by Joan Smith
“He could scarcely do it, even on horseback. Is it possible my caller and the man who was staying at the cottage is not Melbury?”
“I have been wondering the same thing. Brewster tells me Melbury did not attend the assembly in Beachy Head this week. If he were in the neighborhood, he would no more miss an assembly than he’d fail to show up on quarter day with his palm out. We must speak of this in private later.”
Although the dinner was only for a few country neighbors, it was conducted in an elegant manner, with several courses and removes. Miss Wantage had escaped the turbot in white sauce at the dower house, only to find it waiting for her at the castle, but as she said to Cressida later, “At least the sauce was not full of lumps.”
What she was saying to her neighbors could not be heard from the head of the table, but their glum faces told Cressida she was in her usual Job-like mood, scattering gloom in all directions. As a kindness to the rest of the company, Cressida sat beside her in the saloon after dinner, while awaiting the gentlemen. Lady Dauntry, who treated her noble guest with great consideration, shared the sofa.
“Did I hear you say you are from Bath, Miss Wantage?” she asked.
“I spend the winter months there with my cousin.”
“Not as an invalid, I hope?”
“At my age, madame, one cannot expect good health.”
“Why, you are young!” Lady Dauntry exclaimed. “I could give you a decade, and I do not call myself old.”
“Yet your liver gives you considerable grief, I think?” Miss Wantage said, examining the lady’s complexion. “That sallow tinge to the skin usually indicates a bad liver. And those mottled marks on your hands. My aunt Agnes had sunk into such a complexion just before she passed on.”
Lady Dauntry looked at her hands in dismay.
“Wine, of course, is slow death,” Miss Wantage continued. “Not to speak out of turn, but I noticed you emptied not less than three wineglasses at dinner, and two of sherry before you sat down. I take only water. A pity you could not get to Bath. The waters there would do wonders for your condition, I could recommend an excellent doctor. He handles all the elderly ladies.”
Lady Dauntry soon rose, saying she must just speak to Mrs. Brewster. She cast a glance of deepest sympathy on the baroness as she went.
Before long, the gentlemen arrived from the dining room, smelling of port and cigars. Dauntry would not satisfy Cressida to dart to her side. He stopped for a word with Mrs. Simmons, but was soon working his way to the empty chair beside Lady deCourcy and her companion.
“Miss Wantage,” he said, “although I have been to the dower house a few times, I have not had much opportunity to become acquainted with you. How are you liking the seaside?” He sat down.
“I can understand now why all your neighbors have such rough complexions,” was her reply. “It is the salty wind that accounts for it.”
He made an effort to turn this unpromising opening into a compliment. “It must be the more clement air of Bath that accounts for your own youthful color,” he said.
Marquess or no, she did not let him get away with implying she was in good health. “I am flushed. I am not accustomed to taking such a heavy dinner. A little gruel or bread and milk satisfies me. Much healthier.”
“Feeling peaked, are you? Let me get you a glass of wine.”
“Wine!” she said as if he had offered her hemlock. “There has been more than enough wine served. I would appreciate a glass of water, if it is not too much trouble.”
Dauntry lifted his finger, and his butler came to receive his order. He was back in a minute with a glass of water.
“What a very odd taste the water has here,” Miss Wantage said after sipping it. “I wonder if it is the salt from the sea seeping into the ground water, or rotten fish that accounts for it.”
“I shall ask Eaton to get you a fresh glass,” Dauntry said, his patience growing thin.
“Oh, pray, do not bother about me. The water at the dower house is the same—unpotable. I have asked Mrs. Armstrong to boil it before serving, but I doubt she does it. She is an irascible old lady. You were wise to palm her off on Lady deCourcy, milord. She must be a scourge to your dear mama, but of course, one cannot turn off old retainers. It would be unchristian.”
“I insist on getting you fresh water,” he said, using it for an excuse to leave.
