Underestimating Miss Cecilia

by Carolyn Miller

  Because she is humble and willing to serve practically, Ned thought, as a moue of dissent crossed the young lady’s features. She struggled to find an answer, and eventually had to forfeit.

  “Miss Hatherleigh, why are you like a glass of milk?”

  Because she is sweet and good and refreshing to one’s spirits, he thought, as she murmured, with a blush, that she could not possibly answer such a question, thus necessitating her to leave the game, her name written on paper joining those added to the small basket of those who would need to pay the later forfeits.

  “Ned, why is Miss Hatherleigh like an angel?”

  “Because she is pure and lovely to look upon,” he said, without looking at her.

  He heard her soft gasp, echoed by those around him. Had he truly said such things aloud?

  Simon was looking at him strangely. “Er, yes.”

  “Well, I think that is enough of that game,” Robert said. “Perhaps we might play Short Answers.”

  This was met with more enthusiasm, and the ladies and gentlemen were again seated alternately, with the reminders to use only answers of one syllable, with any repeated answers or those above one syllable incurring a fine. He turned to Miss Fairley.

  “Miss Fairley, would you care to begin?”

  “Yes.” She smiled, then turned to Simon, seated beside her. “Pray sir, permit me to ask if it is true you enjoy music?”

  “True.” Simon turned to Miss Hastings. “My good madam, have you ventured to take a walk this raining day?”

  “No.” Miss Hastings turned to Robert. “Sir, are you romantic?”

  “Yes.” Robert’s face wore a comical look of dismay as it was gently brought to his attention that answer had already been said. He sighed, then turned to the lady seated on his right. “Madam, who do you think is the cleverest, you or me?”

  “Me.”

  The answers continued around the circle.

  “Dear sir, how do you do?”

  “Well. What must a poor man do to avoid hearing himself ill spoke on?”

  “Die. Who do you think is the handsomest, you or me?”

  “You. What kind of tree is the best to climb?”

  “Oak.” Ned said, turning to Cecy, seated beside him. He said softly, “What sort of person do you think I am?”

  Rose filled her cheeks as she met his gaze. “Kind.”

  His heart filled with gladness, so that he missed her question, and soon the game progressed to another one.

  Eventually a call for the paying of forfeits was put forward, and a discussion of the various types of methods to pay the penalties ensued. He knew that this was often considered the point of these amusements, the time when gallantry and flirtations might be more obviously displayed, true motives concealed under the banner of the games being but a jest.

  For a little while the usual forfeits were enacted, such as those involving gazing at a mirror as Narcissus and rhapsodizing on one’s self-love and admiration, or The Mute, where the forfeit was redeemed by the performance of some actions as instructed by silent request.

  Then the forfeits grew more intentional, as Miss Fairley suggested the playing of Cupid’s Turnpike, a game involving various couples and what threatened to be a good deal of kissing, as each person called up would be enforced to pay the toll: a kiss on the cheek—or lips if one felt so bold. He’d played this game before—back in his carefree days—and it could be pleasurable, if one had the right partner. But as one was obliged to kiss whoever might command … His insides roiled.

  “A capital idea!” said Robert.

  “Oh, but …”

  Ned turned quickly at the soft objection. Cecy, looking pale, eyes turned pleadingly to him. He cleared his throat. “I suspect that some of those present,” he nodded to the mothers playing cards near the fire, “would not approve of such forfeits. Perhaps, we could play something else instead.”

  Miss Fairley, Robert, and some of the others looked disappointed, but soon recovered to suggest alternative games. “We could play The Bellman.”

  “Oh, but that is only sharing whispers. I’d rather something more dashing. I know! What about Lawful Rebellion?”

  Unfamiliar with this game, Ned said nothing, as Miss Fairley and Robert exchanged hurried whispers, then the instructions were given, the privy council arranged, and the penitent, Miss Hastings, was given instructions she was forced to disobey. Such instructions were amusing, as she was variously told to approach Simon and not say “How I wish you were my husband,” to not sit on Robert’s lap, to not approach the older ladies and say “’Tis a very fine day” as water sheeted beyond the windows.

