by Ella Edon
“Morning, My Lady,” he greeted, lifting his hat politely to her.
“Good morning,” she replied.
He trudged on, his footsteps fading into the silence once more.
Feeling much better, she stood, realizing that she’d been sitting there for at least half an hour, and it really was still very cold. She tensed as she heard the sound of booted feet coming swiftly up the path. This was a brisk, purposeful walk. If it was the gardener, he had quite a vital task at hand. She stood back in the shade of a tree, feeling oddly nervous.
A man strode past. He caught her eye and stopped in the pathway.
He was tall, wearing white breeches and a black coat. A top-hat added to his height. He stared at her.
It wasn’t anything about him that caught her attention. It was the way he was staring at her.
His eyes were gray, she noticed – he stood about six paces away, and she could see them clearly – and his stare seemed to drink her soul.
She shivered.
It was ridiculous, she thought, drawing her cloak around her, but she’d never encountered a piercing glance like that before. It was almost unnatural.
She shivered again.
The gray eyes followed her. Without emotion, they watched her walk away, and then, just as she thought she was too far away for him to bother, she heard him call out.
“This is Westmore House?” His voice was a cold snap of authority.
“Yes,” she said automatically. She cursed under her breath. Fool! Why did you tell him, without asking who he is? Or what business he has, to walk here?
He nodded gravely. She realized then that there was nothing else she could have done. His manner was so demanding, so self-assured, that she would not have been able to withhold information from him, even were she to have tried.
“I need to deliver a message,” he said.
“You should give it to Mr. Hall,” Raymonde said guardedly. Whoever he was, Mr. Hall would know how to deal with the matter. Discreet and wise, Mr. Hall had the family’s best interests at heart. He was far more capable than she was, of keeping them safe.
“Where do I find him?” the authoritative voice demanded.
“At the front door.” This time, Raymonde found her own annoyance cutting through her voice like a knife.
“Where is that?”
“At the head of the path, where you would expect to find it,” she said cuttingly.
The man’s glance held her. She felt herself flush, but the reaction was not of embarrassment, but of anger. His eyes blinked briefly, then narrowed.
I have no idea who he thinks he is, Raymonde thought, as he turned away and walked up the path towards the front door. But I hope I never have to make his acquaintance.
She waited for him to leave, before following the same path, behind him, up to the house: it was time, after all, to have some breakfast before she caught her death of a chill, out here.
“Raymonde!” Emilia said. She sat at the head of the table in the breakfast-room, dressed in pale yellow. “There you are! Just in time to discuss my plans for the ball.”
Raymonde pushed her uneasiness to the back of her mind and made herself smile. The last thing she was planning to do was disconcert her host. All the same, she wished she knew who that had been, and why he had made her feel so very uncomfortable.
Emilia was talking happily, and soon she was embroiled in plans, and the man and the whole incident slipped to the back of her mind.
Chapter Five
A Surprising Party
“Dash it all. Do I have to go in that?” Cutler complained. He threw a wary glance at the navy-blue suit in velvet that his valet, Arthur, had set out.
“It’s all the rage in London, sir,” Arthur said mildly. “Velvet breeches and a high-collared coat.”
“Well, it’s welcome to stay in London, then, where it’s appreciated,” Cutler said cuttingly.
“As you will,” Arthur shrugged. He looked lugubriously at Cutler. “Go ahead, wear your Norfolk dress-uniform. If you want to look like a carrot in a lettuce-patch, do so. It’s your own evening you’re blighting, and not mine.”
Cutler closed his eyes, annoyed. Surely there was a limit? If it wasn’t bad enough, what with Luke insisting he attend this ball, despite Lady Raymonde’s avoidance of him, and the lady herself seeming to resent him every time they were talking to one another! Now he had Arthur to contend with.
“Arthur, just help me dress?” he pleaded.
“That’s all I asked of you.”
Cutler suppressed a sharp retort and held out his arms, waiting for Arthur to help him into the tight velvet coat. As he worked it over his shoulders, Cutler shut his eyes, thinking how ludicrous a scene it must cut. Any coat, he thought with annoyance, that required the effort of two men to put it on, ought not to have been sewed in the first place.
“Dash it, Arthur. You don’t need to dislocate my arms,” he complained, rolling his shoulder. Years of the recoil from a rifle had made the joint painful, liable to pop at the slightest disturbance.
“Not to worry, sir,” Arthur said with a happy smile. “If it pops out, we’ll just get Doctor Murray to pop it again.”
“Not over my cold corpse, you won’t,” Cutler said under his breath. Murray was the bane of his existence, even more so than Arthur was cheerful, unable to tire, and jovial without cause. The last person Cutler needed to see when he was feeling upset was Murray. He’d got sick of him when he’d come back from Spain and been so unwell that he’d been in attendance daily at Wellford Place, the rented lodgings he took in London.