“Dauntry seems very agreeable,” Miss Wantage said to Cressida when they were alone. “Breeding will always tell. A marquess. Pity he could not take a liking to you, but I noticed he hardly glanced at you the whole time he was here. A very obliging gentleman.”
Vicar Simmons had not sat beside Miss Wantage at dinner, and thus did not know what he was getting into when he joined her and Lady deCourcy. Cressida left at once, using the excuse of meeting the neighbors. She had a word with Brewster, who was concerned at learning Melbury had been spotted in Bath.
“You cannot think of anyone else it might have been?” she asked.
“It could have been some wandering thief reconnoitering the house to rob it. You want to make sure you lock up your doors at night.”
“But how did he know your name? And he seemed familiar with the family and house as well—and the servants.”
“ 'Praps Melbury coached someone.”
Dauntry did not take Miss Wantage her fresh water in person. He had Eaton deliver it. Miss Wantage took one sip, screwed up her face, and set it aside. Even Eaton, that perfect model of a butler, allowed a flash of impatience to darken his brow.
Before long, Dauntry worked his way over to Brewster and Lady deCourcy.
“Dashed odd about Melbury,” Brewster said to him. “We were just discussing it. It cannot have been him who visited the baroness using my name. Does he have any other cousins who look something like him?”
“The family is large. It is possible,” Dauntry said.
“Brewster thinks the man might be conniving with Melbury in a break-in,” Cressida said. Naturally, this was a concern, the more so as the valuables in the house were not her own.
“I shouldn’t think so,” Dauntry said. “I would have heard if Melbury had turned ken smasher. In that unlikely event, it would be the castle he invaded. There is not much worth stealing at the dower house.”
“There is the silver plate, and my jewelry,” she pointed out. “I brought some of my smaller pieces with me.”
“Leave them in my safe here if you are concerned,” he offered.
“That is not very convenient.”
Brewster wandered off to join Beau. Before long, they were deep in nautical terms, vis-à-vis the Sea Dog and Brewster’s Stella Maris.
Dauntry wore such a serious face that Cressida thought he was concerned about Melbury, but when he spoke, it was about something else entirely.
“I owe you an apology, Lady deCourcy, and compliments.”
“What have I done now?” she asked, scurrying around in her mind to find the sting in his words.
He shook his head. “You did not hit me over the head with the poker when I read you that presumptuous lecture on the manner in which you and Beau spoke of your companion. Now that I know her, I can only wonder at your forbearance.”
“Why, you have not heard anything yet. She likes you. She thinks you are an extremely obliging fellow. Ask your mama what she thinks of her.”
“It is not necessary. I met Mama in the hall. We were both begging Eaton to fetch us a headache powder. Mama plans to call her doctor tomorrow to get a diet for her liver. How do you put up with that woman?”
“It is only for three months. The family shares the trial. That is what families are for. You have that scapegrace Melbury. I have an active member of the Clapham sect.”
“I know which I would prefer! I was certainly wrong about you. I thought you were a spoiled beauty, but I see you are nothing less than a saint—as well as the best horsewoman in England.”
“I do not claim to be the best horsewoman in England, or even in London. L
ettie Lade outshines me. My hands and arms lack the strength to handle a team of four, as she does.”
“There was gossip of another pending engagement last spring, I believe—Lord Saintbury ...”
“He did offer. I liked him, but... It was my first Season, although I was older than the other debs. I could not like to accept an offer so soon, for I had no experience with such lively doings as a London Season. It seemed like a dream. I kept thinking that if I accepted Saintbury, I would have to go to live in Somerset with him, and I could not bear to think of giving up all the balls and parties and concerts and plays.
"We lived in a very retired manner at home. Papa was an invalid for several years. I attended a few small local parties, but was never allowed to have one at home. I was a regular greenhorn when I first went to London, Dauntry. When Saintbury asked me to marry him, I asked for a week to think it over, for I was very fond of him, you know. I believe he took it for mere coyness on my part, but it was not that. Such an important decision should be carefully considered. It would not be fair to him or me to marry him if I was not sure I loved him. And it seems I did not, for I soon forgot all about him.”
