by Dorothy Mack
CHAPTER 8
The young people from the Grange rode over to Bramble Hall the next morning to express their appreciation for the previous evening’s entertainment. Their appearance was sincerely welcomed by almost all of Bramble’s residents, though for a variety of reasons. Cecily, who had thought of nothing but Mr. Bernard Ludlow during the intervening twelve hours, was quietly ecstatic when from the windows of the great hall, where she had been refreshing the flower arrangements at Cleone’s request, she saw his straight back riding up to the entrance portico. On identifying the riders, she flew down the hall to the morning room to alert her mother and sister, leaving the freshly picked flowers to wilt in their basket.
Lord Altern welcomed any addition to the company that would make it easier for him to avoid a tête-à-tête with Emerald, and she, deprived of his company earlier this morning by her grandfather, who had appropriated their guest for a guided tour of the armament room with its dusty collection of archaic weapons, was pleased at the opportunity to demonstrate her desirability by presenting her unresponsive suitor with the example of Mr. Chalmers’ flattering attentions. Philip, trailing along in his grandfather’s wake with their guest, was glad of anything that promised a momentary respite from his troubles.
Lord Brestwick, though he rated Lord Altern a sensible man, had been conscientiously performing the duties of a host in conducting him around the armament room and now seized upon the interruption to escape back into the solitude of his study. Lady Henley, having suffered an hour of her sulky daughter’s reluctant companionship, was personally relieved at the distraction offered by guests, but she also recognized that it was more difficult to conduct a courtship among a friendly crowd. She was at present experiencing a mother’s concern for her daughter’s possible unhappiness but was prevented by a delicacy of principle — not to mention a latent fear of being soundly snubbed — from questioning Emerald on the progress of her romance. Unable to credit that any man could be disappointed in her beautiful daughter, she was more puzzled than distressed at Lord Altern’s failure to come to the point thus far, but a chill of doubt was threatening her complacency.
Cleone, tracked down at last by a footman in the vegetable garden, where she was consulting with a gardener on the expected yields of various plants, sighed in resignation and eventually made her way to the green saloon on the ground floor after washing her hands of garden dirt and removing the enveloping apron she had worn outdoors to protect her crisp white muslin gown. She offered a general greeting and acknowledged the bows of the visiting gentlemen.
All four ladies were together on the long sofa while the men sat in various chairs, except for Lord Altern, who was standing at the French doors with his back to the room when she entered. He looked around briefly at her greeting, and Cleone stopped in her tracks, stunned by the grey blankness of his face. Only his eyes were alive with pain or shock. Her own winged to Emerald in silent question, but it was Philip who spoke.
“Our guests brought news of a great victory over Napoleon. Wellington’s army has defeated him in a decisive battle outside of Brussels.”
“But it was a costly victory,” put in Mr. Ludlow. “The losses on both sides were very high.”
Cleone’s sympathetic gaze returned to Lord Altern. For the first time she noticed the newspaper gripped in one hand hanging at his side. “You had friends among the casualties, sir?”
“Three, and these are just the first lists.”
“Oh, how glad I am that you were not there,” Emerald declared fervently.
“And how I wish I had been!” Seeing Emerald’s jaw drop in shock, Lord Altern apologized swiftly. “I beg your pardon, Miss Hardwicke. That was a stupid thing to say. The fact that one stands beside a comrade doesn’t stop the ball with his name on it from striking.” He turned to Lady Henley. “If you will excuse me, ma’am, there are some letters I must write without delay.”
“Yes, of course,” murmured Lady Henley.
No one spoke until Lord Altern left the room, then Mr. Ludlow said awkwardly, “We were discussing the military situation last night when the ladies left the dining room. We thought we were bringing glorious news, never thinking that Lord Altern naturally would still have many friends in the army.”
“You should not blame yourself,” Miss Latham said gently. “Lord Altern must have received the sad news before this, except that the groom has not yet returned from the receiving office with our papers.”
