by Ella Edon
He turned it over, looking for an address for the sender, but nobody had written one. He turned it back over again and looked at Lady Westmore.
“Would you like to go and read it?” Lady Westmore said kindly. “I could hold off the recital for a few minutes more, if it’s something that needs your attention?”
“No, thank you,” Cutler said, smiling fondly at her. “I appreciate it, but it’s nothing urgent, My Lady. I’ll read it later today. When the recital’s finished.”
“Very well, then,” Lady Westmore smiled. “So, you can come down and join us at the recital. I might have to leave a little early…my daughter sleeps easier if I come and say goodnight at seven of the clock.”
“Of course.” Cutler nodded. Lady Westmore had last year become a mother. He’d met her daughter last year, and found the child truly charming.
“Well, then,” Emilia said as they reached the foot of the stairs. “We’re ready for the recital.”
“Yes.” Cutler nodded. He felt his stomach tie itself in a knot. He had no idea whether or not he felt ready to face Lady Raymonde again. But he knew for certain that he wanted to try. He couldn’t imagine not doing so.
He put the letter in his coat pocket, glanced sideways at his reflection in the mirror by the front entrance, and followed Lady Westmore in through the big door of the ballroom.
Chapter Four
Meetings
The ballroom was quiet, the only sound a murmur of talk between Lady Raphaella, Lord Canmure and Luke, who sat beside Raymonde. Two other guests with whom she was only distantly acquainted, sat on the other side of the row, chattering quietly to each other. Lady Westmore was still absent, as was Lieutenant Wingate. The atmosphere felt a little strained.
When are we going to start?
Glancing down at her fingers, Raymonde realized her hands were clenched tightly together. She breathed deeply and made herself relax. Why was she so ridiculously nervous? She unclasped her fingers from each other, laying them smoothly on the dark red fabric of her dress. She was still jittery from the accident in the woods, she thought.
Accident? It wasn’t an accident. Lieutenant Wingate did that on purpose.
And that, she thought with a shiver, was why she felt so uncomfortable. Why had he risked her life like that? And, was he going to be attending this evening?
Raymonde’s head lifted sharply as the door opened.
“Good evening,” Emilia said, smiling at her guests as she crossed the checkerboard tile floor. “Sorry I’m late…I was just organizing the drawing-room.”
“Of course, Lady Westmore. You’re a commendable hostess,” Lord Canmure said, sitting down again as she took her seat. He, Luke and Lord Grayford had all stood up politely as she entered, and they now settled into their chairs.
Another pair of boots rang out in the silence. A gentleman followed Emilia in, his boots sounding hollowly.
Lieutenant Wingate.
As he came in through the door, Raymonde felt her stomach tie into an uncomfortable knot. She clenched her hands, an awful, queasy anticipation filling her. She hadn’t felt so nervous about a performance since she was fifteen and giving her first recital.
Her first thought on seeing him now: why did he have to come, too?
It would have been so much easier to play her pieces, had he not been here! Having him there would confuse and distract her. She looked at him as he sat down, a subtle glance from the corner of one eye. The expression on his face was inscrutable and she thought he was avoiding her gaze.
Well, then, she thought with some affront. If that’s what he feels, there’s no reason for me to bother about what he thinks.
She turned her head away, focusing on their hostess, who’d stood up.
“Good evening, everyone!” Emilia said. “Welcome! I think, Lady Raphaella, you said you’d like to start?” She smiled at Raphaella, who sat beside Raymonde.
“Yes,” Raphaella beamed. She was a tall woman with abundant red hair, with a sweet face and a personality that was every bit as kind as her face suggested. Raymonde felt the knot in her stomach relax a little as she headed to the piano. She was glad someone else was going first.
“I will play Sonata number sixteen, from Mozart,” Raphaella announced. She took a seat and, after a moment or two, commenced playing.
The music was sweet and tuneful, and Raymonde felt herself relax. She hated recitals. She was always sure she would make a mess, that people would judge her like Osburne would. She felt better now that someone else was playing. She glanced sideways and felt Lieutenant Wingate’s gaze on her. For a moment, his green eyes stared into hers. She felt her heart beat faster.
There was something so intense and yet so sweet about the way he looked at her, that she felt herself start to melt a little.
Just the effect of the sweet music, Raymonde, she told herself crossly. He’s going to wonder why you’re staring at him like a fool. Look away.
She made herself focus on the piano music.
An hour ago, she reminded herself, that man had ridden her off the path and put her in danger. She might easily have died, if her horse had spooked and thrown her off. She had no reason to believe he thought well of her, considering he almost killed her, not two hours before! She had, she told herself crossly, no reason to believe he was in possession of his wits.
And yet, that look.
It stayed with her. There was something touching about it. He had looked at her as if he thought well of her.
Raymonde, you’re just as mad as he is! Why would he think well of you and then try and kill you? Besides, you know everyone thinks you’re a fool.
