Engaged to the Earl

by Lisa Berne

  “Oh, good! I hear there’ll be cake.”

  “I like cake.”

  “I do too.” She smiled at him, and was thankful that it felt more natural again. There was a noise high overhead, a distant explosion, and quickly she looked up to see a burst of white light in the black sky, an evanescent flower whose petals flew free, sizzled, fell back to earth. “The fireworks are beginning. We ought to go.”

  “Whenever you’re ready.”

  Gwendolyn stood up, and he did as well.

  “You’re all right, Gwennie?”

  “Yes, Christopher.”

  He nodded. And they began to retrace their steps. She told him about a lecture she was hoping to see, on the subject of Renaissance art, and they soon fell back into their easy way of talking. He told her about the books he was sending to Mauro della Valle, and his probable reaction to them, which made Gwendolyn laugh.

  They had just passed the waterfall and pond again when from around it, coming from the opposite direction, appeared Percy and a voluptuous, richly dressed woman of about Christopher’s age. She was just a trifle rumpled—as was, Gwendolyn saw, Percy too. He came to an abrupt halt when he saw her and Christopher and looked rather discomfited.

  “I say, what the devil are you two doing here?”

  “We’ve been for a walk.” Gwendolyn was trying not to stare at Percy’s companion who had pulled from her reticule a pair of luxurious, pale violet gloves which she was putting on, though not before Gwendolyn noticed on her left hand a gold wedding-band. The woman said to Percy:

  “You brought this gentleman to my house the other night, ma sherry moo, but there was such a squeeze I’ve forgotten his name. Ma foy, my parties are always so crowded! And who is this juhn fame? You resemble her exceedingly.”

  Percy looked as if he didn’t know whether to laugh or to try and hustle his companion away and out of sight. Gwendolyn got the distinct feeling that even if Percy himself fled, the woman would stay on and perform the introductions herself; she gave the impression of supreme self-confidence. Perhaps Percy knew it too, for he said, resignation in his tone:

  “Gwennie, may I introduce to you the Viscountess of Tarrington? Ma’am, this is my sister, Miss Gwendolyn Penhallow, and Mr. Christopher Beck, whom you’ve already met.”

  The Viscountess sailed forward, skirts rippling and the curling downy plumes in her high-crowned satin bonnet fluttering as if in a strong wind. “Awnshantee! How delightful this is! Juh soo submerjee doo jwah.”

  Rapidly Gwendolyn translated in her mind as best she could. The Viscountess was, evidently, enchanted and also submerged—overwhelmed?—with joy. “I too, ma’am.”

  “You’re betrothed to the Earl of Westenbury, nit vooze peas? I read the announcement in the Times. Toots noo felicitations, Miss Penhallow. And where is luh sherry Earl? I should so like to meet him and wish him very happy oo sow.”

  What a curious accent, Gwendolyn thought. Was it a Scottish brogue mixed in with all those contorted French phrases?

  “Another time, hey?” Percy said to Lady Tarrington, rather hastily. “I’ll take you back to your box, shall I?”

  The Viscountess didn’t move. To Gwendolyn she said complacently, “I am, voo set, very well acquainted with your relation Laird Alasdair Penhallow.”

  “Oh! Are you indeed, ma’am? I’ve never met him.”

  Lady Tarrington nodded benignly, which made the plumes in her bonnet nod also, as if a small sycophantic Greek chorus was perched on her head, ready at all times to agree with her. “Oui, it’s true. En fett, he nearly married me.”

  “Indeed, ma’am?” Gwendolyn was sure it would be tactless to mention the fact that her sister-in-law Katherine had been corresponding with the laird’s wife Fiona for some time now.

  “Oui. But I rejected him, poove hahm. And now here I am, a viscountess, one of the Upper Ten Thousand! So you see, moo sherry Miss Penhallow, things work out for the best. We must always follow our dreams.”

  “Yes, yes, very true, and now we must be off,” said Percy, “I’m sure your party is missing you, ma’am,” and he bore Lady Tarrington away with an air of great determination.

  “Goodbye,” Lady Tarrington called over her shoulder. “Oh voor! Till we meet again!”