“How awful to learn that one’s friends have been killed, that one will never see them again!” Cecily shivered in sympathy. “Poor Lord Altern.”
“Your kind heart does you great credit, Miss Cecily.” Mr. Ludlow’s earnest blue eyes were alive with approval and brought the ready colour up under Cecily’s pale skin.
“I am sure we all sympathize deeply with Lord Altern’s grief,” Emerald said with dignity, “but there was really no call to act so — so fierce!”
Mr. Ludlow broke the short silence that ensued. “We came by this morning to invite you all on a picnic tomorrow, if the weather holds fine. Addie and I have been planning to take Rupert to see the ruins of that old Norman castle near Steyning and thought it might be enjoyable to expand the excursion into a picnic.”
“Oh, how delightful! May we go, Mama?” Cecily’s eyes importuned Lady Henley, who smiled at Mr. Ludlow but inquired if Lady Ludlow was going to be a member of the party.
“Mama will accompany us if necessary, ma’am, but she thought perhaps you would consider Miss Latham’s presence sufficient for propriety.”
“I will agree if Cleone is willing to accompany you. Cleone?”
“I’ll go if you wish it, Isabella,” Cleone said in a colourless voice.
“But I hope you will enjoy it on your own account, Miss Latham,” Mr. Ludlow said with a warm smile. “Have you ever been to Bramber Castle?”
On her denial, he went on to describe the lovely countryside and promised her she would find the ruins most interesting.
“I would not dare to find them anything less after your enthusiastic sponsorship,” Cleone replied with a straight face. When his startled eyes met hers, she relented and permitted rein to the little dimple at the corner of her mouth.
“Oh, you are funning me, ma’am,” he declared in relief.
“Not at all,” she denied, solemn again. “You have whetted my curiosity about your ruins.”
He grinned boyishly but was prevented from answering by Cecily and Emerald, who wished to know whether they were to ride or drive.
Cleone sat back and let the resulting discussion drift around her largely unheeded. Everyone was happily engrossed in making plans except for Miss Ludlow, who spoke only when directly addressed. It had struck Cleone last night that Miss Ludlow had not seemed overly delighted to be visiting her dear friend Emerald. One did not have to seek far for the reason, unfortunately. She must have had hopes of Mr. Chalmers, hopes that had been blasted by that gentleman’s blatant pursuit of Emerald. Again today he was directing all his battery of charm at the beautiful brunette, forgetting his duty to his hosts. Miss Ludlow, too, was allowing her disappointment to affect her conduct. Evidently she had not the pride or cleverness to conceal her feelings. Philip was not yet interested in paying even mild court to females, so he could not be depended upon to take up the slack. Cleone groaned inwardly. Without Lord Altern’s wholehearted cooperation, tomorrow’s outing was likely to be a disaster.
Her thoughts meandered off in that gentleman’s direction. She had been stunned by the suffering on Lord Altern’s face when she had entered the room earlier, in part because she had not deemed him capable of so much honest emotion based on his behaviour over the past few days. It was too much to expect him to go on playing the perfect houseguest now, carefree and willing to fall in with all his hosts’ plans. How he must long for the one commodity that was nearly impossible to achieve under the present conditions: privacy or solitude for any appreciable length of time.
It would be courting
disappointment to expect Emerald to smooth his path. Her sensitivity was limited at all times to her own feelings; and after last night, when Lord Altern had virtually ignored her, and this morning, when he had snapped at her, she was apt to be in a dangerous mood, ripe for confrontation or retaliation. Of the two reactions, Cleone thought retaliation the path likely to do the least lasting harm. Her eyes rested for a moment on Mr. Chalmers’ animated features as he sought to entertain her beautiful cousin. Setting aside Miss Ludlow’s lacerated feelings for the moment, perhaps it was providential that Mr. Chalmers was here to divert Emerald’s attention from forcing Lord Altern’s hand in a crude way that could lose him for good. If she knew her cousin’s mentality, the girl would relish flaunting another man’s devotion before her lukewarm suitor. Even if he were in love with her — and on that subject Cleone’s doubts increased as a function of the time he spent with them — Lord Altern was too experienced to be caught by such an obvious ploy. A dalliance with Mr. Chalmers, however, would have the advantage of providing him with a respite in which to recover the normal tenor of his mind.
