by Dorothy Mack
“Thank you, my dear Cleone. I knew I might rely on your good sense.”
“I don’t quite know what to propose for tomorrow, but no doubt something will occur to me,” Miss Latham added with forced cheerfulness. “Perhaps when you and I go off to church, the young people can remain home. Or, if that is too obvious, we will think of something else.”
“Thank you, Cleone,” Lady Henley said again, rising from her chair. “I’ll leave you to dress for dinner now. We can decide what to do about tomorrow in the morning. Perhaps Lord Altern will have proposed by then, and no scheming will be necessary.”
“Isabella,” Cleone offered hesitantly, disliking to puncture her cousin’s optimism but feeling that some preparation for the inevitable disappointment in store for her might serve to mitigate later sufferings, “do you really think that Emerald and Lord Altern will suit? Have you seen any signs of — of mutual affection in their conduct toward each other this past week?”
Lady Henley stopped on her way to the door and regarded Cleone in some surprise. “But why else would he have come here if not to pursue a courtship?”
Cleone sighed but ventured one step further. “He did come for that reason, I make no doubt, but now, in these past days, have you seen any signs of a strengthening of the original attachment?”
“Lord Altern is not the sort of man to make a parade of his affections,” Lady Henley said, firmly for her. “His conduct has been everything that is correct. Why else should he be here if he did not wish to marry Emerald?” she repeated.
Cleone abandoned the argument. She had done her best to penetrate Isabella’s simplistic view of the situation. She merely shook her head in defeat and watched with an impatient pity as her cousin left the room.
Up to a point, the evening did evolve along the lines sketched out for Lady Henley by Miss Latham. The latter appeared a bit subdued at dinner, replying with her usual calm good sense to any remarks made to her but offering nothing of her own volition. When the ladies left the dining room, she excused herself, citing a headache as her reason for going straight to her room. When the gentlemen entered the saloon some fifteen minutes later, Cecily and her mother were engaged in some fine finishing work on a new reticule the girl was making under her mother’s direction.
Lord Altern’s eyes took in the pair and moved to Emerald, apparently absorbed in a piece of music she was playing on the pianoforte. He asked casually after Miss Latham’s absence, expressed polite sympathy on hearing of her indisposition, and then proceeded to overset the well-laid plan by offering himself as a substitute chess partner to Lord Brestwick. The old earl, not having been apprised of the schemes afoot to throw the alleged lovers together, was pleased to gain a rematch and even more pleased two hours later to accept Lord Altern’s concession. The men were quite in charity with each other when they approached the tea table, still discussing the critical stages of their recent game. Neither appeared to have the least inkling of a hint of strain in the air concerning the ladies’ attitude to their belated presence. Indeed, Emerald could scarcely bring herself to make a civil reply to her grandfather’s jocular remarks, and her smiles for Lord Altern were of the sweetly acidic variety.
Cleone came down for breakfast the following morning ready to implement a secondary plan for providing an opportunity for privacy for Emerald and Lord Altern. Not having expected to hear a happy announcement, she was quite prepared for Isabella’s expressive glance as she took her seat at table. She nodded her comprehension and turned to thank Lord Altern for his inquiry into her health, assuring him of her complete recovery from the headache of the previous evening.
“I may have had a bit too much sun on our outing yesterday.” She turned back to Lady Henley. “I shall be ready to drive to church with you at the usual time, Isabella, although it is almost too nice a day to be indoors, is it not? Perhaps the youngsters would prefer to remain at home today,” she added artlessly, accepting a cup of coffee from Oliphant with a smile of thanks.
“Would that be Mr. Lovejoy’s church?” asked Lord Altern.
“Why, yes,” Lady Henley confirmed.
“Then I believe I will come along with you, if I may. I thought him a stimulating person and would be interested to hear him preach.”
Not surprisingly, everyone but Lord Brestwick elected to attend divine service that morning. If she had not felt a reluctant sympathy for Emerald’s predicament, Cleone would have been much amused by the dexterity with which Lord Altern was keeping clear of all snares. Thank goodness this was the last day of his visit; the strain on almost everyone’s disposition was becoming increasingly obvious. She confined her own conversation to her great-uncle and Philip, and excused herself to go fetch her hat and gloves when the meal ended.
Jason, returning from his bedchamber carrying his own hat, walked slowly toward the staircase, his thoughts producing a look of preoccupation that vanished as he spotted a small blue-clad figure scurrying ahead of him.
“Cleo, Cleo, look what has happened,” called a piping little voice.
Jason reached the head of the stairs and paused to watch. Louisa was running down the stairs holding one arm out at an awkward angle to display a bandage just below the elbow.
“Be careful, darling, don’t rush so,” cautioned Cleone from below.
He saw the anxiety in her eyes as she held her breath while the little girl raced down to her.
“I fell and hurt my arm and I didn’t even cry, Cleo, and it bleeded a whole lot of blood on my pink dress and we had to change it and Nurse said I was very brave and she said I could come and tell you she said so,” Louisa finished on a triumphant note, out of breath as she literally hurled herself down the last two steps into her cousin’s waiting arms.
