Chapter Two #2
"She does. It is quite remarkable, really. I have never known anyone who could convey so much disapproval with a single eyebrow." Aunt Bertha paused to examine a rosebush that had not yet begun to bloom. "What do you think of him? Lord Deane, I mean. Not your mother's eyebrow."
Vanessa considered the question. What did she think of Lord Deane?
He was handsome, in a pleasant, unremarkable way.
He was kind and quite attentive. He had called on her twice already this Season, each time bringing flowers and making conversation that was perfectly agreeable if not particularly memorable.
"He is... nice," she said finally.
"Splendid!” Aunt Bertha repeated the word as though testing its weight. "That is rather faint praise."
"I did not mean it as faint praise. I meant it as... accurate praise. He is genuinely nice. I do not believe there is something wrong with nice."
"No, there is not. Nice is perfectly acceptable. Nice is what one wants in a vicar or a shop clerk or the man who delivers the milk." Aunt Bertha turned to look at her, something sharp and knowing in her faded blue eyes. "But is nice what you want in a husband?"
The question landed like a stone in still water, sending ripples through Vanessa's carefully maintained composure.
She thought of Lord Deane with his pleasant smile, his pleasant conversation and his pleasant everything.
She thought of how she felt when he entered a room, which was to say, she felt nothing in particular.
No quickening of her pulse, no flutter in her chest, no desperate awareness of his presence.
She thought of how she felt when Martin entered a room, and quickly stopped thinking about it.
"I do believe nice might be exactly what I need," she said quietly. "Nice is stable and safe. Nice does not leave one feeling as though the ground might give way at any moment."
Aunt Bertha was silent for a long moment. They continued walking, past the rose garden and the past the small pond where Vanessa had once fallen in as a child and past the old oak tree that had stood sentinel over the grounds for longer than anyone could remember.
"You know," Aunt Bertha said finally, "when I entered into matrimony with Harold, I thought safety was the most important thing.
I had watched my mother struggle after my father died, the uncertainty and the fear of what each day might bring.
I swore I would never put myself in that position.
So I chose Harold, who was kind and steady and offered me security above all else. "
"And you were happy with him."
"I was content. There is a difference, though I did not realise it at the time.
" Aunt Bertha's voice was soft, remembering. "Harold was a good man. He gave me a comfortable life, a respectable position, everything I thought I wanted. My feelings for him were of a gentle regard. There was none of that unreasonable fervour which keeps a lady awake, nor that desperate persuasion that one’s life is lost should the object of her thoughts be absent for a moment.”
"That sounds rather peaceful, actually."
"It was peaceful. And then Frederick came along, and I learned that peace is not the same as happiness.
" Aunt Bertha smiled, her eyes distant. "Frederick was absolute chaos.
He disrupted everything I thought I knew, everything and I thought I wanted.
And I held him in such high esteem that it frightened me. "
"Were you not afraid of losing that safety?”
"Terrified," Aunt Bertha admitted. "But I was more afraid of never knowing what it felt like to truly, completely love someone. To have my heart so full that it might burst from the sheer weight of it." She reached out and patted Vanessa's arm with gentle affection.
"You may be right, dear. You may be entirely right. Nice might be exactly what you need." She resumed walking, her lavender shawls fluttering in the spring breeze. "But do make certain you are choosing nice because you want it, and not because you are afraid of wanting something else."
***
Lord Deane arrived at precisely three on the hour, as he always did. Vanessa had changed into a day dress of pale yellow—not because she wished to impress him, but because her mother had laid it out on her bed with a note that said simply; Wear this. One did not argue with Lady Wayworth's notes.
The drawing room had been hastily tidied, the chaos of packing temporarily banished behind closed doors.
Lady Wayworth presided over the tea service with the serene expression of a woman whose household was not, in fact, in complete disarray.
Aunt Bertha had been gently but firmly encouraged to remain in her chambers, her talent for saying inappropriate things at inopportune moments being well documented.
"Lady Vanessa." Lord Deane bowed over her hand with practiced grace. "You look lovely. That shade of yellow suits you admirably."
"You are too kind, Lord Deane."
"I am merely observant." He took the seat she indicated, accepting a cup of tea from Lady Wayworth with appropriate murmurs of thanks. "I understand you are preparing for the journey to London. It must be quite an undertaking."
"It is rather chaotic," Vanessa admitted. "Mama has been directing the servants like a military campaign."
"Organisation is essential for such endeavors," Lady Wayworth said. "One cannot simply throw things into carriages and hope for the best. There is always a system."
"I do not doubt it, Lady Wayworth. Your reputation for efficiency precedes you."
Lady Wayworth preened slightly at the compliment and Vanessa hid a smile behind her teacup.
Lord Deane was good at social niceties, the careful flattery and the navigation of drawing room politics.
He knew exactly what to say and when to say it, how to put people at ease, how to make himself agreeable without seeming obsequious.
It was, she supposed, an admirable quality. It was also oddly exhausting to witness.
"I hope the Season will provide many opportunities for us to further our acquaintance," Lord Deane said, turning his attention back to Vanessa.
"There are several events I am particularly looking forward to.
The Castleton ball, of course. And I understand Lady Haberton is hosting a musicale that promises to be quite exceptional. "
"Lady Haberton's musicales are always exceptional," Lady Wayworth said. "She has a remarkable gift for securing talented performers. Last year she had an Italian soprano who made half the audience weep."
"I look forward to it." Lord Deane's eyes remained on Vanessa. "Perhaps you might save me a dance at the Castleton ball? If your card is not already full, that is."
"I would be happy to."