“What was that, sir?” Arthur said cheerily.
“Arthur, do me a favor, and get out?” Cutler said wearily. “I want a moment to myself.” He wasn’t usually so short-tempered, but the confusion of the last few days combined with the very real pain in his shoulder were exhausting.
“Need the chamber-pot?” Arthur inquired.
“Out,” Cutler snapped, using his best army-shouting.
“I’m going, I’m going,” Arthur said. “Anytime, Lieutenant Wingate.”
Cutler sat down. That, he thought wearily, was the trouble. Arthur had been with him since before the battles in Spain. His righthand man, sergeant and confidant, he had lived through the Peninsular war, through every battle with him, and there was nothing of Cutler he didn’t know. The most humiliating scenes of his life, Arthur had witnessed; standing just outside the tent when the field-surgeon made him weep and throw up with pain. He’d been there through the nightmares, and the fever. He’d seen Cutler sob for his father and he knew the story of his pain.
“I should have left that scallywag in Cadiz,” he swore.
He knew he would never do that. As much as Arthur had supported him, he’d been there for Arthur, catching the shrapnel that had been thrown toward both of them, choking in the same dust, screaming at him to dive when the gunfire started. They were bound more closely than most siblings that he knew of.
“And that’s why I can’t stand the sight of him right now,” he said aloud.
Arthur knew him well enough to know when he was upset. He also knew that he was more emotional than he seemed.
“The last thing I need is Arthur, fussing over me.”
He straightened up and stood, glancing at himself in the mirror. For some reason, he was terrified.
It won’t do, to make a bad impression.
He swallowed hard. He had no idea why this mattered to him so much. Lady Raymonde was barely an acquaintance, and yet, what she thought of him was suddenly of paramount importance to him. It was so important, that he’d gone to the trouble of borrowing a suit from Luke, just to be in style.
“Cutler?”
He jumped. What in Perdition’s name was the matter with him? He drew a steadying breath.
“Luke? You can come in – I’m dressed.”
He drew another breath, of relief this time, as Luke came in. He was, Cutler noticed instantly, dressed in a suit of exactl
y the same shape – the high collar brushing his ears, the tight waist and shoulders, the long sides that came almost to the knees of his trousers. He was pleased that it really was a fashionable style, ludicrous though he might deem it.
“Evening, Cutler.” Luke smiled warmly at him. “How’s it fitting you?”
“Like a wine-bottle fits a cork,” Cutler said sourly. “Which is to say, not well. I feel as if I’m liable to explode forth from it at any moment. Why in Perdition is it so damned tight on me?” He shot a sidelong glance at Luke. He was as tall as Cutler, and had very much the same body-shape, yet he seemed to be quite comfortable.
“It’s a tight fit,” Luke said with a smile. “But, trust me, it looks well enough.”
Cutler blushed. “I hope so.”
“It does,” Luke said lightly. “Now, are you coming downstairs? I have a mind to take a turn about the pond before the evening gets overwhelmed with visitors, and I’d like you to join me.”
“If I can walk in this,” Cutler muttered.
He followed Luke down the stairs. His chest felt tight and he was finding it hard to breathe properly. Once outside, he felt cool air on his face and took a big breath, relieved to be out in the garden. The house had been chaotic all day, what with the preparations for the ball, and he was pleased to finally be somewhere relatively quiet.
“So. A lovely evening,” Luke murmured.
“It is, yes.” He followed him down to the pond. Luke had recently redone the gardens, he knew, and the water-garden was a particular source of joy to him. Drawn up by the same designer who’d worked at Regent’s Park, the place was a feast of fountains, quietude and blue water.
Luke stood at the edge of the pond, watching the tall, slender columns of water fountain up into the air, the droplets so fine that, on their return, they made the barest splash of sound. Cutler sat on the bench at the bank, sinking wearily onto it with a sigh. He felt pleased to be off his feet. The tension in the house had been so high, he felt as if he’d run four miles.
It’s hard to avoid her when the house is such a bustle.
He let out a long sigh. Raymonde had been distant ever since that ride in the woods. He had wanted to clear his name with her, but that would take a long time – he would need to tell her about Salamanca, and about his father and his guardian. He had barely told anyone about that. Luke knew a bit, about the war, but nothing of his childhood. Arthur knew all of it.
And, he thought wearily, even if I could tell her, which I don’t think I could actually do, she isn’t interested in even the slightest pleasantry from my lips!
He sat with his chin in his hands, thinking. The infuriation of all of this, he thought crossly, was that he cared. He didn’t want Raymonde to think ill of him.
She matters to me. For whatever reason. And I don’t want her discounting my intentions.
“Should we go in?” Luke asked. He was standing with his gaze turned away from Cutler, studying the fountain and the fine droplets, kissing the surface of the water.
