The Stanbroke Girls

by Fiona Hill

  When Sir Jeffery did arrive, he did it with élan. He swept into the ball-room, extravagant cravat flowing, white and dashing as a frothy river, and he never paused till he had found his quarry. Isabella became radiant at the sight of him. Eagerly she demanded what had made him so late. Adroitly he turned the subject to her glowing cheeks and eyes. In fact it had been a creditor who delayed him, a timely reminder (if he needed one) of how handy it would be to inherit the estate of the Earl of Marchmont. That gentleman, meantime, had marked his arrival at the ball with almost as much excitement as Isabella herself. He presented himself at Sir Jeffery’s side with all haste, and so broke up the tête-à-tête just begun between him and Bella. With the lady listening, Lord Marchmont did not think it wise to speak his mind, so he merely greeted his cousin with as much civility as he could muster.

  “Didn’t think you’d be so happy to see me, somehow, old fellow,” Sir Jeffery replied, in response to these courtesies. He was well aware the earl would hold his tongue when Isabella was near, and so spoke on easily, “I’d been getting the idea you didn’t like me much above half. And the way you rushed off from my house the other day—but I dareswear you had some business you’d forgot, that suddenly came back to you.”

  “Just so,” said the earl, from between tight lips.

  “It’s a pity, isn’t it, the way families drift apart,” Sir Jeffery went on, his eyes following the turning couples. “Why, it must be years since you and Emmy and I took tea together. But here we are united again, and thick as thieves after all. Ah, family feeling! Something you never forget, I daresay. Like swimming.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I’m sure her ladyship,” de Guere went on, addressing Isabella, “does not lose touch with her cousins. I can’t help but observe how close she is to her sister and brother.”

  Isabella, still furious at Lizzie in particular and Charlie (as ever) in general, merely looked at him.

  “Well, mind you don’t lose that intimacy, my dear,” he continued cheerfully, then turned again to Marchmont and observed, “Friendship and kinship: two vessels that always sail smooth on the stormy seas of life!”

  Lord Marchmont, equally divided between anger and revulsion, had little choice but to nod and smile agreement.

  “I say, old fellow,” de Guere continued jovially, “you wouldn’t feel slighted if the lady and I drifted on to the dance floor together, would you? She’s done me the honour to give me the two next you see.”

  Lord Marchmont bowed slightly. “Not at all,” he brought out

  “You are sure you will not be offended?” Jeffery added. “I promise you, it is nothing to do with your conversation, which is scintillating as always.”

  “I understand entirely.”

  “It’s only that…well, when I hear such music as this, and find such a lovely and graceful lady at my side—” the other continued, savouring his moment. By this time even Lady Isabella had noticed something was rather odd about this discourse, and she looked at her beloved curiously.

  “Dear coz,” Marchmont finally broke out, deciding to fight fire with fire, “if you do not take her ladyship onto the floor this moment, I shall do so myself. With her permission, of course—”

  He turned to her and Isabella, colouring a little, said, “Oh!”

  “We’re off then,” Sir Jeffery declared, suddenly drawing her away. “Perhaps we’ll see you at supper, old chap?”

  “Oh, you’ll see me everywhere, I trust,” said the earl grimly. He watched through narrowed eyes as Sir Jeffery, his gleaming head bent to whisper something into Isabella’s ear, vanished with his prey into the midst of the dance.

  “I see Jeffery’s done us the honour,” said a quiet female voice behind him. His lordship turned to find Emilia at his elbow.

  “Yes, blast him. Do you know, I never did care for Jeffery—but lately I find I actually detest him.”

  “Despise is a better word. Detestation is too good for him,” said Emilia, nodding agreement.

  Lord Weld, who had wandered up alongside Lady Emilia now contributed, “Contemn, is good. We contemn him.”

  “Loathe him,” suggested Marchmont.

  “Abominate.”

  “Abhor.”

  “He’s despicable,” opined Emilia, after a moment’s silence.

  “Odious.”

  “Repellent.”

  “Revolting.”

  “Disgusting.”

  “Execrable!”

  “Venomous!”