"Excellent." His smile was warm, genuine, reaching his eyes in a way that suggested he actually meant it. "I confess I have been thinking about our last conversation. About honesty, and the masks we wear in society. It is rare to find someone willing to speak plainly about such things."
Vanessa felt a flicker of something, interest, perhaps, or at least curiosity.
Their last conversation had been more substantial than she had expected.
Lord Deane had revealed glimpses of depth beneath his polished exterior, hints of a man who wanted more than the comfortable life his position afforded him.
"I enjoyed our conversation as well," she said, and found that she meant it. “How vastly refreshing to occupy our minds with something of substance, rather than the tedious reports of the day.”
"Then perhaps we might continue in that vein.
" He set down his teacup and leaned forward slightly, his expression earnest. "I have been reading the most fascinating treatise on agricultural reform.
I know it sounds dreadfully dull, but the author makes some compelling arguments about crop rotation and soil management that I believe could revolutionise farming practices across England. "
"Agricultural reform?" Lady Wayworth's eyebrows rose. "Is that quite appropriate drawing room conversation, Lord Deane?"
"Forgive me, Lady Wayworth. I sometimes forget myself when I am passionate about a subject." He had the grace to look slightly abashed. "I do not wish to bore Lady Vanessa with talk of farming."
"I am not bored," Vanessa said, surprising herself. "I would be interested to hear more. My father has been experimenting with new methods on our estate, though I confess I do not understand the details."
Lord Deane's face lit up with genuine enthusiasm.
"Has he? That is wonderful. There is so much potential for improvement in our agricultural practices, one cannot help but wish that a greater number of landowners would see fit to embrace the enlightened spirit of the age.
The traditional methods have served us well for centuries, but science is advancing at such a remarkable pace.
There are endless new techniques for enriching soil, more efficient use of land, better care for livestock… the possibilities are truly exciting."
He caught himself, laughing softly. "And there I go again. My mother despairs of me, truly. She says I will never find a wife if I insist on discussing crop yields at social gatherings."
"Perhaps you simply need to find a wife who appreciates discussions of crop yields."
The words came out before Vanessa could consider them, and she felt herself flush at the implication. Lord Deane's smile widened and something warm and hopeful flickering in his eyes.
"Perhaps I do," he said quietly.
Lady Wayworth cleared her throat in the manner of a woman who felt the conversation had veered into territory requiring intervention. "More tea, Lord Deane?"
"Thank you, Lady Wayworth." He accepted the refilled cup with grace, though his gaze lingered on Vanessa for a moment longer than strictly necessary.
The remainder of the visit passed pleasantly enough.
They spoke of London, of the upcoming Season and of their mutual acquaintances and social obligations.
Lord Deane inquired after Edward, who had apparently beaten him rather soundly at cards the previous week and owed him a rematch.
He asked about Helena Crawford, whom he had met briefly at a musicale and found delightfully unaffected.
"Miss Crawford is my dearest friend," Vanessa said. "We have known each other since we were girls."
"She speaks very highly of you. At the musicale, she told me that you were the most intelligent woman of her acquaintance, and that anyone who failed to see it was a fool." Lord Deane smiled. "I found myself inclined to agree with her."
"Helena is too generous."
"I do not think so. I think she sees you clearly, which is more than most people manage." He set down his teacup, his expression thoughtful. "Clarity of vision is a rare gift. Most of us stumble through life half-blind, seeing only what we expect to see rather than what is actually there."
There was something in his tone, a weight beneath the words that made Vanessa look at him more closely. For a moment, she had the strangest sense that he was trying to tell her something, to communicate some deeper truth that propriety would not allow him to speak aloud.
But then the moment passed, and he was rising, consulting his pocket watch with an apologetic smile.
"I have taken enough of your time for one afternoon. But I wonder…might I call again? When you are settled in London, of course. Perhaps we could take a turn in the park, if the weather permits."
"I would like that."
"Excellent." He bowed over her hand, holding it perhaps a moment longer than strictly necessary. "Until London, Lady Vanessa. I shall count the days."
She watched him go, feeling... something. Not the desperate longing she had come to associate with matters of the heart, but something gentler and warmer. The possibility of contentment, if not passion.
Perhaps that was enough. Perhaps that was all anyone could reasonably expect.
"Well," Lady Wayworth said, once the door had closed behind him. "That went rather well, I think."
"He is pleasant company."
"He is more than pleasant company. He is an excellent prospect.
" Her mother's eyes were sharp, calculating.
“He comes from a respectable family with a good fortune.
He seems to have a pleasant disposition and I daresay…
he is clearly, not to mention that he is clearly taken with you, Vanessa. A mother can tell these things."
"Mama…"
"I am not pressing you. I am merely... observing." Lady Wayworth gathered her needlework with the air of a woman who had said her piece. "Lord Deane would make a fine husband… a more tolerable arrangement could scarcely be imagined.”
A more tolerable arrangement could scarcely be imagined.
It was not exactly a ringing endorsement of passion and romance. But then again, passion and romance were not what Lady Wayworth valued. Stability, security, respectability, these were the currencies in which her mother dealt.
And perhaps she was right. Perhaps Vanessa had spent too long chasing feelings that led nowhere, wanting things she could not have. Perhaps it was time to be practical. To choose the man who was available, rather than pining for the one who was not.
She thought of Martin, unbidden with his grey eyes and mocking smiles and the weight of his hand at her waist during that waltz.
I am not the man I ought to be.
What had he meant by that? What could he possibly have meant?
She pushed the thought away, as she had pushed it away a hundred times before. Martin was not for her. He had never been for her. The sooner she accepted that, the sooner she could move forward with her life.
Lord Dean was a kind man who did not hide the fact that he was clearly interested in her, something Martin had never done.