“I suppose,” Cutler allowed. He waited for Luke to start walking back to the house before he followed, walking more slowly behind him. He felt reluctant to leave the gardens. It was peaceful here, the only sound the gentle whisper of falling water.
Inside, he could already hear strains of music, the band tuning up. He could hear talk and laughter. Somebody clapped, and he winced, the sound harsh on the rawness of his heart.
“You ready to go in?” Luke asked. “It sounds like the guests are arriving. I’d better join Emilia, before she wonders what’s happened to me.” He walked across the terrace, and then down into the ballroom.
Cutler followed with reluctance. His back prickled with perspiration, a feeling like water running down his body.
He reached the top of the steps. His mouth was dry and his chest tightened. He wanted to run. It felt almost as frightening as a battlefield, looking into the ballroom through the big door, only this one was loud with laughter and chatter, not gunfire.
Not sure which I’d rather endure.
In his experience, laughter and chatter, if they were directed at you, could shred your soul just like gunfire did to your body.
“Lieutenant Cutler Wingate,” Mr. Hall announced him to the room as he descended the staircase. He felt eyes turn to him.
Thank you, Mr. Hall. Would you paint a target on my head and put me in the crossfire, too? he thought dully.
It felt as if somebody had painted a bullseye on him and pushed him out into the dead space between two armies. Every stare was trained on him and his back prickled, as if a hundred snipers aimed their rifles at his back.
Everyone was silent, staring at him. He heard a whisper or two behind cupped hands. His insides burned, and his skin was cold like ice.
Then, as abruptly as the silence descended, the chatter started again. The space that had surrounded him magically closed up, the company forgetting about him as swiftly as they had noticed his presence. The level of noise in the room increased again, and laughter sounded disinterested once more.
“Lord Grayford and Lady Iseult.”
The talk moved on as Mr. Hall announced more guests. It closed over Cutler’s head, swallowing him beneath its tide. He was anonymous again.
He walked in between the guests, feeling at a loss. Where was he going? He had no idea. All he knew was that people seemed to be ignoring him. He knew nobody, he realized, save for Luke and Emilia, and the four or five people who were regular guests of theirs. He searched in vain for Lord Canmure, but he couldn’t see him.
The only other person he really knew, here, besides Lord Canmure and his sister, was Lady Raymonde.
And she wants to talk to me less than anyone else.
He stopped near a group who were talking about politics, listening in for a few minutes. Talk turned to the wars on the Continent, and he felt himself suddenly nauseous.
“I say, old boy! We gave Boney a trouncing, so we did. Capital, capital!”
“Hear, hear,” another voice agreed.
He felt sick.
They talk so lightly of it, as if it is a game, or an interesting new poem to discuss. It’s not like that.
Fields of bodies floated before his mind’s eye, corpses buzzing with flies. Men, dead, lying on the ground like snow before the gates of Salamanca, and for what? For a cause that didn’t touch them. For chit-chat in genteel drawing-rooms or ballrooms like this one; words with no meaning.
Disgusted, he turned away. He felt a breath of fresh air on his face and walked swiftly to where the back doors had been opened, letting in coolness from outside.
He leaned on the railing, taking a shuddering breath. The sound of crickets drifted to him, and the scent of rain. He felt the knot in his stomach uncoiling, slowly. Here, at last, was peace. He listened to the quietness and let it work its restorative magic.
He lifted his head, opening his eyes. He heard the softest sound on the stone of the terrace and turned around.
“Enjoying the evening?”
Cutler jumped. He found himself staring straight at Lady Raymonde.
She stole his breath.
Tall, elegant, she was wearing a long gown of navy-blue. It caught the fading light and shimmered. Her shoulders and arms were pale in contrast, and her hair shone with red highlights. Her dark-red lips seemed darker, and her brown eyes were large and shiny.
Cutler coughed, feeling like his lungs were filled with treacle and ash. He stared.
“You’re quiet,” she said lightly, coming to join him on the rails. “You might say hello.”
He gasped. “Forgive me, my lady! I have taken leave of my manners. Good evening. You look splendid,” he added.
He went red. That wasn’t what he’d been meaning to say, not even halfway! Lieutenant Cutler Wingate was almost as unlikely to forget to clean his rifle as he was to pay compliments to members of the opposite gender. He was, frankly, terrified of them. He had no idea where those words had come from. He looked at his
feet, fully-expecting her to chastise him.
“Thank you,” she said.
He looked up. She was still standing where she had been. Her eyes were wide, and they held no anger, only mild surprise.
“My pleasure. I mean, um…” he paused, flushing as he said the suggestive word. “I mean, you do. Sorry,” he added, diving into embarrassed silence.
She said nothing. She was leaning against the wall beside him, looking out over the garden. And said nothing. He racked his brains for something to say. What could he talk about? The incident in the woods was all that came to mind. He knew she wanted never to talk of it again.
