I climbed into the boat, untied it and picked up the oars. Having settled them into the rowlocks I pulled on the right oar and sent the boat out onto the lake. The water lilies were in bloom, their leaves as large as saucers and their white flowers opening like stars to reveal the gold at their heart, whilst around them the water reflected the bright blue sky.
Eliza removed her glove and let her hand trail in the water. I watched the quicksilver liquid flow over her slender white fingers, mesmerized.
‘How perfect this is,’ she said. ‘To be here, with you.’ She murmured softly, ‘Rejoice, waters of the Lydian lake, and laugh out loud all the laughter you have at your command. Your master is home.’
She smiled at me, and I was so much in danger of drowning in her smile that I reprimanded her, and said, ‘Your Catullus is faulty,’ hoping to break the mood, but it was no good; the mood was not to be broken.
‘My Catullus might be faulty, but not my heart,’ she said softly.
I could fight it no longer. The splashing of the water against the oars, the soft kiss of the breeze, and the sight of Eliza there before me, drew me into the moment and held me there as though silken tendrils had wrapped themselves around my heart.
‘If I could write the beauty of your eyes,
And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
The age to come would say, “This poet lies;
Such heavenly touches ne’er touch’d earthly faces.” ’
As I spoke, I felt that Shakespeare must have written those lines for Eliza.
She lay back, allowing the sun to slip beneath her parasol and drift across her face, painting her skin with golden rays, and I marvelled at her beauty, and the wonder of her loving me.
‘If I could trap a moment in time, then I would trap this moment and hold it for all eternity, with the sun on my skin and the water cool on my hand and the skylarks singing and you here with me,’ she said. ‘When I am old and grey I will come back here in my memory and we will be young again, in the first throes of love.’
‘When you are old and grey I will bring you back here and we will row on the lake, just as we are doing today,’ I said.
We fell silent, needing no words, and we did not go in until the clouds began to thicken, and the first fat drops of rain began to fall.
I tied up the boat and gave Eliza my hand, and we ran back to the house, reaching it as the rain began in earnest.
‘I have a fitting with my dressmaker this afternoon,’ she said.
‘Then I will not see you until dinner time.’
‘No.’
We could not bring ourselves to part and we lingered there a while, but when the clock on the stable chimed, we knew we had to go our separate ways so that we could meet again this evening.
I passed the afternoon on horseback, riding hard, and then went in to change for dinner, arriving early in the drawing room in my impatience to see her again.
She came in at last, in a yellow dress that set off her hair.
‘Was your fitting successful?’ I asked her, going forward.
‘Yes. I need make only one more visit to the dressmakers and my dress will be ready.’
‘Good, good,’ said my father, who had entered the room in time to hear her. ‘You need something special to wear, for the ball will be one to remember. James, you must wear something special, too. In the light of your future plans, perhaps you will honour us by appearing in a periwig.’
‘I am glad I thought of going into the law, since it has afforded you so much amusement,’ I said, having grown used to his ways again.
‘My dear boy, pray do not do it on my account. Your brother affords me quite as much amusement as a man has a right to expect from his children,’ he said, glancing at Harry, who looked the epitome of a dissolute rake. ‘Indeed, I have been very fortunate in that respect.’
Harry ignored him, but poured himself another drink and carried it through to the dining room.
When we were all seated and the soup had been served, I said, ‘I am glad you are holding a ball, sir.’ For he spends too much time alone, and I am sure that that is the cause of his strange humours.
‘At this present time I must make the effort, indeed I must,’ said my father, tasting the soup and adopting a resigned expression, for, in truth, it was insipid. ‘It is not every day that my son and heir contracts an eligible alliance.’
I almost dropped my spoon in my astonishment.
‘An eligible alliance?’ I asked, looking at Harry and then back to my father.
‘Yes, your brother is engaged,’ remarked my father calmly, between mouthfuls of soup.
‘But I have heard nothing of this!’ I said.
‘And will not hear anything of it, officially, until the ball,’ said my father. ‘That is when it is to be announced. The ball will add an element of grandeur to the announcement, and will lend it due weight and importance. Ladies like such things.’
Eliza and I exchanged startled glances, for to hear of my brother’s engagement in such a manner seemed strange indeed.
‘And who is the lucky lady?’ asked Eliza.
Harry lifted his glass to her and smirked. ‘You.’
‘Me? ’ she asked in bewilderment, then laughed.
‘I am glad to see it affords you so much joy,’ said my father, dabbing his lips fastidiously as he finished his soup.
‘But who is she really?’ asked Eliza. ‘Is she anyone we know?’
‘My dear, I know that Harry is not always the most honest young man in the world, but on this occasion he speaks nothing but the truth. His bride is, indeed, to be you.’
‘But ... this is a joke!’ said Eliza, but she did not sound sure.
I was not sure, either, and now the glances we exchanged were perturbed.
‘A joke! How you young people express your good humour these days! In my young day, we would have said, This is delightful. But times move on and language, just like fashion, is always changing. Yes, my dear, it is a joke.’
‘You are teasing me, sir,’ she said, looking at me anxiously and then looking back at my father.
‘Is this another of youth’s sayings?’ he asked. ‘I am sadly behind the times, I fear, and I do not always understand them.’
‘Pray, do not jest with me, sir,’ she said. ‘Put me out of my misery and tell me it is not true.’
‘Your misery? My dear Eliza, not a moment ago you were in raptures about it,’ he said incredulously; but, as so often happens with my father, I did not know if his manner was real or feigned.
‘I assure you, sir, I was not,’ said Eliza. ‘I thought you were teasing me.’
‘For what purpose?’ he enquired curiously.
‘I do not know.’
‘Nor do I. I cannot see how claiming you are to marry my son and heir can be construed as teasing, but since you seem to be in some doubt then I will say it plainly. As your guardian, I have found you a suitable husband. The engagement will be announced at the ball and the marriage will take place at the end of the summer.’
‘No!’ said Eliza, rising in her seat and throwing her napkin down on the table.
‘No?’ asked my father in surprise.
‘No, sir, I am sorry, but I cannot marry Harry.’
‘Well, well, that sounds very definite.’
‘I do not love him.’
‘And what, pray, does that have to do with anything?’
‘It has everything to do with it,’ she cried passionately.
‘Marriages are contracted for the good of the parties involved, not for some romantic notions. You are of a marriageable age and it is my duty as your guardian to find you a husband. Your fortune entitles you to an eldest son, one from an old and respectable family with a fine estate, who can provide you with comfort, ease and security, and that is what you will have.’