by Dorothy Mack
CHAPTER 14
By the time the blue-and-gold summer day had faded to a scented pale-mauve twilight on the date of the waltzing ball, the best that could be said for that much-planned-for and happily anticipated event was that it represented an anti-climax. Depending on whose opinion was elicited after the dance, with the single exception of Miss Fairmont’s, the descriptive terms employed would have been a deal more pejorative.
The days before the dance sped by, crowded as they were with the necessary preparations for entertaining upward of eighty people in a style that would reflect credit on the duke’s establishment. Beyond arranging the flowers on the day of the ball, a chore that Lucy and Gemma had undertaken to perform, the young people were not directly concerned with these preparations. The duke’s resident staff, under the able direction of Mrs. Benedict and augmented by daily help from the village, were quite capable of accomplishing the scrubbing and polishing and airing out that was judged essential in an unobtrusive manner that did not reduce the daily routine of the inhabitants of the hall to a shambles during the interval.
Stansmere and the chef were closeted regularly with the duchess regarding the menu, drinks, and extra supplies of glassware and plates to be retrieved from their various storage places and washed. Lady Sophronia continually gave her brother and sister-in-law the benefit of her advice and experience in entertaining on a large scale, an activity that had been her delight when the indulgent Mr. Fairmont was alive. The stables were being reorganized to accommodate a score or more of strange carriages and their attendant drivers.
There remained to the young ladies only their own appearance on the night in question with which to concern themselves, but since Miss Fairmont was having a gown made, another trip to Bath was planned for the necessary fitting. This time the girls made the excursion under the aegis of Lady Sophronia, who was pleased to award her endorsement to her daughter’s choice of ball gown. Lucy felt constrained to decline her share of her ladyship’s praise, aware that her own contributions to the selection of design and fabric had been of a negative rather than positive value.
Lady Gemma’s injured ankle had improved to the point where she could wear her own footgear and go about her regular routine, provided she did not remain on her feet for unreasonably long periods. At the instigation of Lady Sophronia, they visited the Pump Room after leaving the showroom of Mlle Analise and later attended the noon service at the abbey. After a luncheon at the White Hart, which, since it overlooked the Pump room, was deemed the most proper choice for saving Lady Gemma’s foot, there remained only one or two small commissions to execute before driving home.
It was when they had purchased a selection of sweetmeats at Molland’s, a confectioner’s on Milsom Street, that the small party of ladies ran into Lord Oliver Barton on their way to meet their carriage.
The residents of Monteith Hall had not been privileged to receive a visit from Lord Oliver since he had embarked on his course of hot baths nearly a fortnight before. If the truth were known, only one of the four ladies to whom he now offered a civil greeting had felt the lack of his company, and she would have died rather than acknowledge either that life had seemed strangely flat just lately or that her heart, beneath a madly becoming dress of crisp pink-and-white-striped cotton, had set up an increased tempo the instant her quick eyes discerned his tall remote figure moving purposefully among the strollers.
No one watching Miss Lucinda Delevan returning Lord Oliver’s salutation with a polite good afternoon and a small social smile could have guessed that she was desperately hoping for some tiny sign from those penetrating dark eyes that would distinguish her from her companions, or that, not finding any sign that even the most optimistic or romantic temperament could seize upon to nourish fledgling hopes, something delicate and tremulous had expired within her spirit. She did not droop physically; her proud carriage still epitomized the intrinsic grace of a young queen that she projected unconsciously, but she felt as though she were progressively shrivelling up inside as she listened to Lady Sophronia questioning Lord Oliver on the results of his treatment. She was unaware that her smoky eyes darkened with pity at Lord Oliver’s brisk dismissal of the subject.
“There has been no change.”
Since he did not venture a glance in her direction after that first greeting, she was not called upon to perform the additional task of disguising her compassion. Unlike the other young men who passed through the hall that summer, Lord Oliver was not in the least intimidated by Lady Sophronia’s regal presence or commanding manner, and he never experienced the least difficulty in extricating himself from unwanted conversation. This talent he now displayed, bidding them a curt adieu in terms that were unfailingly correct, no matter how suspect his manner might be.