“I’m so proud of you, angel. You are my very brave girl.”
Jason, at the top of the landing, was standing stock-still, his eyes avidly devouring Cleone’s face as he witnessed the first repetition of the radiant smile that had set him back on his heels the night he arrived at Bramble Hall. He realized with a sudden jolt that he had been anticipating this moment since then, even though the smile wasn’t for him this time.
What a wonderful mother she would make!
The thought, unbidden, froze him in time and space while others rushed into his mind with the force and inevitability of the tides. This was the woman he wanted for the mother of his children! Some part of him had known from that first evening that the warmth of Cleone Latham’s smile had melted the ice in which his heart had been encased. His senses had been aware all along of what his brain and heart had failed to recognize. Small wonder that Emerald’s beauty had made no further impression on him or that her company wearied him. In the inevitability of this moment, everything that had puzzled him this past week was revealed with blinding clarity. What an idiot he had been!
“Is something wrong, Lord Altern? Lord Altern?”
Cleone’s voice gradually penetrated his abstraction. He must resemble a half-wit, staring down at them vacantly. “I — I am not accustomed to the ways of small children. Louisa’s headlong dash down these stairs…”
“Frightening, isn’t it?” Cleone came smilingly to his rescue. “I do not know how parents survive the experience of rearing them. Will you say good morning to Lord Altern, Louisa?”
From the safety of her protector’s arms, the small child shyly greeted the large man descending the stairs. Cleone dropped a quick kiss on her hair and got to her feet, smiling her thanks as Lord Altern extended a hand to help her rise.
“I see you have a bandage,” he said to the timid child.
Big green eyes surveyed him solemnly. “I cut my arm, but I didn’t cry when Nurse bandaged it.”
“Then you must be very brave, because cuts hurt.” His tone was as solemn as hers, and Louisa nodded, pleased that he understood.
“You must go back to the nursery now, angel, so Nurse will not worry. Lord Altern and I must hurry or we will be late for church.”
The li
ttle girl departed obediently. The adults watched her progress up the stairs before turning toward the front of the house. Neither spoke as they walked together to meet the others. Cleone, making a production of pulling on her gloves, was remembering her role in the final act of their little drama, and Jason was overwhelmingly conscious of her physical presence, the graceful erect carriage of her head, the creamy perfection of her skin, the faint floral scent that had tantalized his nostrils when he had helped her rise.
No one would have guessed that Lord Altern was longing for solitude in which to examine and clarify the welter of impressions that had crowded into his mind in the last few minutes. As six people crammed into the carriage for the short drive to the church, he made all the appropriate responses, struggling to control his impatience. He commented favourably on the architecture of the pretty little structure faced entirely in split flints, and he accepted with good grace that he was the cynosure of all eyes as he accompanied the family from the great house. Once the service began, he was free for a time of the role he had been playing for the best part of a week, free to let his thoughts wing back to that stunning revelation that would change his life.
He was sitting between Emerald and Cecily. Cleone was entirely out of his line of vision farther along the bench, but her image filled his mind’s eye. It seemed, looking back on the past few days, that he had been conscious of her presence, and equally conscious of her absence, every minute of his time at Bramble Hall. And yet his intelligence had been concentrated on Emerald Hardwicke and the undeclared purpose of this visit. The reluctance that had disturbed him whenever he contemplated making Emerald his wife, though her beauty had undeniably excited his admiration in London, was at last explainable. His eyes had been filled with a sparkling black-haired beauty, aesthetically pleasing as always, but his other senses had been invaded by a less spectacular female, maddeningly cool on the surface but with an inner warmth that he glimpsed at odd moments and longed to capture permanently. The mild curiosity he had experienced in London as to how it would feel to kiss Emerald’s pretty mouth had dissipated here in Sussex, dating from the incident when he’d carried a sopping wet Cleone into the back hall, he realized with the second jolt of the morning. He was becoming used to these flashes of recognition.
Cleone had stood there, dazed and breathless, bedraggled and so infinitely desirable, with water streaming over cheekbones glowing with colour, that he had been hard put to subdue a mad impulse to carry her off and make love to her until dazed brown eyes flamed with an answering desire. So strong had been the urge within him that he’d been afraid to touch her, afraid the animal would carry away the man. He’d been rather fierce with her in consequence, he recalled. The incident had so alarmed him, who had believed himself master of all his emotions, that he had deliberately put it behind him, refusing until now to resurrect those unacceptable feelings. He’d rationalized that what he’d felt on that occasion was no more personal than the grossest male impulse on being confronted with any attractive female in such a seductive state of dishevelment. Yet two days later, he’d had Emerald in his arms for several minutes without experiencing the slightest sexual tension. He’d been too aware of Cleone’s speculative attitude and curious to know her thoughts to spare more than a cursory concern for his injured passenger.