  Christopher and Gwendolyn followed more slowly behind Percy and the Viscountess. Overhead, a few more fireworks exploded, fizzled, and faded away.

  “Christopher, did you see Lady Tarrington’s wedding-band?”

  He nodded. “Are you shocked?”

  “Should I be?”

  “You’re asking the wrong person, signorina.”

  “In other words, you’re suggesting that I make up my own mind.” Gwendolyn smiled up at him, and he treasured that singularly sweet smile of hers, immeasurably thankful to see those heartrending tears gone. She went on, thoughtfully:

  “It’s difficult, isn’t it? I mean, one is supposed to be shocked. But what if the Viscountess is married to a wicked, awful, cruel man who makes her wish she’d never been born? Would that be a justification?”

  “If it’s any help, I’ve met her husband, and he seems very mild-mannered.”

  “Oh, is he? But what if he doesn’t love her at all and she’s miserable and lonely? Would that make it all right?”

  “Or what if she doesn’t love him?”

  “Yes, that’s a possibility too. Or what if Percy and the Viscountess are so madly in love that they simply can’t resist each other? Love that o’erthrows empires, as Shakespeare might say.”

  “Having spent five minutes in their company, do you think that’s so?”

  They were passing the artificial castle and Gwendolyn glanced at it. “Every time I see that I want to laugh. It reminds me of the Hansel and Gretel story—do you know that one? I always want to go over and break off a piece to see if it’s actually made of gingerbread.”

  “If you do, keep an eye out for the witch.”

  “I shan’t be bamboozled, I assure you! Unlike those poor lost children. What a dreadful story, don’t you think? The moral escapes me, but I do love the idea of an edible house. I remember, years ago, telling Cook all about the witch’s delicious abode and she became absolutely livid. A waste of good ingredients, she said.” Gwendolyn smiled, then continued:

  “As for Percy and Lady Tarrington—well, no, I must admit they didn’t seem to me like people who are madly in love. Perhaps it’s just a casual thing between them. I’m very naïve, I suppose—I don’t understand it at all. But who am I to judge? And yet—I couldn’t possibly imagine my parents being unfaithful to each other, or—or Hugo and Katherine, for example. That’s love to o’erthrow empires, I think. Christopher, do you believe that fidelity in marriage is important?”

  He was silent for a little while. Then: “I can only speak for myself, Gwennie, but yes, I do. I think if a person intends to marry, he or she ought to be as sure as anybody in this life can be about it. And that promise should be kept. But again—and like you—I’m not here to judge anyone else. Only to live my life in the best way I can.”

  Gwendolyn nodded. “That makes sense to me. Oh, what a highly indelicate subject I’ve raised! But I know you’re not shocked, are you?”

  “No.”

  “Of course you’re not, my dear friend—or, as Lady Tarrington might say, ma sherry moo. I quite like how she speaks French, don’t you? It’s very piquant, and it makes one really pay attention to what she’s saying. Oh, Christopher, isn’t it curious that she knows my relation Alasdair Penhallow? Sometimes the world is so delightfully small. I wish I’d had the presence of mind to ask her if he wears kilts all the time.”

  He smiled. “I remember your mentioning him, that time you came to me when I was chopping wood.”

  “Yes, when I proposed to you! What a madcap child I was! Sometimes I think I still am. Christopher, there’s something I want to know. Diana told me how much you hated university. Do you mind if I ask you why?”

  “No, I don’t mind.” He shared with
her a little about his experiences there and Gwendolyn listened with a sorrowful look on her face. When he was done she said:

  “I don’t blame you for hating it! How awful some people can be. Why did your father make you go?”

  “Advancement, I suppose. He never had a chance to go to university. His own father died when he was very young, and he began working when he wasn’t much more than a child. In a warehouse of some kind, I think.” Christopher stopped for a moment and Gwendolyn paused with him, her lovely face lifted to his. Slowly he went on, “He wanted something better for me. My God, I’ve never thought of it that way before. At the time it just seemed that he was pushing and pushing me against my will. It felt as if he was pushing me to a breaking point. That’s why I left.”

  “I think I know what you mean, Christopher. Katherine’s parents were like that too. She’s talked a little bit about it—how they kept trying to make her into something she wasn’t. I could see how hard that was for her.”