As it turned out, Cleone’s concern for Lord Altern’s unenviable position was just so much wasted emotion. Any grieving on his part was being carried on behind the urbane mask that generally concealed whatever he was feeling or thinking at any given moment. When he appeared at the luncheon table, he was under total control once again. Emerald, still smarting from what she perceived as a sharp set-down earlier, was inclined to treat him with a touch of reserve, but he had charmed her out of the sullens by the end of the meal.
It was actually Lord Altern who proposed a game of lawn croquet for everyone, even teasing Lady Henley into agreeing to take part after her prescribed daily rest. Only Lord Brestwick held aloof, mendaciously citing age and infirmity in excuse, which was considered by all to be an act of great civility in one who generally gave his sarcastic tongue full rein without undue concern for anyone’s sensibilities. Cleone, all admiration for their guest’s diplomatic style, temporarily discarded her deliberate policy of non-involvement and promised to join the others in the interests of harmony. In order to be free later, it meant she would be spending the next couple of hours in the kitchen preparing her special marinated mushroom recipe to take along with the picnic party tomorrow, but she didn’t begrudge the effort in a good cause. Mrs. Willet would have her hands full with dinner preparations, and she did not wish to deprive the cook of any of her helpers. The Ludlows had offered to cater the entire picnic meal, but it did not suit Cleone’s ideas of neighbourly intercourse to arrive empty-handed. Mrs. Willet had already promised to donate some of the maids of honour and gingerbread cookies she had baked this morning; so, by again sacrificing her painting time, Cleone was free to participate.
The croquet games were a howling success. Most of the howling was done by Cecily when Philip knocked her ball away from the wickets with relentless regularity. Since Emerald, in a spirit of mischief, was bent on doing the same to Lord Altern’s ball, Cleone was an easy winner, Lady Henley not providing much competition. The outcome of the second game was the same, though Cleone was forced to exert more skill when Lord Altern challenged her at several wickets.
“Magnificent shot!” he conceded when she smacked his yellow ball a nasty distance at an oblique angle from the next-to-last wicket. “Inhuman, cruel and unladylike, but magnificent.”
“The devil whispered in my ear,” Miss Latham admitted demurely.
“It’s my belief that your exquisitely polite exterior hides the soul of a gladiator,” he accused, displaying strong white teeth in a smile that took years from his age.
“Sir!” Miss Latham gave him a look of hurt reproach, but her next shot knocked Philip’s blue ball away from contention.
“Was Miss Hardwicke correct that your father raised you as the son he didn’t have?” Lord Altern asked half-seriously.
“I believe my father was quite satisfied with his daughter, sir.” She lined up her mallet to send her red ball through the last wickets to the stump.
“And well he should have been.”
The unmistakable sincerity in his quiet words caused Cleone to flub her shot. She stepped back to give him his turn, but kept her eyes on his ball, jolted out of her customary self-possession. If he thought he was going to beguile her into a flirtatious exchange, he was sadly mistaken! Her defences safely mounted, she kept her attention fixed on each player’s ball and calculated her own shot when her turn came again. This time she didn’t miss.
The third game was a different story, with the rest of the players united to block Cleone from sweeping all before her. Even Lady Henley, apologizing profusely, attempted, at her son’s direction, to knock the red ball out of the line of play at one point. She missed her shot, but during the course of the contest, the other players did not. Cleone protested good-naturedly, but it was her private opinion that they needn’t have gone out of their way to ruin her chances because she seemed to have lost the competitive edge in any case. The ultimate beneficiary of the conspiracy was Philip, who walked off with the honours for the last game before the combatants separated to dress for dinner. His reward, his cousin told him solemnly, was the honour of assisting the footman in dismantling the setup and storing away the equipment. Philip grinned at her and remained behind to oblige. He waved Lord Altern off when the latter would have volunteered assistance.