Dauntry listened and found himself reassessing his opinion of Lady deCourcy. She had taken London by storm; what he had not considered was that her first Season had also taken her by storm. Her age had suggested broad experience in society, but in fact she was a greenhorn, as she had said. What had seemed like pertness bordering on brashness to society had been country manners, unpolished by contact with the ton.
“Saintbury recovered,” he said. He found it easy to forgive her for not rushing into marriage with the first man she found congenial. As he considered it, he thought Saintbury had tried to rush her into an engagement too quickly.
Lady Dauntry appeared at their side and said, “Some of the youngsters are going to dance in the ballroom, if you would like to join them, Lady deCourcy, but I believe your companion wishes to return home.”
Cressida first looked eager, but when Miss Wantage was mentioned, her enthusiasm faded. “I had best go with her,” she said. “She will not like to drive home alone in the carriage.”
“Let Montgomery take her,” Dauntry said, and strode off to enlist Beau’s help.
Cressida went to bid Miss Wantage adieu. “Tory will attend to your posset. I shan’t be late, Miss Wantage, but don’t wait up.”
“I never can sleep until all the house is tucked into their beds,” she replied, “for I feel the responsibility of my position.”
Dauntry recognized this velvet-gloved tyranny for what it was and said, “I recommend a strong dose of laudanum.” Putting his hand under Cressida’s elbow, he led her off to the ballroom. “She spoiled dinner; I’ll be damned if I’ll let her spoil the dancing,” he said grimly. “Her concern is only tyranny disguised as responsibility.”
“She does have trouble sleeping.”
“Why don’t you hire someone to knock her over the head with a poker?” he said brusquely.
Chapter Ten
In the ballroom, the piano player and fiddler were tuning up for a rowdy country dance. Dauntry looked questioningly at Cressida, who was peering at him in the same uncertain manner.
“Shall we wait for a waltz?” he said.
“If you like,” was her unhelpful reply.
“In that charming gown—and the skirt is rather narrow.”
“It is plenty wide enough. If you are too toplofty to join in the country dance, Dauntry, do not put it in my dish. I shall stand up with Mr. Brewster.”
When she turned to step away, Dauntry’s hand clasped her wrist and spun her back. She noticed his eyes wore a different expression, a gleam of slumbering fire. His lips were curved in an anticipatory way. She thought of the old adage, “Let sleeping dogs lie.” What had she awoken in Dauntry?
“Toplofty?” he asked. “I was merely trying to anticipate what would please you.”
“Like Miss Wantage,” she said with a quizzing grin.
“Wretch!” His fingers tightened on her wrist, then slid down to grip her fingers possessively as he led her to join the line of dancers.
Both country born and bred, they enjoyed the rowdy romp as much as their neighbors. In fact, Dauntry had not so enjoyed himself in a purely physical way since taking his seat in the House and setting up as a man-about-town. He felt youthful again as his body moved to the beat of the piano and the flying notes of the fiddle. He knew the cause of the pleasure was not mere physical exertion, but the letting down of barriers between himself and Cressida. They felt and behaved like adolescents. He had seen her perform in this manner before and had thought the worse of her for it, branding her a hoyden. What a priggish ass he had become! When the dance finished, their faces were flushed and their toilettes disarranged.
“We have earned a glass of wine,” Dauntry decreed.
Cressida glanced at herself in the mirror. “I should tidy myself up. I look as if I had just run a three-legged race.” The glowing eyes smiling back at her in the mirror looked as if she had not only run the race, but won it.
“A good thing your chaperon will be in bed when you return,” he replied, familiarly tucking a stray curl behind her ear. “Those pious females, always hawking after signs of lechery, put the worst possible construction on innocent doings.”
“I blame it on an overdose of Hannah More,” she said, reaching to straighten his cravat, which had worked loose.