  It was amusing. Until the next penitent was called. Cecy.

  Somehow, he doubted from the looks the others gave her that her penance would be so innocent. Such misgivings were quickly proved, as Miss Fairley shot him a look then smiled at Cecy. “I charge you to not approach Mr. Amherst and say I detest you from the bottom of my heart.”

  Cecy stiffened, but turned to him, saying in a lowered voice, with lowered eyes, as she was bid.

  It was a game; he knew that. But still, the words managed to sting.

  Another instruction, and she was being hugged by Giles Bettingsley. At the sight of her white face Ned felt nauseous, and opened his mouth to object.

  “I command you,” said Robert, “not to let me kiss your rebellious cheek.”

  Before she could do anything, their host had pounced, pulling her towards him then planting a loud smack that Ned thought veered closer to lips than cheek.

  He clenched his hands, rocketing to his feet, as she stumbled upright and hastened to her seat. “I think another game is in order.”

  “I do, too.” Miss Fairley shot Robert a look, and he, still grinning with satisfaction at having obtained—or at least bestowed—a kiss, suggested another game. “How about Kiss If You Can.”

  Another game with which he was unfamiliar, but which filled him with dread.

  “Now, who remains to pay their forfeit?”

  Ned raised his hand, only to see Miss Fairley raise hers, too. A disconcerting twist pulled within.

  “Excellent! Well, Miss Fairley, Mr. Amherst, could you both please come to the middle. Now, Amherst, do you know how to proceed? No? Very well, just follow my instructions. You are both to kneel, back to back. Now, when I say ‘make ready,’ Miss Fairley is to look over her left shoulder, whilst you, Amherst, look over your right shoulder, then when I say ‘present’ you must lean to approach her cheek as near as possible, then when I say ‘fire’ Miss Fairley is to baffle your attempt. Understand?”

  “Yes,” he said with no small amount of grimness. Who knew what Cecy would think? But at least she wasn’t having to undergo such a challenge with Bettingsley, or worse.

  He moved to the middle and knelt, feeling the fool, eyes watching him, as he participated in something he had no liking for. But to cry off would label him—

  “Make ready!”

  Ned bent his head to the right.

  “Present.”

  How far was he supposed to lean? What if he toppled—

  “Fire!”

  As he moved toward her it seemed to him she moved very slow, almost like she wanted him to kiss her. He was close, he was closer, she was inching upwards—

  There. He quickly pressed his lips against her cheek and backed away.

  There came a chorus of catcalls from among the men. “That did not seem like you tried hard to get away, Miss Fairley,” grumbled Mr. Bettingsley.

  “Oh!” she said, her cheeks pink, her smile holding a distinct look of smugness. “Was I supposed to?”

  “Perhaps we could take a break from such things?” Simon suggested, with a subtle nod to the other inhabitants of the room. Sure enough, Lady Aynsley was eyeing him with the look akin to one eyeing a rodent. His heart fell. “Perhaps we should think upon something less audacious.”

  Various suggestions were made and dismissed, resulting in a tension even more palpable.
Cooped up in one room for too long and the wonder wasn’t that they had turned slightly malicious in their appraisals of each other, but that they hadn’t done so long ago. They needed to be out from the confines of the room, to stretch their legs, to play something like Blind Man’s Bluff.

  “Oh, I know the most capital version!” cried Miss Hastings from beside him. “The person in the middle is spun around very fast, then blindfolded, then when he or she goes to touch the person, that person must make an animal noise, and disguise their voice, which makes it even more challenging for the person in the middle to guess.”

  Truly? His raised brows at the thought of engaging in a child’s game met wry acceptance in Simon’s eyes, and concern—or was it fear?—in Cecy’s. But the rest of the group seemed enlivened again, especially when the paying of forfeits was explained as requiring a kiss.

  “If you guess wrongly, then the person you accused can indicate whether they want their hand kissed or not, but if you guess correctly, you are allowed to demand your forfeit, a kiss on the hand or cheek.”

