by Farr, Diane
She had only herself to blame. It was not Mama who had flirted with Mr. Ellsworth. The behavior had been hers, and hers was the responsibility. She saw, in a flash, that it was high time—long past time—that Cynthia Fitzwilliam grew up.
She forgot her duty. She forgot decorum. She forgot where she was and who she was with and what she was supposed to be doing. Nothing mattered but Hannah, and Cynthia’s overwhelming need to wipe that look off her friend’s face and make sure it never came back. Without a word to the oblivious Mr. Ellsworth, still at her side and in the middle of a sentence, Cynthia picked up her skirts and ran.
She was vaguely aware of Mr. Ellsworth’s startled “Bless my soul!” behind her, and the astonished stares of the people she dashed past. Their curious gazes followed her—surprised, disapproving—but she didn’t care. “Hannah!” she called, desperate. She halted in the foyer, looking frantically about, craning her neck. She did not see her friend anywhere.
Seemingly out of nowhere, Derek appeared at her side. “What is it?” His voice, though concerned, was perfectly steady. “Can I help you?”
She looked up and her control crumbled further. Had she been wrong about Derek, too? She would address that later; Hannah came first. As for now, she saw beside her a rock of salvation. Derek Whittaker was exactly the sort of man one turned to in an emergency. Instinctively, she seized his wrist and clung to it.
“Hannah ran out here,” she said, her voice quivering. “I don’t know where she is.”
He asked no questions. He simply did as she knew he would do: he helped her. “We’ll find her. Come along,” he said calmly, and led her toward the stairs to the mezzanine.
His air of certainty was a balm to her agitated spirit. “Thank you,” she gasped, with real gratitude, and hurried to keep up with his longer legs. They started up the stairs. “You saw where she went?”
“No, but there are only a few places in this building where she might have gone.”
She glanced at him, confused. “How do you know?”
He looked nonplused. “I—ah—” He cleared his throat. “Let’s just say I have an instinct.”
Puzzled, but intuitively trusting him, Cynthia hurried up the stairs at his side. When they reached the top, the wide balcony stretched to her left, overlooking the ballroom below. She saw the musicians out of the corner of her eye, clustered in a niche. Her heart pounded when she heard the sound of muffled weeping; she could not tell from which direction it came. But Derek strode unhesitatingly to a narrow door on the opposite side of the landing and tapped gently on it.
The weeping stopped. Derek leaned closer, listening. “Lady Hannah? Are you in there?”
A pause ensued, during which, evidently, the weeper on the other side of the door considered her options. She eventually said, with every sign of embarrassed reluctance, “Who’s there?”
“Derek Whittaker.”
Another pause. Then Derek added, “And your friend, Lady Cynthia.”
More silence, thick and ominous. Cynthia could bear it no longer. She stepped to the door and tried the handle. It turned easily, and within seconds she had flown into the room and hugged Hannah, who immediately burst into fresh tears.
Hannah had evidently been indulging her bout of weeping while pacing, for there was nothing to sit on. The room was small and dark, its only illumination coming from french windows that opened onto a tiny balcony. It seemed odd to have tall windows and a balcony in a storeroom, which was what this evidently was, but the windows had probably been designed more for exterior ornament than any practical use. Spindly chairs, similar to the ones lining the ballroom, were stacked neatly along one wall. Everything else was under holland covers.
Cynthia was dimly aware that Derek had closed the door behind them for privacy. But her focus was on her unhappy friend. She held Hannah at arm’s length, her own eyes filling with tears as she beheld Hannah’s misery. “Oh, Hannah, how could you think I would serve you such a trick?” she exclaimed.
Hannah gulped. “I’m sorry. It looked... it looked as if...”
Guilt struck anew as Cynthia realized that her last remark, although heartfelt, had been a bit misleading. “Well, it was,” she said, in a burst of candor. “It was exactly what it looked to be. But, Hannah, I’m so sorry! I won’t do it anymore.”
Hannah’s face started to crumple again. “I can’t compete with you, Cynthia. You’re so beautiful and I’m so plain—”
“You’re not plain,” said Cynthia fiercely.