She clasped her hands in her lap and made herself concentrate on the sonata, words that could have been her brother’s own whispering around her head. The music had changed to a livelier movement, and she found herself swaying a little in time to the piece. Raphaella looked up and grinned at her. Raymonde blushed.
You see? You are a fool. What do you think people will think of you, when you are swaying about witlessly like that?
She had become so accustomed to Osburne’s little critical voice in her ear that she repeated the words to herself out of habit. The music changed, then stopped.
Raphaella lifted her hands from the keys with a flourish, and smiled at her.
“Lady Raymonde? You planned to play a minuet, did you not? I think it would follow beautifully. If you’d like to treat us to a performance?”
Her smile was open and ingenuous, and Raymonde didn’t think she was speaking sarcastically. She swallowed hard.
“I, um…yes,” she said. “I’d like that. Thank you.”
Before she could stop herself, she was walking up to the grand piano. She settled herself on the seat, spreading the dark red skirt of her evening gown. She swallowed hard, wondering why she’d chosen to wear such a bold dress. She lifted her hands and placed them on the keys, turning to face her little audience.
Green eyes met her own. She felt herself drawn to Lieutenant Cutler instantly. Her heart fluttered and almost missed a beat. She cleared her throat.
“I intend to play Bach’s Minuet in G major,” she announced. She caught the Lieutenant’s eye. He grinned at her.
In that moment, she was lost. She smiled back. She couldn’t help it. Then, feeling her lips tug at the corners, his gaze like a touch on her neck, she settled down to play her piece.
Music flowed from her fingers, seemingly effortless. She was thinking of Cutler, and her mind was on those green eyes that had captured hers. She wasn’t thinking, but her fingers found the notes she had rehearsed, and the sweet music filled the room.
Emilia was turning the pages for her, and, before she realized it, they had reached the end. She lifted her hands, feeling astounded. She had never experienced that before. Normally, when she played before a company of people, she felt nervous. This time, it had seemed effortless to her. She’d truly enjoyed it.
She stood and curtseyed, and the audience clapped. She
noticed Cutler was watching her, a big smile on his face, applauding enthusiastically.
She smiled back, and his eyes held hers. She looked around the room, heart soaring. His smile felt like the feeling she had after a long ride across the field. She felt wild, elated. Free.
“Um, Lady Westmore?” She turned to her hostess, smiling warmly. “If you would like to play something for us?”
Emilia smiled. “I hadn’t thought I’d get to have a turn!” Raphaella giggled and Luke smiled at his wife fondly. “As it happens, I have prepared something. Thank you, Raymonde.” She shot her a genuine smile. “I will play Beethoven’s Pathetique.”
Raymonde nodded to her and floated back to her seat. She felt slightly surreal. She gripped the arms of her seat, checking that everything was as material and concrete as it had been a few minutes before. Her life felt different, as if she’d crossed some line on the floor and was now in another world that looked the same but felt utterly unlike anything she’d experienced before. People were friendly and genial. The candles glowed warmly. Cutler’s smile burned across her mind like a torch-flame. She felt Raphaella nudge her gently and grin in a congratulatory way.
This isn’t like anything that’s ever happened to me before.
She looked down at her hands, feeling a mix of joy and apprehension. What was going on? She never normally encountered such goodwill.
Stay calm, Raymonde. Be pragmatic. Maybe Raphaella wants you to do something for her.
That was what Mrs. Partlow would have said; that nobody was ever nice for nothing. She glanced sideways at Lady Raphaella, who was sitting listening with an enraptured look on her face, then looked at the floor and listened to Emilia’s moving rendition of Beethoven’s music.
As the final notes sounded, everybody applauded wildly. The sound was somewhat muted, because most were wearing evening-gloves. Raymonde looked down at her bare hands. She hadn’t put her gloves on after her performance. They were rolled up inside her drawstring reticule. She quickly tugged them on, feeling self-conscious.
“Thank you, everyone,” Emilia said. She was glowing. “Now that we’ve all played something, mayhap we should go up to the drawing-room? I, for one, am a little hungry after all that music!” She giggled and everybody laughed. “Dinner will be in an hour, if that suits?”
“Yes. Thank you, Emilia,” Lord Canmure said politely. The rest of them echoed similar sentiments. Luke pushed back his chair, and the sound of chair-legs against tile floor filled the space. Raymonde stayed where she was. She worried that she might pass out if she stood up – she felt a little lightheaded.
Too much excitement, she told herself sternly. What with your near-fall, and now the giddiness of having finished the recital, you’re just overexcited and that’s all.
The effect of Lieutenant Wingate and his smile had absolutely nothing to do with it.
“Raymonde?” Lady Raphaella said gently. “Are you coming to join us?”