  He nodded. “I saw her father once, by the way. He came to the house, wanting to persuade Father to invest in one of his business deals.”

  “Isn’t he one of the oiliest people you’ve ever met? I only saw him twice but I used to check if he left greasy footprints behind him when he walked.”

  Christopher laughed. “That, signorina, is a perfect description.”

  Gwendolyn twinkled up at him. “Thank you! Maybe I should become a writer, like Katherine! Did your father invest in the deal after all?”

  “No, he said it stank to high heaven.”

  “Good for him.”

  “Yes,” said Christopher thoughtfully, “good for him.”

  High above their heads, the fireworks began in earnest, filling the night sky with sound and light, and together they went back to the supper-boxes where they joined their party once more. Gauging by the various expressions on people’s faces, Christopher thought, overall the expedition had been a mixed success. Francis and Owen were bored, Helen was sulking, Lady Almira and the Countess were dozing in their seats despite the loud percussive noises of the fireworks. On the other hand, the Earl was serene, the Duchess as vigorously unflappable as ever, and Rupert was jovial, making Christopher wonder if he’d managed to jockey some poor unfortunate woman into an obscure corner somewhere. De Montmorency had apparently recovered from the insult to his evening-shoes, courtesy of Lady Almira’s flying elbow and the potted plant; he now had about him the anticipatory air of a cat with a plump mouse in sight. And Percy, who came hurrying up, the last to arrive, was positively glowing with good cheer.

  As for Gwendolyn, he was glad to see her looking tranquil again, though he watched with foreboding as she went to the Earl. Watched him smile at her. Smile and smile, like a man utterly besotted . . .

  And so what about himself?

  What sort of evening had he had?

  For one thing, he had seen something which he couldn’t unsee. A tiny little secret, a worm in a beautiful apple. Gnawing, gnawing insatiably.

  What else?

  Well, he’d almost throttled a man. In public.

  Also, he’d nearly kissed Gwendolyn.

  Too, they’d talked about things both amusing and deeply felt.

  She had cried and he had comforted her.

  He’d had, thanks to her, some new and unexpected insights about his father.

  Yes, altogether quite the evening.

  So how was he?

  He hardly knew.

  Chapter 10

  Helen’s birthday celebration started off well enough, but went rapidly downhill during dinner when Owen stood, held up his wineglass, and called for a toast.

  “Happy birthday,” he said to his sister. “How does it feel to be an old maid?”

  Helen went very red. “I’m twenty-one, not a hundred and one.”

  “Might as well be.” Owen sat down and returned to his third serving of broiled chicken.

  She glared at him, muttering, “You’re an ass.”

  “That’s enough, both of you,” said the Duchess. “Almira, you needn’t cry. It’s merely a silly squabble.”

  Lady Almira was dabbing at her eyes. “Oh, dear ma’am, I did so want for this to be a happy dinner.”

  “Apparently,” the Duchess said, “with Owen and Helen present, that may be too much to ask. As there are only three gentlemen with us tonight, we ladies won’t withdraw. Shall we proceed directly to the drawing-room?”

  “I’m not done,” protested Owen.

  “I think you are,” said his grandmother, with a hint of steel in her voice.

  Sullenly Owen laid down his knife and fork, and everyone made their way to the drawing-room. It was a small party this evening, with Christopher their only guest from outside the townhouse. Military duties had Percy elsewhere, but he had sent a large bouquet of daisies for Helen which she received indifferently and passed over to Lady Almira who had alternately admired them and sneezed while arranging them in a vase.

  Gifts were tendered. The Duchess gave Helen a new pair of riding gloves; Lady Almira, a pretty set of lovingly embroidered handkerchiefs which had Helen rolling her eyes. “You need them more than I do,” she said to her mother, which made her look as if she was going to cry again.

  Quickly Gwendolyn leapt into the breach. “Happy birthday, Helen,” she said, and gave her a flat oblong package wrapped in a length of printed cotton and neatly tied up with yarn.

  Helen undid the bow and pulled off the cotton to reveal a framed portrait of herself which Gwendolyn had done in watercolor. It showed Helen in profile, in her favorite green riding-dress which buttoned up high around her throat, and such was the effect of light which Gwendolyn had delicately captured, Helen’s freckles looked as if she’d been dusted with fairy gold.