  “Horrid!”

  “Oh damn, I’ve lost him!” exclaimed Lord Marchmont suddenly, for in the pleasure of abusing Sir Jeffery he had failed to preserve his vigilance.

  “There he is, under that chandelier,” said Emilia. “He’s got Lady Isabella on his arm: they’re about to go down the line. Do you think he’s—ugh! ‘making love to her,’ I was about to ask, but the very idea is foul!”

  Lord Marchmont, who had preferred to take no one into his confidence, now hesitated on the point of telling his sister his fears. He decided not to do so, however, and instead kept silent. After all, it might be an embarrassment to the Trevors as well as to him—for he was sure Lord Trevor, a man of the world, could not countenance any intimacy between his daughter and de Guere—and Lord Marchmont did not like to risk causing Elizabeth or her family discomfort.

  “Where was he during the wars, I wonder?” mused Lord Weld.

  “In Scotland, the villain.”

  “On military assignment,” explained Marchmont, to be fair.

  “Yes, but still!” Lady Emilia had not taken her eyes off the gentleman in question since she had first discovered him, and now she murmured uneasily to her brother, “Do you know, he really is making love to Isabella! Look at them together. He is practically kissing her neck. Jemmy, oughtn’t we to do something?”

  “At the moment my dear, there is nothing we can do. I can scarcely rush over and tear them from the dance floor.”

  “Well, where is her mother? Or where is Lady Elizabeth? I trust they would not care to see that poor little romp flirt herself into serious trouble!”

  “Emilia,” said Marchmont uncomfortably, still unwilling to share his particular apprehension with the others, “I think you refine upon the point too much. Look at them now. They are merely dancing, like the rest.”

  “Because they have had to part to opposite sides of the lines. I warn you, when the steps bring them together again—you watch them! He really is doing it a bit brown!”

  Lord Weld attempted to soothe her. “The dance is certain to be over soon,” said he, “and then Sir Jeffery will be obliged to relinquish her.”

  Marchmont, who knew they were engaged for the following number as well, said nothing.

  “I wish that careless Halcot hadn’t invited him,” Emilia went on feelingly. “Jemmy, did you go and speak to Jeffery after all, as you said you would? It really is too bad if you did not I feel quite responsible—”

  Her words were cut short by the arrival of Lady Elizabeth who, noticing the music was about to stop and being engaged to dance with Marchmont when it began again, had come to claim her partner. “Responsible for what?” she inquired innocently, catching the last words only. She curtsied cheerfully to Weld, put her arm round Emilia’s waist, and confided, “You know your brother is really much too attractive. It’s simply criminal, the sight of such a handsome man not dancing at a ball!”

  Lady Emilia returned the sisterly embrace and said softly, “I am so glad you think so. But in fact, my dear,” she went on more volubly, “what I feel responsible about is our cousin Jeffery. Do you realize he has been dancing with your sister in the most—”

  “Ah, the music has stopped!” Marchmont suddenly interrupted. “Come, my dear Lady Elizabeth, for you know you are promised to me.” He virtually tore the startled Lizzie from Emilia’s side and, with sketchy bows to their erstwhile companions, dragged her hastily onto the floor. “It’s de Guere,” he finally told her, when they had taken their positi
on in the newly forming line. “I’m afraid he is going to annoy your sister again.”

  “De Guere? Do you mean, Sir Jeffery—your cousin? Was he—?”

  “Did Lady Isabella not tell you?”

  “No, she has been most obstinate.” The music began again, and over its strains she continued, “He was the gentleman at your house, then? I mean, the one—” She stopped in confusion, looking for a delicate phrase. While she hesitated Sir Fielding Porter presented himself across from her: the dance had begun. Lord Marchmont had only time to nod confirmation at her before she was off; it was some minutes before the steps of the dance brought them together again.

  “You have no notion what Isabella has been like,” Elizabeth confided as soon as she had opportunity. “Most mysterious!”

