Chapter Four
Anastasia was astonished. This was only the third time she had seen Jonathon Ambercrombie, yet he treated her as if they had been on an intimate footing with each other for years. He had no right to ask her to allow him to go through her father’s letters. He had no right to gaze into her eyes while he placed a lingering kiss on her hand. He had no right to do anything he had done, and yet, she no longer resented his presumption. There was something magnetic about Jonathon Ambercrombie, something which made him irresistible to her.
They were sitting at her door. She should tell him no. She should get down from the carriage. She should never see him again, but she was not equal to the thought of never seeing him again. She wanted to see him again. She wanted to see him tomorrow and the day after that and every day that followed.
Impossible as it seemed, she must be in love with the insolent young puppy, not that she could ever admit that to anyone but herself. He certainly was not in love with her. Young men had dalliances with older women, but they never fell in love with them, at least not that she’d noticed; furthermore, on the rare occasions young men did fall in love with ladies of mature years, it was hardly likely to be the variety of falling in love Anastasia required of a man. Lady Anastasia Carlton might someday relent and become some man’s wife, but some man’s mistress? Never.
"I only want to say goodbye," Mr. Ambercrombie was saying. "Lady Anastasia, you do not know what it means to me, or you would not hesitate. It is not only my career—it is my life!"
The footman had opened the carriage door, and, before she had time to answer, Mr. Ambercrombie had descended and was handing her out.
"I will call shortly before ten tomorrow," he said, in a clear and carrying voice that could have been heard in the next street, "to see if you have any messages for England. I bid you good night, Lady Anastasia."
She was in her own boudoir before it dawned on her that she had tacitly granted his request. The intense annoyance she’d felt towards him only hours before was gone, replaced by an equally intense sympathy for this young man who’s promising career was about to come to an untimely end.
Jonathon Ambercrombie was nothing to her. How could he be? She was barely acquainted with the man; still, human decency dictated that she not refuse to see him when he called in the morning. She would see him, but—even as she finally fell into a fitful slumber—Anastasia remained undecided about allowing Mr. Ambercrombie to interfere with her father’s letters.
Jonathon Ambercrombie had no misgivings about his probability of success. He would present himself at precisely a quarter to ten the next morning. He would recover the incriminating paper from Sir Andrew’s correspondence; he was confidant of that. He was much less confident about what would happen after he completed his assigned task.
When Jonathon arrived the next morning, he was shown to the garden. Anastasia was standing before a bank of rose bushes, and, as he stepped out through the French windows towards her, he thought—as he had thought on the night of his introduction to her—that for such a smile as hers, he would go to the end of the earth.
Every vestige of irritation and coldness towards him had vanished. She gave him her hand and said, "Mr. Ambercrombie, I have been thinking over what you asked me, and—I think I can make it right with my father. You will promise me, of course, not to take anything out of the letter that ought to remain there?"
"I promise.”
They went into the library together, and she brought him the tray of letters that were awaiting Lord Westfaling's arrival.
Jonathon withdrew a cream-colored envelope from his pocket, already addressed to Lord Westfaling.
"It matches this," he said, "the one I want to open."
There were two similar envelopes among the pile of correspondence. He selected one, opened it, and, taking out the contents, shook them, stooped to pick up a loose paper that fluttered from them to the floor and then placed them in the fresh envelope he had brought.
"May I seal this?" he asked, as he took out his official seal.
Anastasia brought him sealing wax and taper.
"Thank you," he said, when he’d done sealing up the envelope. "The paper was there, as I thought. I am greatly relieved to have retrieved it."
He folded the loose paper, took the old envelope, and placed them both into the pocket of his coat.
He found himself at a sudden loss. He had accomplished all he had come to do in his official capacity, yet there was something of even greater importance which remained unsaid, and he did not know how to say it.
"Goodbye," he said, and held out his hand to Lady Anastasia.
Anastasia did not know quite what she had been expecting from Mr. Ambercrombie, but it certainly wasn’t this. After all she had done for him, a cool goodbye was highly unsatisfactory. She felt hurt, disappointed. She would have deprecated his gratitude for the service she had rendered him, but the absence of its expression chilled her.
It was obvious that he’d gotten what he wanted from her. She was still confused about what that was exactly, but, whatever it was, he’d gotten it, and now she was no longer any use to him. She had thought better of him, much better; nevertheless, there seemed no other explanation for the coolness of his manner.
"Goodbye, Mr. Ambercrombie," Anastasia said and extended her hand. If he was determined to end whatever it was that had existed between them, she would not attempt to make him change his mind.
He clasped her hand for an instant, then, instead of releasing it as etiquette demanded, he raised it to nearly eye level and said, "We never did settle the vexed question of the ring. I am inclined, now I see it again, to think it is a genuine antique scarabæus."