Derek coughed discreetly. “I’ll just wait outside the door, shall I?” he said mildly.
Hannah gave a little gasp; she had apparently assumed that she and Cynthia were alone. “Oh, pray—pray do, Mr. Whittaker!”
Cynthia threw him a grateful glance and he stepped outside to the mezzanine, closing the door quietly behind him. Hannah, meanwhile, was pulling herself together. She had found a handkerchief somewhere about her person and began mopping her face with it. “I’m sorry to be such a baby,” she said shakily.
“You’re not. And it’s my fault,” said Cynthia remorsefully. “This is all my fault. I’ve been thoughtless and wicked.”
“Oh, Cynthia, no! You mustn’t say such things.”
Cynthia held up a warning hand. “Do not defend me, Hannah! Do not even tempt me to forgive myself, or I shall very likely do so. And I mustn’t go on as I always have. I see, now, that I desperately need to mend my ways.”
A faint smile lightened Hannah’s features. “Do you? You seem perfect to me.”
“Too perfect,” said Cynthia bitterly. “Too dutiful.” Doubt shook her. “Is that possible? Can one be too dutiful? Too obedient?”
Hannah thought for a moment, then nodded, still sniffing a little. “I suppose any virtue, carried to an extreme, becomes a vice. I’ve heard it said that love taken too far becomes idolatry. Modesty taken too far becomes prudery. What does obedience become?”
Cynthia had never pondered the question before. She hugged her elbows, thinking hard. “Laziness,” she said glumly. “Moral laziness. Certainly mental laziness. I haven’t... haven’t thought properly.” She frowned, struggling to find the right words. “My obedience has made me passive. In submitting to the will of others, I suppress my own judgment. I have actually tried not to think, often and often. And that’s wrong, isn’t it?”
She did not wait for an answer but began pacing, her tumbling ideas pouring themselves out to Hannah’s sympathetic ear. Excitement was welling in her. She was on the verge, she felt, of a momentous discovery.
“Of course it is wrong! Why, just now, it was my stupid devotion to duty that led me to injure my friend—and I knew better, all along. I simply wouldn’t listen to myself. I obeyed my mother rather than follow my heart.”
Hannah looked amazed. “Do you mean it was your mother, not you, who wanted you to—”
“Yes, of course it was.” Cynthia waved that off as unimportant. “That can’t surprise you, Hannah. Have I not always yielded to Mama? With increasing reluctance, I must admit! But I have always believed that submission, in and of itself, was virtuous. So I tried, even against my better judgment, to submit. And now I think... I think it may be a child’s virtue. I think I may have a higher duty, as an adult. To think for myself. To form my own judgments.”
“Of course you do,” said Hannah warmly. “Why shouldn’t your opinions be as valid as anyone else’s?”
Cynthia laughed, feeling almost giddy with relief. “It’s like you to support me, whatever mad thing I say! But I can think of several reasons why my opinions might not, in fact, be particularly valid. I have exercised my own judgment so little, I might be foolish to start relying on it now.”
Hannah smiled. She seemed to be feeling better. “You might be a bit rusty,” she acknowledged. “Perhaps you should move slowly at first. But I don’t believe that lets you off, Cynthia. You still must try to use your head. We all must.”
“I shall,” she promised. “I shall try to think for myself. I shall try to
—to stand up to Mama.” Her first qualms assailed her. She sternly quashed them, aware that, for the first time in memory, it was her meekness she was suppressing—not her rebelliousness. An interesting switch. She took a deep breath, then smiled at Hannah. “I am utterly certain of one thing. Setting my cap for your Mr. Ellsworth was wrong.”
Even in the semi-darkness, she sensed Hannah’s flush of embarrassment. “He is not ‘my’ Mr. Ellsworth.”
“Even so,” said Cynthia firmly. “He may very well be your Mr. Ellsworth one day. And I had no right to interfere with that, once I knew how you felt.” In another surge of remorse, she crossed swiftly to her friend and took her hands in hers. “What a ninny I have been! There is no excuse for me, Hannah—none. I can only beg your forgiveness.”