  As the originator of the idea, Miss Hastings was selected to go first, and turned to him with an arch smile and said, “I do hope you will not prove too difficult to guess. I shouldn’t mind paying your forfeit.”

  He forced a smile to his lips. “I shouldn’t wish for you to feel so obliged.”

  As various gentlemen divested their coats so their shirt-sleeves might make their recognition the easier, a large silk handkerchief was found and wrapped around her eyes. Robert and Mr. Bettingsley then spun her three times, which left her laughing and gasping as she tilted, trying to regain her balance. She stumbled towards the outer circle, her arms outstretched, while those in the outer circle tried their utmost to sway away and avoid detection, without their feet moving from position. On the occasion when her fingers brushed against jackets and gowns, she was met with various sounds that made the room sound like a barnyard, with various clucks and cooings interspersed with barks, neighs, and grunts like those of a pig.

  Such noises elicited great amusement from those assembled, even from Cecilia who had successfully avoided Miss Hastings’s grasping fingers and had thus avoided being forced to make a sound. Eventually she managed to guess that Robert’s quack was in fact him, which led to her kissed cheek. An exchange of the handkerchief then led to a more vigorous spinning of their host than what the gentlemen had conducted for Miss Hastings.

  Again, Ned ducked and stretched out of harm’s way, not wanting to secure Robert’s attention, and he guessed from the way Robert appeared far more inclined to draw nearer the feminine voices that his reluctance was equally met. He drew near Cecilia but she ducked and wove away, before his fingers finally brushed against the sleeve of her gown.

  “Aha! I have you, my farm creature. Now, won’t you tell me what you are?”

  A low-pitched “baa” came from her.

  “Miss Fairley?”

  “Incorrect!” everyone called, to Cecy’s obvious distress.

  “A thousand apologies, fair lady,” Robert said. “May I enquire whether a toll shall be demanded for my sin?”

  Cecy shook her head, the group shouted no, and he began again.

  Minutes later he had secured the identity of Simon, whose hee-haw had been ineffective against the truth, and who drily proclaimed he had no desire to be kissed, either. Simon glanced around the circle, nodded as if satisfied, then, once blindfolded and spun, began his unsteady search.

  Within seconds he had found Cecy, and secured her identity through her plaintive meow.

  “Correct!” the company called.

  He removed the blindfold, then, seeing her wariness, smiled gently. “Instead of demanding this fair kitten kiss me, I would be most happy if I may bestow a kiss on the hand.”

  “You may,” she murmured, and he demonstrated, in a mode of gallantry that had her sagging in relief.

  A short time later Cecy was stumbling through the circle as cries of animals and birds distracted and startled. But unlike some of the others, her outstretched arms met little in the way of resistance from the gentlemen present, who seemed instead to propel themselves forward to meet her soft enquiry as to what farm creature they were.

  “Arf arf.”

  “Meow.”

  “Moo.”

  Finally, her fingers brushed Ned’s sleeve, before sliding down to touch his hand, trailing fire with every inch. It took a moment before he could clear his throat. “Cock-a-doodle-do,” Ned said in his ordinary voice.

  She smiled amidst protests of unfair play. “Is that Mr. Amherst?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  She pulled the blindfold from her eyes and gazed at him with relieved delight. “You didn’t sound like a rooster,” she said in a low voice.

  “I didn’t want to.” He smiled at her blush, smiling again as he paid her forfeit and bent to kiss her cheek. Heat throbbed within, and he closed his eyes, lingering to savor her scent of roses and the softness of her skin. How lovely she was …

  A cleared throat made him withdraw, then, after taking careful note of her gown—the placement of the bows on her sleeve—he moved to the center of the circle.

  A minute later he stood blindfolded, head spinning, unsurprised to hear the sound of swishing skirts and movement as he tried to get his bearings. He took an unsteady step, arms in front, as a medley of animal noises rose to meet him. A quiet meow drew his attention, the silk sleeve such as he remembered. He clasped the hand, felt its softness. His heart hammered. Surely this had to be Miss Hatherleigh?

  But when he said as much it was to find he held Miss Fairley’s hand instead, her voice loudly demanding her forfeit: a kiss, but not on the hand.