Emerald took the earl’s arm to stroll back to the house. Seeing that the other three women were already some distance ahead, Lord Altern acknowledged himself trapped and fell into step with the loveliest girl of his acquaintance.
“That was a most enjoyable afternoon. I can’t recall when I last played croquet, probably not since my school days. My brother and I used to go at it hammer and tongs — no finesse, mind you, just prevent the other one from scoring.” There was a reminiscent little smile on Lord Altern’s lips that told Emerald he was far away in spirit. She sought to bring him back.
“We play quite often in good weather, but Cleo usually wins. She is good at all the things men generally do best.”
“Would you say that croquet calls for any attribute that men possess in greater degree than women? It doesn’t require strength, for example, or speed. It’s my guess Miss Latham simply enjoys the competition.”
“Yes.” Emerald laughed shortly. “She is certainly inappropriately named.”
Dark eyes sought hers in query. “Cleone? Inappropriate? I find it has a pleasant sound.”
“She always gets called Cleo, but anyone less like the temptress of the Nile would be difficult to find.”
Lord Altern recited softly, “‘Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale / Her infinite variety; other women cloy / The appetites they feed, but she makes hungry / Where most she satisfies…’”
“Is that quotation from Shakespeare?” Emerald felt she must contribute something to retrieve her error. His attention had veered from her, and it was her own fault for dragging Cleone into the conversation.
“Yes, it was said of Cleopatra. Now you, my dear Emerald, are most appropriately named. So farsighted of your father.”
The words were accompanied by the earl’s most charming smile, but Emerald experienced none of that comforting warmth that other men’s compliments always produced in her. Really, Lord Altern had turned out to be a most unsatisfactory suitor! She listened with half an ear as he proceeded to praise the homely beauty of the grounds in well-measured phrases that left her discontented and impatient. This was actually the first time in four days that they had been alone for more than thirty seconds, and here he was spouting panegyrics about a lot of grass and an unkempt garden! He never failed to pay her compliments on her appearance, but they were never so eloquent as this ridiculous speech about common ordinary greenery. Other men had compared her eyes to flashing jewels and her skin to satin that invited caresses. Other men trembled when offering her their arm, and their eyes flamed with an intensity that thrilled and frightened her at the same time. Lord Alte
rn’s eyes generally seemed amused about something he chose to keep to himself, and there were times when their arctic expression actually induced a chill within her. The arm beneath her hand was as steady as a rock, and just about as responsive.
A fleeting regret for the rejected Viscount Covington stirred in Emerald’s bosom. Though he was not nearly so articulate as Altern, his ardency had been most satisfying. It was really a shame that the earl was so much the better catch. His style of courtship might not recommend itself to her, but Emerald was nothing if not clear-sighted. There was no use sighing over spilt milk. Her task was to bring him to the point, and there was no time like the present. This evening they would again be surrounded by all the family, including Cleone with her encroaching ways.
A stone in the path ahead proved a source of inspiration to Emerald. She uttered a piteous gasp and lurched sidewise into Lord Altern, whose arm automatically went around her waist to steady her. She leaned against him, standing on one foot and breathing heavily just at the start of the shrubbery.
“What happened, Miss Hardwicke? Your ankle?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “I wrenched it on that stone, but I do not believe it is anything serious.” She made a brave attempt at a smile. “If you would just help me over to that bench, I am persuaded a few minutes’ rest will do the trick.”
His eyes were uncharacteristically serious as he gazed into the beautiful face upturned invitingly to his. “I don’t believe in taking foolish chances,” he said. Before Emerald knew what was happening, she found herself being scooped up into his arms and carried toward the house.
“This isn’t necessary, my lord,” she protested. “I’ll be able to walk in a minute or two and I must be too heavy for you.”