“Don’t be silly. You were only doing what you thought was right.” Hannah’s shy smile broke through again. “Although, I must own, I am glad you decided to rethink it.”
Amity restored, Hannah announced that she was ready to return to the ballroom. She had promised to dance with her Uncle Malcolm and was afraid he might be looking for her. Cynthia urged her to go down ahead of her, and Hannah slipped out the door. Cynthia wanted a few moments alone, to collect her thoughts—and to brace herself for what lay ahead.
She was seldom alone. Despite her rioting thoughts, the solitude felt wonderful. She moved to the french windows and opened them. Fresh air poured into the stuffy room, cold and bracing. She drank in the chill and the silence. The quiet of the night was somehow emphasized by being laced with distant music. She rested her head by laying her temple against the doorframe, looking out at the stars and thinking.
There was a great deal to think about.
Before she had got very far, she heard the faint sounds of the door opening and closing behind her. And knew, without turning to look, who had come through that door.
“It’s cold in here,” said Derek.
“I like it.” She still did not move or turn her head, but went on looking at the stars. Soft footfalls crossed the room behind her, and she felt the prickle of electricity that seemed to flash in the air around him.
“As you know, I heard a little of what passed between you and Lady Hannah.” His voice was quiet, in deference to the night’s stillness, and very near. “It seems she was able to achieve what I could not.”
She turned her head and looked at him. His face was only inches from hers. The silvery light from the night sky wrapped them in a faint shimmer, adding a magical, intimate quality to what was already a dangerously private meeting. When their eyes met, she felt her pulse flutter and jump.
“What do you mean?” she whispered. She hadn’t intended to whisper. Her voice simply failed her.
His voice did not sound much steadier than hers. “If I heard aright, you agreed to stop setting traps for John Ellsworth.”
“Oh. That.”
“Did I hear you right?”
His closeness, combined with his intensity, was too much. She dropped her eyes. “Yes,” she said softly. “It was wrong of me. I see that now. I hope—” she glanced fleetingly back up at his face, then dropped her eyes again. “I hope you aren’t offended. That Hannah could convince me, when you could not.”
“Offended? I’m delighted.”
The optimism of his words was premature. She shivered. “Do not be. The news is not as delightful as you may hope.”
“What do you mean? Cynthia, this changes everything.” His voice was low and urgent.
“I am sorry to disappoint you,” she whispered. “Sorrier than you know. But it changes nothing, where we are concerned. At least—” She broke off, searching for the right words. He waited in silence for her to continue. “I suppose the truthful thing to tell you is, I don’t know. I haven’t thought it all out. And I need to consider, very carefully, exactly what has changed and what has not.” She sighed. “The only thing that has certainly changed is, I shan’t try to attach John Ellsworth. On that, at least, I am resolved.”
Derek stared very hard at her, looking perplexed. “You know, Cynthia, I am a patient man.” He seemed to be choosing his words carefully, as if hanging onto his vaunted patience by the slenderest of threads. “But this would try the patience of a saint. I thought you had come to your senses. I was evidently mistaken. If you have not decided to make me the happiest of men, then why, pray, are you letting Ellsworth wriggle off the hook?” An answer immediately seemed to dawn on him. He cocked an eyebrow at her. “Has it something to do with Lady Hannah?”
Of course he would guess. But at least she had not told him. She shook her head, smiling a little. “I cannot betray a confidence.”
“Never mind, then. You needn’t. A blind man could see what is happening.” He thought for a moment, a frown gathering on his features. “On the whole, I honor your decision. It shows a tenderer heart than the world gives you credit for. But if you are sacrificing your ambition for your friend’s sake, I daresay it is only Ellsworth you have agreed to let alone. Your intent to marry a man of vast wealth has not altered.”
“Correct. And that, alas, is why I cannot give you hope.”
He looked disgusted. “You’re very frank.”
“It’s useless to prevaricate,” she said bleakly. “You deserve to know where you stand. I owe you that, at least.”
