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‘I am relieved to hear it. Your father would not completely disapprove of me.’
‘I did not think that would matter to you.’
‘It doesn’t, but it matters to me what you think.’
Mary caught her breath at the ch
ange of tone, the earnestness of his words. Suddenly their easy companionship was gone. There was no frivolous response she could give him and she noted with relief the black outline of the schoolhouse looming up.
‘I should like to know,’ he said as they turned in through the gate. ‘I would like you to tell me truthfully what you think of me.’
Mary swallowed.
‘I think,’ she said carefully, ‘I think that you are too serious. You have been a soldier too long, Randall. You face death without a qualm, but, in some way, you are afraid to live.’
He was silent as they made their way to her front door and she wondered if she had offended him. She stopped and turned to him, saying impulsively,
‘Randall, I am sorry—’
‘Do not be.’ He was looking down at her; she could feel his gaze although he was no more than a solid black outline against the night. ‘Perhaps you are right. I chose a military life, it has been a series of battles and engagements and I have never looked beyond the next campaign. I have never wanted to contemplate any other life.’ He sighed. ‘Is it too late to change, do you think?’
‘It is never too late to change, Randall.’
She whispered the words and was not sure if he had heard her.
He took her hands. ‘Thank you, my friend, for your honesty. You must help me to live in the little time we have left together.’
‘I will, my lord, if I can.’
He squeezed her fingers, waiting only until the door was opened before striding away into the darkness, leaving Mary to enter the house, keeping her face averted from the light so Jacques would not see that her cheeks were wet with tears.
Chapter Seven
May became June and Mary’s ordered life was turned upside down. She arranged her days so that she could be free to join the earl at a moment’s notice. She left the teaching of pupils to her staff and any matters requiring her attention were dealt with as quickly as possible each morning. The earl’s duties kept him busy most days, but as soon as he returned to his lodgings he would dash off a note and she would be waiting for him when he came to take her to the theatre, a concert or a private recital, or on a fine evening merely to stroll in the park. Afterwards he would escort her to her door and take punctilious leave of her with no more than a kiss of her fingers.
It was a bittersweet time. Mary lived for Randall’s visits, even though they were never alone and conducted themselves with rigid propriety. Every word, every look left her longing for more, but it was not to be and she would rather have his company than not. Her only comfort was that Randall felt the same, she knew it from the warmth she surprised in his eyes at times, the weight of his hands when he helped her with her cloak, resting on her shoulders a moment longer than necessary.
Although Mary felt incomplete when Randall was not with her, she did not idle away the rest of her day gazing out of the window, or daydreaming about him. She scorned such foolishness. Instead she filled her time helping out in the classrooms, reading the newspapers and making preparations to remove her staff and pupils to Antwerp. If there was nothing else to do she would pick up her embroidery, and if her stitches slipped every time she heard a knock on the door, it was not to be wondered at. All of Brussels was nervous now, buzzing with rumour and conjecture about the future.
There were other callers, of course, the most surprising of whom was Lady Sarah Latymor, who came several times to see Mary. She told her that her sister, Lady Blanchards, was increasing and could not accompany her about the city. Mary was duly sympathetic, but when Sarah suggested they should chaperone one another Mary was obliged to tell her that it was not possible.
‘I do not think your brother would approve of you being here, Lady Sarah.’
‘How can he object, when you and he are such good friends?’
Mary wondered how best to reply.
She said at last, ‘You are a lady; I have to earn my living.’
‘Oh, fiddle,’ declared Lady Sarah. ‘No one cares about that any more. Your birth is respectable, is it not?’
‘Well, yes, but—’
‘Then there can be nothing wrong with our being friends.’
‘I do not think Lord Randall would agree.’
Sarah refused to believe it and went away promising to call again. Mary could only hope that Randall would not find her there. It was one thing for the earl to befriend a schoolmistress, quite another for him to allow his sister to do so.