There were few subjects on which Lady Gemma and her cousin agreed, but now they united in wholeheartedly abusing Lord Oliver as a brusque, insufferably uncivil man whose company gave no pleasure. With difficulty Lucy maintained a self-protective silence under this attack, but aid came from an unexpected quarter as Lady Sophronia spoke up in her decided way.
“Nonsense, girls. Why should you get upon your high ropes only because a man refuses to pander to your conceit of yourselves as irresistible drawing cards? Can you not see that the unfortunate man is wretchedly unhappy? That’s what makes him as cross as crabs most of the time.”
Lucy cast their duenna a grateful look that the recipient did not see, since she was dealing graciously at the time with the tender-hearted Gemma’s stammered apology for her uncharitable assessment of Lord Oliver. On that subject Coralee preserved an unconvinced silence and soon changed the direction of their discourse.
Lucy sat back in her corner of the well-cushioned carriage, letting the conversation wash over her unheeded for much of the drive home. Once having acknowledged the lowness of her own spirits, she berated herself for allowing the brief encounter just now to dampen them out of all proportion to its importance. After all, had she not already concluded from Lord Oliver’s nonappearance over the last week or two that he regretted having taken her a little way into his friendship and was taking this method to ensure that he did not raise any false hopes in an impressionable young woman? It was the action of a decent man, and she honoured him for it, she insisted to that romantic little fool inside her head who had permitted herself to dream on the flimsiest possible grounds.
It would have been ridiculous in the extreme to imagine that the son of a marquess — moreover, one whose title went back to the early Stuarts — would ever consider taking for a bride the daughter of a banker, and one, moreover, whose fortune had been amassed largely by a grandfather in trade. The sooner she squashed these ill-omened yearnings, the sooner she would revert to her cool, unimpressionable self and the sooner she would be happy again. She sensibly refused to listen to the insistent small voice that reminded her that she had not really been happy before, but merely … waiting. By dint of constant dwelling on the unsuitability of the match, the lack of common experience, and the probable incompatibility of their tastes and temperaments, she was nearly able to persuade herself by the time they reached the hall that she was grateful to Lord Oliver for showing no disposition to pursue a suit that must only result in unhappiness for both parties. She felt that her lawyer brother would applaud the logical and convincing case she had made out, and refused to admit that one ardent look from Lord Oliver could demolish it instantly.
If Lucy was a bit quieter than usual during the days immediately preceding the ball, it went unnoticed in the happy bustle of final arrangements. Certainly she put forth as much effort and skill as Lady Gemma in seeing to the dozen or so floral arrangements that were made up to decorate the reception rooms and ballroom for the occasion. From the cutting of the flowers early in the morning, while still bedewed and before the hot sun forced them open, to the temporary placement of the vases in a shaded corner convenient for the maids to respray them at intervals during the afternoon, it was a task that consumed hours.
For once, neither girl was averse to a short rest after lunch in imitation of the elder ladies.
After an hour or so, Lucy became restless and, as much to discourage unproductive daydreams as for any artistic motivation, decided to take up her painting materials and go off to make another sketch of the Grecian temple, this time for her father. She met no one on her way out except Stansmere, whom she acquainted with her plan in case her presence should be required by any member of the household.
It was another in a succession of mild clear days and promised to continue propitious for the evening. She made her way slowly toward the little temple, savouring the perfumes released by a light breeze as she progressed through the rose garden. Today she walked on past the giant elm that had shaded her previous painting session, circling around until she found another angle that pleased her on the far side of the building. In a matter of minutes she was settled in the shade of some huge rhododendrons that flanked the grove, busily sketching away, her unquiet mind temporarily emptied of any thoughts that did not have to do with capturing the scene before her on paper.