  “I am terribly sorry Sir Jeffery has come, more than I can say,” the earl returned. “I attempted to dissuade him, in fact, but—”

  “To be quite frank, I am not entirely sure why he was invited,” said she, while her foot kept time to the music. She was wearing a new pair of satin slippers, ivory, with seed-pearls embroidered onto them. They were amazingly comfortable, and she did like dancing very much. She even found, as ever a little to her surprise, that she was liking the earl very much; but Bella’s safety concerned her more than these very pleasant distractions, and if it had been possible she would have removed herself from the line altogether in order to carry on a more connected conversation with his lordship. However, it was not possible to do such a thing without causing quite a bit of speculation; so she resolved to move through the dance as best she could and then seek a quiet corner with Lord Marchmont afterwards. She now added hurriedly, “I don’t actually recall having discussed him when Mamma and I made up the list of guests.”

  “I believe it was your brother—” began her partner.

  Lady Elizabeth broke in, immediately exasperated. “Of course; who else? Oh, sometimes I should like to gut Charlie!”

  Marchmont, taken aback somewhat by this piece of verbal violence, was now obliged to watch her move away from him and down the line. Truly, it was most frustrating, trying to hold a conversation in this fashion. Lady Elizabeth was perfectly fetching tonight, her golden hair caught up in a shining net of worked silken cords, beaded with seed-pearls, her subtly-tinted cheeks rosy from the motions of the dance. It was a shame not to be able to enjoy her more. Lord Marchmont’s anger at his cousin redoubled as he made this reflection; then he realized with a start that he had lost track of Sir Jeffery altogether. With a growing suspicion he cast his eyes anxiously about the room: nowhere to be found. The set in which he and Isabella had figured was nearby, but the couple in question was missing. His apprehension mounted. Distracted, he forgot to cross to partner the waiting Miss Pye. The leader had to remind him to do so, and as he scurried across he saw the embarrassment in the poor girl’s eyes and cursed Sir Jeffery inwardly. It was damned awkward, that was all. Where was the scoundrel? As soon as he possibly could, he set up his search again, but not a trace of either of the two was to be found. Oughtn’t he to break from the dance, regardless of the consequences? Something much more serious was at stake. But he could not abandon Elizabeth; it would look excessively odd. It was a full three minutes before the figures brought them together again; the moment they did Lord Marchmont leaned down and whispered through the golden hair, “They’ve gone, Lady Elizabeth! I can’t see them anywhere.”

  “What, Isabella and Sir Jeffery?”

  “Yes. They were to dance together and now—perhaps it is coincidental,” he continued doubtfully, “but I can’t see either of them.”

  Lady Elizabeth, a sudden sense of urgency overwhelming her, grabbed his hand and pulled him abruptly from the line. “Never mind all this. I have the most dreadful feeling,” she murmured, instinctively drawing him with her as she made her way through the crowd. Their departure from the dance, rash as it was, could not have suited the earl better. If Lady Elizabeth was willing to let people talk, it was certainly not for him to hang back! Anyhow, they could hardly gossip after he and Lizzie were married.

  Married! It was the first time he had thought out the sentence fully—but when he did, hurrying across the parqueted floor in the wake of this abrupt, strong-willed girl, it made sense at once. Of course, they would marry—if she would have him, that was. But she would, would she not? Her hand, the palm now a little damp from excitement, gripped him so completely, so trustingly. The feeling of it fascinated him for a moment. He quite forgot why they were rushing or where they were. Of course! He must ask her to marry him at the first possible opportunity. No, he must ask Lord Trevor for permission first, mustn’t he? Was it possible the Trevors had other plans for her? Would they deny him? He would fight them to the last if they tried to—

  “Where do you think we ought to look first?” Elizabeth demanded, breaking into his thoughts confusingly. “Shall I go upstairs and see if Bella is in her room? It is just possible. Sometimes she and Miss Lewis go off to giggle together…But no, we’d better check the library first, and the breakfast-room, and—Are you quite well, my lord?” she asked, observing for the first time Lord Marchmont’s disoriented aspect.

  The earl strove mightily to pull himself together. “Quite well, indeed. Yes, by all means let us look in the library. If they are not together after all we have plenty of time to discover it, but if they are…”

  “Yes, just my thinking exactly. Shall we split up for the search?”