“Coming,” she said. She stayed where she was as everybody else left the room. When she thought the rest of the guests had gone, she stood up. A chair scraped back as she did so, on the other side of the row of seats, and her head whipped around.
“Lady Raymonde,” Lieutenant Wingate said. “I had hoped to see you. I wanted to say how deeply sorry I am.”
He waited to talk to me!
“I accept your apology,” she said. Her voice was meant to sound frosty, but the strange warmth inside her seemed to melt it. It came out sounding friendly, and she blushed, furiously.
“You probably shouldn’t.” He seemed genuinely awkward. “I mean… I did do something rather strange.”
“You did, yes,” she said softly. “But one can overlook that, just once, surely? Now, if you’ll excuse me,” she added, stepping around him hastily. She walked swiftly from the room and into the hallway, feeling shy and confused.
What was that about?
She leaned against the wall. Here, she was behind a velvet drape in an alcove, and nobody could see her.
Whatever was the matter with the Lieutenant?
She had no idea. First, he was friendlier than anybody she’d ever met. Then, he tried to terrify her in the forest, seemingly! And now, at the recital, he’d watched her with as much focus as if she was the best play in the King’s Theater.
“If he wants to confuse me utterly, he couldn’t be managing it better,” she murmured to herself.
What she needed, she thought, was time on her own, to think. Half-remembered comments of Osburne’s about men only being interested in her for one thing floated through her mind, making her mistrust the lieutenant. She decided to forgo the refreshments and spend the hour before dinner in her bedchamber.
As she passed the drawing-room she caught sight of Lieutenant Wingate, standing at the window. He turned and saw her and came over to the door.
Raymonde froze where she stood in mid-stride.
“My Lady. It seems you’re also a bit tired of company?” He tilted his head to one side, an inquiring pose.
“It seems I’m simply tired,” she said carefully. She lifted her fingers over her mouth, as if she stifled a yawn. That would do it, she thought lightly. He’d excuse himself and let her carry on to her chamber to rest.
“I understand. It was quite a tiring day,” he continued.
“It was, yes,” she said with a touch of humor in her voice. Oddly enough, she could laugh about the incident in the woods now. When described only as “tiring,” the whole incident looked simply bizarre.
“I’m sorry about what happened in the woods,” the lieutenant said frankly. “I would like to explain, if I could.” His expression was open and unguarded.
“No explanation needed,” she said, hearing the frost return to her tone. Why did the fellow not simply forget about it? If he wanted her to absolve him of feeling guilt about it, he had come to the wrong place. And if he was interested in anything else…even more so.
He blinked and seemed hurt. “As you wish,” he said. His voice was hollow-sounding.
“Yes, I do,” Raymonde said briskly, surprising herself. She curtseyed and walked away. “Good evening, Lieutenant. I am very tired and will retire to bed.”
“As you wish, Lady Raymonde.”
He sounds upset, she thought. How strange.
She might have expected petulance, or resentment, or even just indifference. If he was taking his chances with her, she would expect any of those reactions. But upset? It made no sense.
She walked stiffly past and headed up to her bedchamber. When she got there, she went inside, locked the door and leaned against it, heart pounding.
I don’t understand it at all.”
She rang the bell for the maid and asked her to bring her up some soothing tea. Then she took off her jewelry, feeling the weight of it too much to bear. She leaned back on the bed, sighing heavily.
I do wish all this confusion would just stop.
The next morning, waking with a sore head and weary limbs, she felt no closer to understanding anything than she had the previous night. She slipped out of bed and pulled the bell-rope, calling a maid to help her dress.
“You’re awake mortally early, My Lady,” the maid – a young woman with curly hair and a big smile, called Miss Bridge, said cheerily.
“What hour is it?” she asked, blinking at her reflection in the dressing-table looking-glass. Her eyes were ringed with dark prints of exhaustion and she reached for a little face-powder to cover them discreetly.
“It’s eight of the clock, My Lady! The others are all asleep. Lady Westmore never rises before nine at least.”
“I see,” Raymonde said by way of conversation. She glanced at the reflection of the mantel-clock, confirming the maid’s prognosis.
A whole hour to herself! It was a good prospect.
She let the maid finish her hair and chose a white day-dress with small lavender flowers worked into the fabric, as her dress until tea-time. Then, dressed and with her hair styled in a lo
ose bun, she went outside.
“It’s chilly for this time of year,” she commented to herself, drawing a shawl about her shoulders. The morning was cool, the air smelling crisply of wet earth. She breathed it in, letting the sweet fragrance lift her spirits.
The garden was utterly silent. Somewhere, a bird sang. The distant noise of somebody trimming the edges of the flower-beds drifted up, a regular cutting sound. Nothing else disturbed the silence. The peace of the place settled her troubled thoughts. She took a seat on a bench, shutting her eyes and letting the silence settle on her soul.
A gardener trudged past, his boots crunching on the gravel pathway underfoot.