Miss Fairmont was alone in the blue saloon when Captain Godwin and Lord Oliver were admitted by Stansmere. She favoured them with a delightful smile and exclaimed merrily, “Just in time to save me from expiring of boredom. I have been here nearly fifteen minutes without seeing a living soul. Where is everyone, Stansmere?”
The butler, who had been about to retreat, stopped in the doorway. “Her grace will be down presently and her ladyship is writing letters in the morning room. I do not know Lady Gemma’s present whereabouts, but Miss Delevan went out some time ago to sketch the Greek temple. I regret that I am uninformed as to where my Lord Gresham or Mr. Delevan may be at present. His grace is, I trust, on his way home from Bath.”
“Thank you, Stansmere,” said Miss Fairmont, and when the butler had shut the door, she laughed up at her callers, “Well, Stansmere has his fingers on the pulse as usual, but I thought I detected faint annoyance that Gemma, Peter, and Mr. Delevan have all given him the slip. No doubt Gemma is with Mr. Delevan somewhere in the gardens. They share an interest in flowers, or so they would have us believe.” Encountering Lord Oliver’s narrowed look, she suggested gaily, “Shall we wander down toward the temple and disturb genius at work? If no one interrupts her artistic concentration, poor Lucy will very likely miss her tea again.”
She smiled a challenge at Lord Oliver, who replied repressively, “I believe I’ll take a turn in the gardens in the hope of coming across Delevan.”
He stood unwinking while Captain Godwin expressed an interest in rounding up Miss Delevan for her tea, and accompanied the others to the terrace door, where they separated, Miss Fairmont and Captain Godwin ambling toward the temple and Lord Oliver making his way into the cutting garden, which, had he any eye for blooms, would have struck him as rather depleted after the raid on it that morning by the flower arrangers.
However, since he had no interest in flowers at any time and very little concern at that moment in locating Mr. Delevan, it was as good a place as any in which to ask himself for the tenth time in the last half-hour what he was doing here at all. Why had he succumbed to an irrational impulse that could have no other consequence except to provide a setting for more self-torment? Surely it was carrying masochism too far to wish to gaze anew on the forbidden object. He kicked viciously at a stray pebble that had invaded the grassy path between the beds. If he had kept away for nearly a fortnight, why could he not have continued such a sensible policy, especially since he was obliged to be present at this infernal dance tonight? The answer was, of course, that seeing Miss Delevan in Bath the other day had played havoc with his good intentions.
At first it had been easy to stay away; he had the perfect excuse provided by the course of hot baths he had allowed the Godwins to talk him into undergoing. Though setting no store by the wonderful healing properties claimed for the treatment by its supporters, he had promised himself that he would resume his visits to Monteith Hall if the arm showed signs of responding. Once he had accepted that the waters were not going to have any effect on the paralysis, it was a simple matter to continue to avoid the hall. After all, there was now every reason to shun Lucy’s company; she was outside his reach forever, and the sooner he departed the manor permanently, the better for his peace of mind.
And here he stood today, imbecile that he was, skulking about in a damned garden like a moonsick calf. Suddenly he raised his head, thinking he heard voices beyond the hedge in the rose garden. He opened his lips, but instead of making his presence known and joining the others for an insipid half-hour, he closed his mouth again and retreated around the hedge.
Lord Oliver’s long legs rapidly ate up the distance to the elm tree. He could see at once that Lucy was nowhere near the spot where he had found her before. He stood gazing at the temple for a moment wondering how he could have missed seeing three people heading toward the house, unless he had spent a lot longer in the garden than he had thought. He began an aimless circuit of the building and was rewarded a few minutes later by the sight of his quarry painting away in splendid isolation. At this point, a prudent man would have reversed his footsteps before being discovered, and later sent someone else to bring the artist back to the house. Lord Oliver, prudence cast to the winds, stepped forward and was recognized by Miss Delevan.
