nodded.
“I’ll leave at daybreak,” Cord said. He turned again, and this time moved straightaway to mount Zeus. With a slight lift of his hand, he wheeled about and galloped down the drive.
In a few moments, he was gone from sight, but for many moments, Gillian stood in the sunshine, alone, staring at the path he had just taken.
Chapter Twenty-one
Cord did not return immediately to Wildehaven. Instead, he rode, directionless, for some time before halting abruptly. Looking around blankly, he realized that he had come to the hilltop to which he had brought Gillian this morning. It seemed like a hundred years ago. He dismounted and walked a few paces along the rise, staring unseeing at the beauty of the Cambridgeshire landscape.
How could he have been so stupid? The hedonistic Earl of Cordray, known throughout the realm for his conquests, had fallen victim to a pair of laughing gray eyes and a beguiling smile—whose owner had turned him down cold. The situation would be laughable, if it didn’t hurt so much. He had been so sure she returned his love. Even when she spoke of her fatal flaws and cruel betrayals, he had felt that deep down she knew she was talking nonsense. That she would, in the end, nestle into his arms to stay forever.