Simply Perfect

“Claudia!” Even before she reached the rose arbor Claudia heard the sound of her name being called and turned her head to see Susanna hurrying toward her from the direction of the terrace. Peter was some distance behind with Viscount and Viscountess Ravensberg—and Charlie. “Wherever have you been?” Susanna asked as she came closer. “We have been looking for you. Frances was feeling tired and Lucius has taken her home.” “Ah. I am sorry to have missed saying farewell to them,” Claudia said. “I have been down by the river.” “Have you been having a good time?” Susanna asked. “It is beautiful down there,” Claudia replied. She hesitated. “I have actually been on the river. The Marquess of Attingsborough was obliging enough to take me out in one of the boats.” “How good of him,” Susanna said. “He is an amiable and charming gentleman, is he not? He deserves the very best out of life. I am not sure he will have it with Miss Hunt.” “Miss Hunt?” Claudia asked, remembering the haughty, beautiful lady dressed all in white who had treated her with such icy civility a short while ago. Susanna pulled a face. “She is the Miss Hunt,” she said, and when Claudia looked blankly at her she explained. “Miss Portia Hunt. The one Lucius almost married instead of Frances. And now Lauren tells me that Joseph is to marry her. Of course, they do make a handsome couple.” They did, Claudia agreed. Oh, goodness, indeed they did. She felt somehow foolish as if everyone within sight of her would realize what silly daydreams she had indulged in while out on the river. Miss Claudia Martin was not usually given to daydreams, especially silly ones—and more especially romantic ones. “But Claudia,” Susanna continued, smiling warmly as the rest of her group came up to them, “we have been having a long talk with the Duke of McLeith, and he has been telling us that you grew up together almost like brother and sister.” They were all smiling, obviously happy for her. Charlie was beaming. “Claudia,” he said, “we meet again.” “Good afternoon, Charlie,” she said. Brother and sister, indeed! “How wonderful that you should meet again now,” Lady Ravensberg said, “when you have not been in England for years, your grace, and Miss Martin has come to town for just a week or two.” “I can scarcely believe my good fortune,” Charlie said. “Kit and I are organizing a party to Vauxhall Gardens the evening after tomorrow,” the viscountess continued. “We would be delighted if the two of you could join us. Susanna and Peter have already said yes. Will you come too, Miss Martin?” Vauxhall Gardens! It was one place Claudia had always wanted to see. It was famous for its outdoor evening entertainments, with concerts and dancing and fireworks and fine food and lantern-lit pathways and alleys to stroll along. It was said to be a magical and unforgettable experience. “I would love to,” she said. “Thank you.” “And your grace?” “You are most kind,” he said. “I shall be delighted.” Claudia felt less shock at seeing him today. It was almost inevitable that they meet again, she had realized this morning when she woke up. And perhaps it was just as well it had happened. The long-ago past had never been quite exorcised. Perhaps now it would be and she could let go of the memories at last. “Oh, lovely!” Lady Ravensberg said. “Our party is complete, then, Kit. Elizabeth and Lyndon will be coming and Joseph and Miss Hunt and Lily and Neville. Oh, and Wilma and George too.” Lovely indeed, Claudia thought with heavy irony. And so she would see him again after all—him being the Marquess of Attingsborough. Well, she would just have to frown and look stern and make him believe that he must have been mistaken out there on the river. And those last two people the viscountess had named must be the Earl and Countess of Sutton. She really had walked into the fire with her enthusiastic acceptance of her invitation, but it was too late now to withdraw it. Besides, she wanted very much to see Vauxhall Gardens, and why should she not go? She would have friends there. “Claudia,” Charlie said, “would you care to take a stroll with me?” Everyone else beamed happily at them as they moved away from the group, weaved their way among other guests, a few of whom greeted him as they passed, and headed in the general direction of the river. “You live in Bath, Claudia?” he asked, offering his arm, though she did not take it. He knew nothing about her, then? But she knew nothing about him either, did she? Not anything that had happened to him since her father’s death, anyway. “Yes,” she said. “I own and run a girls’ school there. It is quite successful. All my dreams have come true, in fact. I am very happy.” And how was that for a defensive answer to his question? “A school!” he said. “Well done, Claudia. I thought you were a governess.” “I was for a short while,” she said. “But then I took a chance on opening my own establishment so that I could enjoy more independence.” “I was surprised when I heard that you had taken employment at all,” he said. “I thought you would marry. You had any number of admirers and would-be suitors, as I remember.” She felt a flash of anger as they started down the long slope. But there was some truth in his words. Even apart from her modest dowry, she had been a pretty enough girl, and there had been something in her nature that had attracted attention from the young men of the neighborhood. But she had had eyes for none of them, and after Charlie left—or at least after the last letter he wrote her less than a year later—she had renounced the very thought of marrying. Her decision had caused her father some pain—she knew that. He would have liked grandchildren. “Did you know that Mona had died?” Charlie asked. “Mona?” she said a fraction of a second before she realized that he was speaking of his wife. “The duchess,” he said. “She died more than two years ago.” “I am sorry,” she said. At one time that name had been written on her heart as if with a sharp instrument—Lady Mona Chesterton. He had married her just before Claudia’s father died. “You need not be,” he said. “It was not a particularly happy marriage.” Claudia felt a renewed flash of anger on behalf of the dead duchess. “Charles is at school in Edinburgh,” he told her. “My son,” he added when she turned her head to look at him. “He is fifteen.” Oh, goodness, only three years younger than Charlie had been when he left home. How time went by! The Marquess of Attingsborough and Miss Hunt, she could see, were walking up the slope from the river. They would meet soon. She wished suddenly that she had never left the tranquillity of her school. Though she half smiled at the thought. Tranquillity? School life hardly offered that. But at least there she always felt more or less in control. “I am sorry, Claudia,” Charlie said. “You really do not know anything about my life, do you? Just as I know nothing of yours. How could we have grown so far apart? We were once as close as any brother and sister, were we not?” She pressed her lips together. They had been like siblings once upon a very long time ago, it was true. But not toward the end. “It was not your fault, though, that I left home never to return, was it?” he said. “Or mine either for that matter. It was the fault of circumstances. Who could have predicted that two men and one boy, none of whom I knew, would all die within four months of one another, leaving me with the title of McLeith and properties that went with it?” He had been planning a career in law. She could remember how stunned he had been when the Scottish solicitor had arrived on her father’s doorstep one afternoon—and then how consumed with excitement and happiness. She had tried to be happy for and with him, but there had been a chill of apprehension too—one that had been fully justified as later developments had proved. It was the fault of circumstances. Perhaps he was right. He had been just a boy thrust into a world so different from the one in which he had grown up that it might have been a different universe. But there was no real excuse for cruelty no matter what the age of the perpetrator. And he had certainly been cruel. “We ought to have continued to write to each other after your father’s passing,” he said. “I have missed you, Claudia. I did not realize how much until I saw you again last evening.” Had he really forgotten? It was astounding—we ought to have continued to write to each other… Miss Hunt was all gracious smiles as she approached on the marquess’s arm, her eyes on Charlie. Claudia might have been invisible. “Your grace,” she called, “is this not a lovely party?” “It has just,” he said, smiling and bowing, “turned even lovelier, Miss Hunt.”