Dauntry found no fault in her unbuttoned behavior on this occasion. In fact, he felt an unexpected thrill when she touched him in that intimate way, like a wife putting the final touch on her husband’s toilette before sending him into the world. “ ‘An old bishop in petticoats,’ Cobbett called Hannah More,” he said distractedly.
“We are being quite horrid, Dauntry. Let us not speak ill of the absent.”
“You are right, as usual. There are plenty of the present company for us to disparage.”
She slapped his hand playfully. “Why is it so delightful to make fun of people behind their backs? It makes us feel superior, I suppose. I need a glass of wine before I die of thirst. And none of that salty, fishy water, mind.”
Refreshments had been set up in the morning parlor, where other thirsty dancers milled about the table. Without speaking, but as if reading each other’s minds, Cressida and Dauntry turned to leave the room as soon as they picked up a glass of wine. Peering into the saloon, they saw Lady Dauntry had had a few card tables set up, thus robbing them of privacy there. They continued walking along the long marble corridor.
“You are not at all what I thought you would be like,” Cressida said. “In London, you always looked as if you were scowling at me. I took the notion you disliked me.”
“How could I dislike you? I scarcely knew you, except by reputation.”
A shadow appeared in her eyes. “Do I have a horrid reputation, Dauntry? I know I sometimes break society’s rules, but I do not do it on purpose. If you say what you are thinking, or do what seems natural, people seem to find it odd. No one told me you had to have the patronesses' permission to waltz at Almack’s. How should I think of asking permission, when all the younger debs were waltzing?”
“A tempest in a teapot,” he said forgivingly, though that was not what he had said at the time. He had agreed with Lady Jersey that Lady deCourcy was a hurly-burly girl.
“And when Captain Maitland offered for me right after Miss Cormier had turned him down, I told him he was after only my fortune, and he was. Everyone knew it, but after I said it, Lady Melbourne told me it was farouche. That I had hurt his feelings.”
“We don’t like to hear the truth. Some thoughts are better left unsaid, or said only to close friends,”
“I didn’t say it in public. I said it only to him. Why did he have to tell people what had passed in a private conversation? I had no intention of telling anyone he had offered for me.”
“I daresay it was revenge. You called him a name; he wanted to retaliate and called yo
u ill bred. Entre nous, I agree with you. It is as well-known as an old ballad that Maitland is hanging out for a fortune.”
They had reached the end of the hallway and drew to a stop. “I was surprised when your mama wrote inviting me to spend the summer at the castle,” Cressida said.
“So was I. I had no notion of it until she told me you had hired the dower house. It seems Lady Brougham mentioned your wanting to get away from society, and as Mama knew she would be missing Tony, she wrote to you.” She gave him a considering look. “I did not urge her to do it, if that is what you are asking, but I am very happy she did, and that you are here.”
“No, I did not think you could have been behind it when you were so eager to be rid of me.”
At the sound of footsteps behind them, they turned. “Brewster, I fear, is hanging out for a dance with you,” Dauntry said.
It proved to be the case. Dauntry let her go— reluctantly. She returned to the ballroom and danced with Brewster. When the piano and fiddle struck up a waltz, Dauntry appeared at her side. The ballroom, designed to hold two hundred, was sparsely populated that evening. They had several square yards of space to themselves in which to swoop and sway to the music without bumping into other dancers. It was exhilarating.
“I always thought the waltz should be like this,” she said, leaning back in his arms. The chandeliers overhead turned her raven hair to glinting gold. A faraway, dreamy expression swept across her face. She looked like a girl at her first party. His arms tightened. He had to force himself not to kiss her.
When the music was over, she said, “I really should be leaving. Miss Wantage will be wondering what has happened to me. Beau, I fear, will stay until the last dog is hung. He can walk home.”
“I shall drive you, and let him take the carriage.”
“That is too much trouble, having the horses put to for such a short drive. Beau can walk home.”
“I’ll drive you,” he repeated, and asked his butler to call his carriage.
“Very well, but you must behave, Dauntry,” she said, not in a teasing way, but with perfect sincerity.