Jason Vaughan sat unmoving in the Hardwicke family pew in the little Gothic church of St. Michael, his brain busy behind a facade of attention focused on the white-haired rector in his pulpit. The first glorious flush of relief and excitement — relief that his strange behaviour this week could now be explained in somewhat rational terms, and excitement that he was not set apart from other men by a constitutional inability to love — waned, and realities of his situation came rushing in behind it. On the one hand, he felt more alive than he had since Marcus’ death; on the other hand, no odds-maker could possibly rate his chances of success very high.
He could, without impugning his honour though not without awkwardness, leave Bramble Hall tomorrow uncommitted to Emerald Hardwicke. There was no possible way he could leave here engaged to marry Cleone Latham. From their strangely intimate conversation at Bramber Castle yesterday, it was clear that Cleone knew he no longer intended to offer for Emerald. He should not in good conscience have disclosed even that to a member of Miss Hardwicke’s family, but she had understood too well his indiscreet reference to his situation. Were she willing to listen to his declaration, they could perhaps come to a secret understanding, unsatisfactory though that would be in that he could not approach her openly until Emerald had some other man in her sights. As matters stood, however, Cleone had made it abundantly clear that she had no thought of marriage while her uncle needed her. Lord Brestwick might have upward of four-score years in his dish, but a more hale and hearty octogenarian would be hard to find. No self-deceiver, Jason didn’t rate his patience very high, certainly not equal to an indefinite sentence of celibacy. And this without even addressing the most crucial element of all, which was whether Cleone could return his feelings. If he had learned one thing from the fiasco that was his parents’ marriage, it was that an unwilling bride was to be avoided at all costs.
For a moment the grimmer aspects of the situation held Jason in their grip, causing Cecily, at his side, to wonder why the rector’s descriptions of heavenly rewards should bring such a black look to the earl’s face. He did not long remain in the trough of despond, however. Patience might not be listed among his virtues, but resolution certainly was. The present circumstances were definitely against his suit; therefore, the present circumstances must be altered.
Jason rose with the rest of the congregation and lifted his voice in song, glad of the opportunity to sing out for the promise of happiness, even if his aspirations were still in the earthly rather than the heavenly realm.
CHAPTER 11
When the parishioners filed out after the service, it seemed quite natural that those attending from the Grange and Bramble Hall should come together in informal conversation. Cleone noted that Mr. Ludlow had again gravitated to Cecily’s side and, by the simple expedient of presenting his back to the rest, effectively isolated her in private discourse. One had to admire that young man’s bag of tricks. She glanced over to Isabella to see how she was taking this determined pursuit of her younger daughter, but Cecily’s mama was totally involved in appearing not to notice the dogged way Mr. Chalmers singled out her elder daughter. She was glancing from that couple to Lord Altern, who was busy being charming to Adelaide Ludlow, and the worried look was settling deeper into her face. Really, Isabella could be so dim at times! Mr. Ludlow could not have laid a better smoke screen if he and Mr. Chalmers had arranged this little scene between them. She dismissed that unkind thought at once; Mr. Bernard Ludlow might be capable de tout, but Mr. Chalmers, poor soul, didn’t possess the guile of a week-old infant.
Lady Henley broke up the various twosomes by announcing their party’s imminent departure for Bramble. Cecily and Emerald chatted animatedly on the way home, but Cleone’s contributions were minimal. With the picture of Emerald’s glittering-eyed disapproval whenever Lord Altern spoke to her for a moment firmly in mind, she was devising ways of keeping out of sight during this last day of his visit.
She went upstairs immediately to put off her hat, lingering for a few minutes in her bedchamber to savour the peace of solitude. For a cowardly interval, the wish to hide up here until their guest took himself off to Brighton turned the corners of her mouth downward. A ridiculous picture of herself cowering in her room like a child hoping to escape discovery after committing some peccadillo instantly reversed the trend, curving her lips irrepressibly. She glanced over at the clock as inspiration dawned. This was the time when Philip generally gave Charlie a riding lesson. The little boy had been importuning her to come witness his progress. That would fill the time until lunch very nicely, she decided, heading for the kitchen stairs.
Cleone hurried out to the stables, chiding herself for what she could only describe a
s skulking, but relieved and triumphant at the same time when she managed to avoid meeting any member of the family and especially Lord Altern. Neither Philip nor Charlie was in sight as she picked her way across the stable yard. Nor was there a groom or a stable boy in evidence, so she slipped into the stables proper, hoping to locate someone who knew where they might be.
After the bright midday sunshine, the gloom of the interior was a visual shock. She stopped inside the door, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the change, and became aware in the next instant of voices coming from one of the stalls.
“I left promptly at first light, sir, and came straight down.”
Cleone recognized Musgrove’s voice and realized that he must be newly returned from London, where Philip had sent him several days ago.
“Are you certain he’s leaving today? Perhaps you should have hung around until they actually departed and then come on faster.”
There was a strident tension in Philip’s low tones, and Cleone, who had been about to announce herself, closed her half-opened mouth in indecision.
“But your lordship needs time to prepare. Suppose they didn’t stop for a meal along the way? I might not have found you at home. I didn’t dare take that chance, sir.”