  “Oh, how charming!” exclaimed Lady Almira, and the Duchess said, “Very pretty indeed, Gwendolyn, and what a thoughtful gift.”

  Helen set the watercolor aside without comment and picked up Christopher’s gift. “Thank you so much, Mr. Beck,” she said, tearing away the paper to reveal three slim books. “Oh!” she said blankly. “Guy Mannering.”

  “A clerk at Hatchard’s told me it was very entertaining,” Christopher said.

  “Oh.”

  “You mentioned you enjoyed reading, so I thought—”

  “I do! Very much! What a wonderful gift, Mr. Beck, thank you! I shall treasure it always!” Helen’s voice seemed unnecessarily loud and she pressed the books to her chest as if embracing them. And then she glanced over at Francis—a darting sideways look which made Gwendolyn wonder why she’d done that. Was she hinting that it was time for Francis to give her the present he had in his hand? But he was staring at the flames in the fireplace, a distracted, dreamy look on his face.

  “I say, Francis,” Owen shouted, and Francis gave a start.

  “What?”

  “Give the old girl your gift.”

  Helen scowled at her brother. “Don’t call me that.”

  “It’s just an expression.”

  “Well, stop it.”

  “Oh yes,” said Francis. “I forgot.” He stood and went over to Helen, holding out a small rectangular package.

  “Happy birthday, Lady Helen.”

  Helen pulled off the paper. It was another book. “A Practical View of the Prevailing Religious System of Professed Christians,” she read out loud, “in the Higher and Middle Classes in This Country, Contrasted with Real Christianity.”

  “It’s one of Wilberforce’s finest works,” said Francis. “A first edition. There’s an index as well, which I think a particularly nice touch.”

  “Oh.”

  Owen guffawed. “Lord, Francis, you’re a corker!” He stood up and thrust a large package at Helen. “Here you are, old girl.”

  “Stop calling me that, you ass.”

  “Open your gift.”

  She did, but cautiously, as if it might contain something dangerous. It was a box from Fortnum & Mason, and inside was a lavish array of chocolate
s, taffy, sugared almonds, marzipan, and licorice.

  “In case you didn’t have enough on hand,” said Owen.

  As if involuntarily, one of Helen’s hands went to the waist of her gown and she tugged at it, as if it were too tight on her. Her face was scarlet again. “You’re a monster,” she burst out, and with a sweep of that same hand she shoved the box onto the floor, its contents scattering everywhere.

  A footman came at once, but the Duchess waved him away. “Thank you, but Lady Helen and the Marquis are going to pick all those up.”

  “Me?” said Owen. “She did it.”

  “Yes, you. And Helen. No, Almira, get up, you’re not to help them. Nor you, Gwendolyn.”

  Reluctantly Owen sank onto his knees and began gathering up sweets and putting them back in the box, but Helen stayed where she was, hands clenched in her lap and her face the color of a perfectly ripe tomato.

  “Helen,” said the Duchess, a warning note in her voice.

  “I won’t! And you can’t make me!”

  The Duchess merely looked at her, very calm and stern. Christopher stood up. “Ma’am, Lady Almira, I’ll be on my way.”

  “Oh, don’t!” Helen exclaimed. “Do stay, Mr. Beck! Look, I’m cleaning up! See?” She dropped onto her knees and grabbed a handful of almonds.

  But Christopher only looked over her head to the Duchess. “If you’ll excuse me, ma’am?”

  “Of course, Mr. Beck. Goodnight.”

  Gwendolyn walked to the drawing-room doors with him. At the threshold she said, very quietly, “I’m so sorry, Christopher.”

  “Why should you be? It’s not your fault.”

  “I know, but . . .”

  “Just save me a piece of cake.”

  “I will.”

  “Shall I come by tomorrow afternoon?”

  “Yes, that would be—no, wait, I won’t be here, the Countess has invited me to tea. But if you still want to call, I’ll tell Tyndale to set it aside for you.”

  “Will the Honorable Rupert be there?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Don’t let him get you alone.”

  His voice was serious, and Gwendolyn looked up at him curiously. “Are you worried about me?”