“I didn’t mean you to do that,” he said. “And yet I have made so many mistakes! So many mistakes!”
Suddenly he realized that all conversation around them had ceased. There was a look in the Duke of Villiers’s eyes that suggested he wouldn’t even be invited for Christmas dinner. Mrs. Grope, bless her heart, was eating her peas with her knife. Perhaps he should have…
“It must be so hard to say goodbye to a child,” the Duchess of Beaumont said kindly. “I can imagine how painful it must be.”
The marquess cast a guilty look at Roberta. She hated it when he made a scene, and sure enough, she was staring down at her lap. Hastily, he dashed away his tears. “When I think of all the unfeeling things Roberta has said about my poetry, my heart lightens,” he said. “Do you remember, child, when I read you my masterpiece, virtually my only published masterpiece, and you said it was twaddle?”
To his sorrow, Roberta looked even more downcast. “I’m sorry, Papa,” she said.
“It was twaddle!” he said gaily. “Utter twaddle! I read it over the other day and realized what a mistake it had been. I tried an experiment,” he told the unexpressive, uninterested face of Villiers. “To write an entire sonnet, fourteen lines, with one rhyme only. Of course, Shakespeare had a scheme worked out that allowed him seven rhymes. The great Petrarchan sonneteers sometimes made do with fewer. But I think I am the only English poet to write a sonnet with one rhyme!”
“What was your rhyme?” the Duchess of Beaumont asked.
“I had to choose a rhyme with many variants,” he said, “so I settled on bear.”
“Ah, a nature poem,” Villiers said, boredom dripping from his voice. “I would guess that the bear went to its lair.”
The marquess reminded himself that he was a grown man, and fools have always made fun of literature. “You’re absolutely right,” he said with dignity. “There are many useful rhymes, such as fair, mare, and pear.”
Villiers looked to his left, at Roberta. “But your daughter thought the poem was rubbish, did she? How extremely unkind of her.”
His comment spoke volumes, to the marquess’s mind. This man would never be able to understand a line of poetry. It wasn’t that he wanted a poet for a son-in-law, but:
“A man who doesn’t understand poetry, cannot live poetry,” he stated, hoping Roberta would understand him.
“Living poetry has never been an active pursuit of mine,” Villiers responded promptly.
Roberta cleared her throat. The marquess remembered how much she hated philosophical statements. The last thing he wanted to do was embarrass her on such a special evening. His heart dropped again.
“My father was speaking metaphorically,” she said to Villiers.
“I know of metaphors,” Villiers said, glancing at Roberta with an indifference that shocked her father to the bone. “But I fail to understand the concept.”
“Try to think of it as a person who lives in contact with great minds,” she said to him and, gentle though her voice was, there was a sting in it. “Perhaps there were great chess players of the past, but they have left no record. There have been great poets, and we are able to enjoy their thoughts still.”
The marquess sat, frozen. Roberta had defended him! Her father’s chest hurt from the joy of it.
Villiers took a bite of chicken, presumably because he was so floored by his fiancée’s brilliant riposte that he could think of nothing to say.
The duchess said in a very soothing way, “Who is your favorite poet, Lord Wharton?”
“Shakespeare,” he said. “I am pedestrian in my admiration for the man, but to live in Shakespeare’s words, to walk in his steps, gives me reason to continue.” He caught sight of Mrs. Grope’s plumage wagging at his shoulder and added hastily, “Along with my deep devotion to Mrs. Grope, of course.”