Where had he gone wrong in the last few years? Why was he still so rootless? Why had he come skulking back here, like a wounded animal to its den, to lick his wounds? He knew that, much as he needed this quiet breathing space in his life, staying here was not the answer. He would have to face life again if he hoped ever to achieve a measure of contentment.
And the more he thought of it, the more Mainwaring came to realize that the first thing he would have to do would be to face his past. He could not be always running away. He had greatly valued Robert Denning's friendship. Although their personalities were as different as it was possible for them to be, they had shared a bond. Each of them had suffered; each of them had developed a character somewhat deeper than that of most men about town. And quite apart from his emotional feelings for Elizabeth, he valued her friendship too. And these friendships could not thrive on letters alone. He would have to find the courage to face them.
And it would take some courage. He had loved Elizabeth with all the ardor of a first love, and he had never fully recovered from her loss. To see her again under any circumstances would be painful. But to see her with his best friend, to see her with Robert's child, would be an ordeal that he dreaded. But face her he must. He must see the reality of her marriage with his own eyes. He must torture himself by being in their company for a goodly length of time. He would have to winter in London. Perhaps once the reality was finally impressed upon him, he would be able to come to terms with his feelings, put them behind him, and start a new life. Only one thing he would not do. He would not stay at their home. He could not do that.
Another person was on Mainwaring's mind at least equally as much as the Dennings during those two months. He found that he could not put Nell out of his mind. Whenever he went out-of-doors he could see her. He could see her in the hills, running lightly with her bare feet to the top so that she might see over. He could see her on the moors, stooped down in the heather, examining with intense interest the tiny purple blooms. He could see her among the trees that surrounded his home, her body pressed against a trunk, her cheek against the living bark, her slim hands exploring with sensitive interest its rough contours.
Indoors he could escape her no less. The house was cold, as it always had been. He spent his indoor hours almost exclusively in the room he had made into a library. And when he read the songs of Robert Burns, which he loved, hearing the melodies with his mind as his eyes read, he thought of her. She would love these songs, and she could be the subject of many of them. Many times his hands strayed, almost against his will, to his volume of Lyrical Ballads, and he would read all the poems he had meant to read aloud to her. He had read her only one very short one, and there were so many that he would like to have shared with her. He regretted that he had not had the opportunity to do so.
He felt heavyhearted whenever he thought of her, his little wood nymph. Had he made her unhappy by his desertion? Did she grieve for him still? Had he done the wrong thing to leave without a word? Would it have been kinder to have met her again, to have explained as gently as he could why they could not continue seeing each other?
He found that he missed her. Frequently he would find himself storing some little observation or small anecdote in his mind to share with her, only to realize almost immediately that he would not be seeing her again. Sometimes he would lie down in the heather on the hills, allowing his horse to graze unshackled beside him. He would clasp his hands behind his head and gaze up at the sky and find himself wondering, as she had done on one occasion, why the clouds seemed to move at such speed across the sky, though there was no wind on the ground. And he would find himself wanting her with a yearning that brought an ache to his throat.
He even thought of going back to her. Surely he could make a marriage with her work. He had a great deal to offer her-not so much material things as his friendship and his ability to teach her and to open to her the world of books and of art. And he had a great deal to gain. She would be a sweet and a cheerful companion and always full of vitality and a fresh originality, he believed. And she could bring him great sensual satisfaction. He could not imagine ever growing tired of making love to her, or caressing her to that peak of ecstasy that she had reached during their second time together, and of burying in her sweet, soft depths all his own needs.
But always he would dash the thoughts ruthlessly from his mind. He was being selfish to think in that. He was not thinking of what was best for her. The truth was that he could not offer himself to her unless he had all of himself to offer. And he could never offer that to any woman except one. Marry he must. He recognized the need in himself for a wife, for the companionship and the sense of belonging that marriage would bring. He recognized his need for children, who would give him a sense of his own identity. But his wife must be a woman who would not expect his love. He must choose for himself a woman whom he could respect and esteem and one whom he could not hurt. And she must be a woman of his own class, one who would not have to adjust painfully to his way of life.
So William Mainwaring traveled toward London, knowing that it was that it was the only course open to him if he was to make anything meaningful out of his life. But he felt no eagerness, no impatience to be there. In a few days' time he would see Elizabeth again, and he would see her child. And the wound would be raw and painful again. A man does not willingly hasten toward certain pain.
The Countess of Claymore and her three daughters were all in the drawing room of the rather shabby but undoubtedly imposing mansion they had rented on Charles Street when the earl arrived home late in the afternoon. His wife was all aflutter, he noticed as soon as he let himself into the room, and the older girls, too, were looking more animated than they had appeared in the three days since their arrival in town.
How provoking that you have been away until now," the countess said by way of greeting. "We have but now bade farewell to Lady Medbourne and her daughter. Charlotte Hinton that was. my love. Do you remember her? She made her come-out the same year as I did. We all felt quite sorry for her at the time -such a scrawny little thing, you know, and almost nothing for a dowry. But she did quite well for herself after all. Married Lord Medbourne the year after you took me north."
"Medbourne?" the earl said, brow furrowed in thought. "Old fellow, was he? Red-faced and always wheezing?"
"Yes, indeed," his wife agreed. "I would not have considered him much of a catch myself. He must have been close to his sixties at least, and not at all an imposing figure. But he had the title, you know, and a not inconsiderable fortune, it seems. Charlotte did quite well. She has been a widow these fifteen years, and she has a son and daughter who accompanied her this afternoon. Pasty girl. Rather like poor Charlotte was as a girl."
"Lady Medbourne has invited us to dinner tomorrow sennight, Papa," Emily said in a matter-of-fact voice. She believed in getting to the important point. "Mama says that she must have suitable connections. Soon, it would appear, we will have a circle of acquaintances suitable to our station."
"Lady Bridgemoor left her card this morning too while we were out," the countess added. "Celia Thompson that was, you will recall."
"Well, I do hope that invitations begin to arrive soon," Melissa added petulantly. "It is too provoking to be in London at last and have nothing to do."
"Nonsense, my love," her mother said. "Of course, we will be on everyone's invitation lists once it is known that we are here. But it must take a few days. Papa and I have been absent for so long, you see."