  “No,” he shot back automatically, for though the suggestion was practical he simply did not wish to part from her. “I should not like you to have to deal with them on your own,” he explained a trifle unconvincingly.

  “You have the most extraordinary idea of me, really,” said Elizabeth; but she held onto his hand and led him rapidly down a corridor. “I assure you I feel quite equal to such a meeting, whether alone or with an army. When I find Isabella, I shall break her neck. Imagine her taking such a chance with her reputation!”

  They had reached the library and glanced inside, but there was not a sign of the lovers. Lady Elizabeth, oblivious of everything save her sister’s plight, did not even notice Lady Mufftow as she passed them (on her way to fetch her smelling-salts, for the ball-room was so very overheated!) in the hall as they hastened to the breakfast-room. Lord Marchmont saw her, however, and saw moreover the pointed look she gave to their clasped hands. Very well, let the old ladies talk! said he to himself. He was not about to give up the pleasure of holding that unconscious, trusting little paw.

  “Oh, my father’s study!” cried Elizabeth, as they passed a closed door. “Would she dare?” She stopped short and laid a careful hand on the knob, turning it almost unwillingly. She pressed against it: the door yielded. There was no one inside.

  Lady Elizabeth sighed her relief. “But perhaps they are out on a balcony somewhere,” she suddenly suggested, all her anxiety returning. “How shall we ever find them?”

  “Breakfast-room first,” said Marchmont, “then the balconies. We’ll simply look everywhere—”

  “Yes, just so.” Lizzie, gripping his hand ever more tightly, once more led the way swiftly down the hall. A number of people saw them as they descended the great staircase, but still Lizzie thought only of her goal. The breakfast-room was at the end of a long passage-way. As they rounded the corner into it they saw that the door was shut. “You open it, please,” she asked the earl, for she felt suddenly faint at the thought of what they might discover.

  Lord Marchmont laid his free hand on the knob. He turned it. The door remained closed.

  “Won’t it open?” hissed Lizzie, the faint feeling taking hold of her.

  “I’m afraid not.” Lord Marchmont looked down at her for a moment. “Are you quite well? Perhaps you had best go back to the others,” he suggested gently.

  She shook her head, more from stubbornness than courage. “Whatever it is, let us find out. Will you knock?”

  The earl said, a little grimly, “With pleasure, m
a’am.” He raised his fist and hammered several sounding blows against the door. There was at first no answer.

  “Did you hear something drop?” asked Lizzie.

  Lord Marchmont motioned her to be silent and knocked again. Again nothing happened. “You had better ask who is inside,” he told her presently. “It will sound more natural in your voice.”

  Elizabeth felt an unusual tightness in her throat. She willed it away and called, as steadily as possible, “I beg your pardon, but could I ask you to open the door please?” An unbidden laugh rose in her as she finished this request, and she looked up at her companion a little dizzily. “What if it isn’t Isabella at all? What if it’s—oh, I don’t know, Sir John Firebrace and one of the Lemon girls? Oh Lord, I should die of embarrassment!”

  Lord Marchmont began an answering smile, but a noise from within suddenly interrupted him. “They are unlocking,” he whispered.

  “I’m excessively sorry to trouble you,” Lizzie called through the door in spite of herself. Just then the handle turned and the door swung open. Sir Jeffery de Guere, looking very unpleasant indeed (menacing, was the word that came to Lizzie), but not at all surprised, appeared. Behind him flickered a few candles; and beyond them—Isabella.

  10

  For a long, unpleasant moment no one moved. Strains of music could be heard drifting down from the ball-room: a gavotte. Lady Elizabeth thought she heard her brother’s voice, and the sound of it jolted her from her momentary paralysis. “Isabella,” was all she said, in a tone of extraordinary intensity. At once her younger sister broke from her pose behind Sir Jeffery and rushed headlong into Lizzie’s arms.

  “Thank heavens, you’ve saved me!” she exclaimed, burying her handsome head against Elizabeth’s neck.