The coolness of his tone did not match the warmth of his hand. He took a step nearer.
She felt suddenly shy. It was unlike her to be anything less than self-possessed, but at that moment she felt like a young girl in her very first season, listening to the flattering words of her first suitor.
She felt a flush mounting her cheeks. She tried to meet his gaze, but her courage failed her. He was looking at her with an intensity she’d never seen before. This would never do; she must do something, say something. Anything would do.
“Father should be home soon,” she said and turned her head to look at the clock.
She never did see what time it was because the instant she turned her head she felt the fingers of his free hand caressing her neck. She heard her own sharp intake of breath. Jonathon’s fingers trailed up to her earlobe and strayed into her hair. She closed her eyes, and then he was kissing her. It was no friendly kiss. It was not even a grateful kiss. It was a desperate, passionate kiss, one she was surprised that such a young man as Jonathon Ambercrombie could come up with on short notice.
"Mr. Ambercrombie!" she said, breathlessly. She would have pulled away in an attempt to regain her composure, but he still held her.
"You can either never forgive me," he said, "or you must forgive my boldness immediately and completely. There can be no half measures between us any longer."
She was completely empty of thoughts; all she could do was relive the sensation of that kiss. She vaguely cast about for something to say, but came up with nothing.
"I set myself to win you from the first moment that I saw you," Jonathon continued. "My other task was nothing. I determined it should be both or neither with me. My failure in regard to that letter has been redeemed; I am no longer under a cloud. It was a question of my word, and I have kept it. But for you, I should not have done so. My fate is entirely in your hands."
She could still think of nothing to say, besides, “Kiss me again,” but she could hardly say that; however, he seemed to read her thoughts and drew her a little closer, so close that she could feel the rapid beating of his heart. He lowered his voice to a whisper and murmured into her ear, "I have seen you four times, and each time I saw you I went away saying to myself, 'There is only one woman in the world for me, and she is so lovely and
so far above me that I dare only say goodbye to her—unless she tells me to stay.'”
He withdrew from her then. Anastasia stepped backwards and sank into a chair.
“What shall it be, Anastasia? Shall I bid you farewell?”
There was a stir in the house and steps approaching in the hall.
Anastasia finally found her voice, “Don’t go!” she said, just as her father entered the library.
They must make a pretty scene, she thought, as her hands went to her hair. Several of her hairpins had fallen to the floor, and Jonathon’s tie was askew. Heaven only knew what her father was thinking; on reflection, he’d probably deduce nothing but the truth.
Lady Anastasia rose from her seat, and—mustering every ounce of dignity she could—said, “Father, this is Mr. Ambercrombie, Sir Andrew’s new attaché. He has brought a letter for you. It is there among your other ones."
She could not look at Mr. Ambercrombie. She was still in a tumult of indecision.
Jonathon Ambercrombie shook hands with her father, apologized for making such an early call, and turned to Anastasia.
“I have business in town this afternoon, but may I call again at a more opportune time tomorrow?”
"Yes," she said, and with a bow he was gone.
She would see him tomorrow and the day after tomorrow and all the days after that, she decided. Naturally, he’d have to marry her. She’d get a proposal out of him, when the time was right. People would talk. That could not be avoided. They would say that Jonathon was too young for her, or, more to the point, that she was too old for him. People would talk of nothing else until another scandal broke. Eventually, though, the whole affair would fade in memory and she would revert back to who she’d always been, the eccentric—
"A nice-looking young fellow, that Mr. Ambercrombie," her father was saying, as he leisurely turned over his letters. "Son of Max Ambercrombie, I suppose. I’m given to understand he’s a very clever young man.”
Post Script
Sir Andrew and the United States Minister were enjoying a cognac after one of Lady Lomond’s splendid dinners. Summer was over and the evening air filtering in through the French doors had a bit of chill to it.
"I told you that you could do no better than to pin your faith on Ambercrombie," said Sir Andrew. "He managed that little affair for you very cleverly.”
“He seems to be managing another little affair very cleverly, too," said the Minister as he put up his eyeglass to watch Mr. Jonathon Ambercrombie and Lady Anastasia Carlton enter from the garden, a trifle flushed and disheveled.
"Lady Lomond tells me it is almost a settled thing," Sir Andrew said. “He is very young, but Anastasia might do a good deal worse. Ambercrombie will never stop half way. He’s bound to reach the top of the tree."
“What about young Ambercrombie? Do you think he’ll tire of her?”
“Only when he’s dead, Minister,” declared Sir Andrew and took another sip of cognac. “Only when he’s dead.”
The End
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