  He glanced at Cecy, but she had turned away, and he bent his face to Miss Fairley’s cheek. But she turned quickly so his lips met hers, to the catcalls of the assembly.

  From all except Cecy, whose whitened face and averted stance suggested she disliked what had occurred as much as he had.

  Miss Hastings’s mother then rose, suggesting such tomfoolery had gone on long enough, and wondering aloud if it was time to prepare for dinner, a thought loudly echoed by their hostess.

  Ned moved to catch up with Cecy, but was delayed by Miss Fairley, who clutched his arm and chattered at him in a coy way and with such archness he had to try very hard not to speak crushingly to her. How could he have made such a mistake? Apparently, the only thing the two ladies had in common was the shape and feel of their hands, and the style of their dress. He had to explain, he needed to explain—

  He watched her walk to the stairs, head held high, as she listened to what Simon had to say. But he had caught the look of surprised hurt in her eyes, and knew whatever he said would be small comfort.

  For he felt exactly the same way.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  SHE WAS A fool. A fool! Giving her heart to one man only to see him kiss another. How could she have been so misled? Oh, how she longed to forget him. How she wished he did not reside within her heart!

  “Miss Hatherleigh?” She paused at the sound of Lord Abbotsbury’s voice. “Forgive me. I hope you’re not displeased with me?”

  “Not at all,” she managed to say. He had given her no cause to be displeased. Unlike another. His steady gaze drew awareness that she ought to pin a smile on her face, but her muscles refused to cooperate.

  “I trust you will be amenable to sitting beside me at dinner, should our hostess listen to my request to have it so.”

  Sitting next to the marquess had to be better than sitting beside Lord Robert, or any of the other gentlemen present. Especially one. “I’d like that very much.”

  Her heart sank at the glow in his eyes, and she rued her overly eager response, something which then made her request to her maid sharper than usual, which only seemed to delay, not hasten, her toilette, and caused her to be later than she had anticipated, forcing to duck her head at the recrimination in Lord Aldershot’s eyes.

  As soon as she ma
de her appearance, he loudly said, “Now that we are all here, we can finally go in to dine.”

  Cheeks fiery hot, she clutched Lord Abbotsbury’s arm, refusing to meet anyone’s gaze.

  “Do not mind him,” he murmured, as they walked into the stately saloon. “I’ve never known a man to be so stubbornly fixated on such petty things. Why, one would think he’d just as soon not have people come than have them arrive but a minute late. But if the guests they invited refused to come, then that would prove a sore grievance also. And if you had not come, my dear Miss Hatherleigh, then I assure you I would have no hesitation in departing just as soon as I could politely escape. Your presence here has made this house party far more tolerable than I would usually expect, so please do not upset yourself because our host has inclinations to being uncivil.”

  Tear rushed to her eyes at his kindness, and she managed to make a rejoinder that she suspected did not make a great deal of sense, but which he appeared gratified by as he helped her to her seat. A quick glance up saw that Mother also wore a look of approval, although hers was the only one; the other faces she quickly glimpsed were either caught up in chatting with their neighbors or holding disappointment, as that worn by Lord Robert and his mother.

  The delicious meal was accompanied by chatter that permitted Cecy to listen with half an ear as those around spoke on books they had read and plays they had seen. Cecy’s conversations with Stephen Heathcote about Sir Walter Scott meant she could recall enough about his poems to contribute a little, but, as ever, her voice was drowned out by voices more loud and more opinionated. She stifled a sigh. Why did they have to speak on fictional things when far more important conversation could be had—should be had—concerning events affecting the lives of real people?

  She paused. Why couldn’t she introduce such a topic? She turned to Lord Abbotsbury, her nearest neighbor whom she judged to be the most willing to engage in the subject. “My lord, I wonder if you have heard anything more about the poor people affected by the recent events in Manchester?”

  His eyes widened, then lit with something akin to appreciation. “I only know what the newssheets report, I’m afraid. It is a terrible situation, of course, and something far more worthy of consideration than Mr. Scott’s poems.”