He had the curious impression that there had been a glad welcoming light in her eyes at the instant of recognition that was replaced immediately by a shuttered politeness. Her words were light and conventional.
“How do you do, sir? Have you come once again to remind me that tea is served? I’ll come at once.” The hand holding the paintbrush went directly to empty the water pan and she began a swift gathering up of her materials. This time when he reached for her work, she did not stop to observe him but was quite ready to leave when he raised his eyes from the contemplation of her painting.
He spoke for the first time and she could not miss the hint of dryness. “There is no occasion to go tearing off at battle speed, Miss Delevan. There was no one in the blue saloon when I came down here. Miss Fairmont and George headed in this direction before me. Have you not seen them?”
“Why, no. Perhaps they returned to the house when they didn’t find me under the elm tree. Shall we follow?”
He did not bother to reply to this. Something about her obvious haste to be gone aroused a little demon of opposition in his breast. Fixing his eyes on the graceful little building ahead, he remarked, “I have never been inside the temple. Is it attractive?”
“There is a rather good mural of mosaic work on one wall, Paris presenting the apple to Venus. There are no furnishings except some curved stone benches.”
He sauntered off in the direction of one of the two open sides of the temple, and after a brief hesitation during which Lucy realized it would appear blatantly uncivil to go back to the house without him, she followed in his wake. When a backward glance confirmed that she was behind him, Lord Oliver waited for her and they approached the shallow flight of steps in a rather charged silence. At the first step, he put an automatic hand under her elbow to guide her. They had only ascended two or three when he felt her jerk to a stop. Glancing down in slight surprise, he noted her white staring face and the way she bit fiercely on her bottom lip, and he turned back to see what had so affected her.
A second later, he was piloting her back down the steps at a much faster pace. Numbly she allowed him to set the pace until they had rounded the temple and were approaching the elm tree, when she stopped just as suddenly and shook off his hold on her arm, clutching at his sleeve in her turn.
“Please, slow down, sir. I think that is Gemma ahead of us with John. Do you think they saw them too?”
Lord Oliver peered around the giant elm at the figures disappearing over the crest of the hill. “Judging by the time it took us to get this far, I should say the chances are excellent that the audience for that little tableau numbered four instead of two.”
He set off again up the slope, and Lucy trailed behind with reluctant steps. She found him patiently waiting when she reached the crest before starting the second gentle ascent to the gardens and terraces. So far neither had made any comment on the cause of the mass exodus from the temple, but now Lord Oliver said with some impatience, “We were quite de trop, I agree, but it certainly doesn’t rate such profound shock or deep dudgeon or whatever it is that is making you look like you’ve seen a ghost.” When this produced no response, he added nastily, “Unless, of course, you are another of George’s conquests and your hopes too are now blasted.”
“You must know that I am not,” she retorted with pardonable asperity.
“Why must I? Why should you be any different than a hundred other females? I assure you, George always mows them down in squads wherever he goes.”
“If it amuses you to assume that I am one of the victims of Captain Godwin’s practised charms, then you are free to do so,” replied Lucy, gritting her teeth, “but I was not thinking of myself at all.” She stopped abruptly and closed her lips, but Lord Oliver brushed aside this belated attempt at circumspection, showing no reluctance to step in where angels might fear to tread.
“Look, Lady Gemma is no fool. I refuse to believe that she has not seen which way the wind was blowing before now.”
Lucy’s troubled countenance did not lighten at this blunt summing up of the situation. She sighed deeply. “Recognizing something with one’s intellect is a far cry from having one’s worst fears confirmed before one’s eyes.”
He shuffled his feet, looking uncomfortable for the first time in their acquaintance. “It was only a kiss, when all’s said and done. Not every kiss leads to the altar, you know.”
Enormous grey eyes searched his face. “Do you think that would make a difference to Gemma’s feelings?”
“No.” He turned from her and stared down toward the temple. After a moment he spoke over his shoulder. “But neither do I think that Lady Gemma will be inconsolable for long. Your brother will see to that.”