“At the very least,” he agreed, giving her a wintry smile. He had withdrawn from her. And why shouldn’t he? Isn’t that what she had told him to do? Once again, she had no one to blame but herself. She had held her ground, even though she was no longer sure of her ground.
Confusion swept through her. What was real, and what was not? She had told him she must marry money. She had told him she wanted to. The first was true, but not the second. If she allowed him to believe that she was mercenary, was that dishonest—or merely a kindness, to spare him from false hope? How honest should she be? Would it truly make everything worse, if she told him the truth? She had thought so, only an hour ago. But now, having formed a determination to think for herself, shouldn’t she question that belief? What, really, had it been based on?
Trembling, she stared at his face. He looked aloof. Hurt. A little angry. And it was all her doing. She hated it when people were angry with her. She longed to apologize and make it up to him somehow, but the new Cynthia did not trust that impulse. Her aversion to conflict, she realized, had been a major component of her unhealthy docility—the timidity she had resolved to overcome. She must not replace her morbid fear of Mama’s displeasure with an equal fear of Derek’s displeasure. That would bring her no farther along in her quest to grow up.
What should she do? In another moment, it would be too late to decide. He had stepped back from her, and was bowing. “There seems little point in my staying longer,” he said flatly. “I wish you a pleasant evening.”
He was nearly at the door before she found her tongue. “Derek,” she croaked, hoarse with tension. “Wait.”
He stopped, but did not immediately turn. When he did, it obviously cost him something. Gratitude flooded her heart, so sharp and sweet that tears stung her eyes. “Thank you.” She blinked to clear her vision. “I can’t... I can’t let you go. Yet. I can’t let you go until I... until I tell you something.”
He did not move toward her. “What is it?” he asked quietly.
There was no time to ponder every angle. She had to choose, rightly or wrongly, on instinct. She followed her heart. She chose honesty.
“I lied to you.”
His head recoiled slightly, as if she had struck him. Cynthia covered her mouth with her hand, wishing she could call back the words. But having chipped a hole in the dam, the pressure of suppressed truth forced more words out of her. She gave a little gasp, then let the torrent take her.
“It was stupid and cowardly. I knew it was wrong the instant I did it. I never want to lie to you again. I hope—I hope you can forgive me.” Her voice threatened to break. She cleared her throat, lifted her chin, and went on. “I told you I w
anted to be rich. That was a falsehood. It is my family who desires that for me, because they need funds and they see no way to obtain them except through me. You guessed that, but I led you to believe that you were wrong. I told you I wanted money for its own sake. I told you—well, I don’t remember exactly what I told you. I just know that whatever I told you was a lie.”
He still said nothing, but he walked back to the window and placed his arm around her. She leaned against him, wilting with relief. Just for a minute, she promised herself. It wouldn’t do, to stay like this for long. It was scandalous enough, just being alone with him.
With her cheek against his chest, his voice rumbled in her ear when he spoke. “Every time I think I understand you at last, you trip me up somehow. Of course, in the present instance, I’m glad to be mistaken.”
“Derek, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. The truth is, I’m rather a—well, I’m rather a mess, I’m afraid. I’m so confused lately. I don’t seem to know who I am, so how can anyone understand me? Even you.”
“Even I.” He placed his finger beneath her chin and lifted her face off his chest, tilting it up so he could smile into her eyes. “If that means you believe I have a special understanding of you, I’m glad.”
She had spoken without thinking, but he was right; that was exactly what she had meant. A sense of wonder filled her heart. “I do believe it.” She felt her lips curve as she pondered this absurdity. “Daft, isn’t it? I don’t know why I believe it.”
The faint, silvery light lent sorcery to his smile. “I grant you, it’s mysterious,” he said softly. “But it’s real. We both felt it, that first night. A certain... connection to each other. Remember?”
That night, and ever since. She nodded, speechless, then ducked back into his arms and once more laid her cheek against his chest. “I remember.” Her voice came out a bit quavery again. All these emotions were difficult to weather. One began to tremble from sheer exhaustion.
He held her quietly for a few moments. She closed her eyes, listening blissfully to his heartbeat. She felt silent laughter shake him. “So you’re not entirely mercenary, after all.”
