The Wagered Widow

by Patricia Veryan

  Mrs. Boothe threw an indignant glance at her niece. Rebecca, however, was looking elsewhere. She had chosen a blue muslin gown this afternoon, a charming concoction with an underskirt consisting of row upon row of white eyelet ruffles. She knew she looked well, but was rather surprised by the depth of admiration in Sir Peter’s eyes. Returning his smile with becoming shyness, she reminded herself that it would not do to become overconfident. He was certainly interested, but he was also interested in The Monahan, and his close friendship with The Wicked Rake might have resulted in notions that did not include matrimony. The presence of his grandmama was a hindrance also, for Rebecca was quite sure the lady would not approve of her becoming the future mistress of Ward Marching. All things considered, time was of the essence. When the ball was over, their month was also almost over. Sir Peter may have already interviewed a suitable candidate for the post of governess to Patience. There was another item Rebecca refused to consider at all: an item that lurked at the back of her mind, agitating for acknowledgement, its very presence rendering an early conquest even more imperative. She feared this persistent whisper and knew it was becoming stronger so that almost it was as though she fled before an impending disaster that crept nearer with each passing day until the threat would loom so large it must be faced and dealt with.

  She cudgelled her brain for the schemes that had once come so readily to mind but that now seemed to elude her. At length, she decided that her entire reliance must lie in the glory of her ball dress. When she had tried on the great farthingale it had been found that only minimal alterations would be required. It was wretchedly uncomfortable, and in order to squeeze even so small a waist as her own into it had necessitated a much tighter lacing of her corsets than she usually affected. Once the rich crimson velvet was draped over those enormous hoops, however, and the pearl-edged stomacher was in place, they had all been able to comprehend why the ladies of that earlier period had been willing to endure such misery. Even with her hair informally dressed and minus the jewels she would wear at the ball, the effect had been bewitching. Mrs. Kellstrand, Aunt Albinia, Millie, and Evans alike had been rendered speechless at the sight, and, although it was odious even to think so conceited a thing, Rebecca had to admit that the rich colour did complement her jet hair and eyes, and she could not but be grateful that she had inherited the clear, pale skin of her British antecedents. If Sir Peter did not succumb when she was arrayed in that magnificent gown, it would be useless to make any further schemes to wring an offer from him.

  This decision was arrived at, of course, before she had been introduced to the mouse.

  * * *

  The day before the ball dawned fair and windy, with curtains blowing and windows rattling so that at length they had to be closed against the pranksome gusts. Several guests were to arrive this afternoon, and already the great house had begun to hum with preparations. Carts and wagons of tradespeople rumbled up the drivepath continually, the gardeners worked frenziedly at flower beds and shrubs, while house servants rushed about with mops and brooms and polish, as though the mansion had not been cleaned for years, rather than being maintained always in the first style of immaculate elegance.

  Seated in her bedchamber while her aunt and Millie laboured over the shortening of her borrowed ball gown, Rebecca stitched busily at the torn frill of her best chemise. She was kept abreast of developments at the main house by an excited Anthony, who periodically would gallop up the stairs with Patience puffing behind him, to report to his mama. The ball gown was ready to be tried on; Rebecca laid her work aside and unfastened her wrapper. The wheel hoop was fastened about her, and the luxurious velvet draped over it. The length, Mrs. Boothe announced, after much fussing and adjusting, was perfect! Bearing the gown reverently, Mrs. Boothe and Millie went downstairs to undertake the final pressing, and Rebecca, replacing her wrapper, was left alone. Thirty minutes had passed since the children’s last departure, and she was worrying over whether they were getting underfoot at Ward Marching, when shrieks arose from the direction of the kitchen. Another instant, and the door was flung open, and Anthony trod gingerly across the floor, his face rapturous and both hands carefully encompassing Something.

  “Here, Mama,” he whispered. “Only see what I found in the music room.”

  Eyeing his almost closed hands with the caution born of long acquaintance with large and small little boys, Rebecca said carefully, “Show me, love. I trust you are not making yourself a nuisance up there?”

  “Oh, no. I was helping one of the flunkeys and he asked if I could move the bench, so I did and then I found it, but I said nothing for they would have been silly, you know, as Aunt Alby and Millie were just now. Is is not the prettiest thing?”

  Lulled to a sense of security by that last sentence, Rebecca smiled and bent forward. She drew back hurriedly. The mouse was quite small, but the tail compensated, and the bright eyes and busy pink nose combined to send the foolish shiver down her spine that all rodents caused in her. “Good—ah, gracious,” she said faintly.

  “Ith a mouthie,” Patience beamed from the doorway. “Lottha mouthieth.”

  Rebecca glanced to her. “All in the music room?”

  Anthony nodded. “I only brought this one. I was thinking, though, that I had best take them away, or there might be a rumpus, do not you think? For lots of ladies are come now.”

  “Are they so? I had thought no one was to arrive until this afternoon.”

  “Ith art’noon,” lisped Patience, and, coming forward, squeaked, “Art’noon, mouthie!”

  “Do not scare him,” Anthony rebuked angrily, swinging the little creature away.

  Her eyes following his hands, Patience’s vision encompassed the window. “More peopleth!” she chirped.

  Anthony gave a whoop. “Three carriages, by Jupiter! And two with crests on the panels!” And he was gone, Patience trundling faithfully in his wake.

  He relinquished his captive as soon as he left the cottage and, comforting himself with the recollection that cats were anathema at Ward Marching, charged in the direction of the main house. He completely forgot about the unauthorized inhabitants of the music room.

  At six o’clock, Rebecca and Mrs. Boothe, who always dined at the main house, entered the drawing room. It was quite crowded. Rebecca knew most of those present by sight, if not intimately. Letitia Boudreaux had arrived and ran to greet her. She was followed by the gentleman with whom she had been chatting, a singularly handsome young man who begged an introduction and was presented as Horatio, Viscount Glendenning. Rebecca liked his friendly smile and the lack of any height to his manner and thought it remarkable he was not wed. Walter and Martha Street came over and said in their cooperative fashion that they had so hoped to find Mrs. Parrish present.

  “You are certainly—” began Miss Street.

  “—in looks,” said her brother heartily. “Dare we ask—”

  “—what you mean to wear to the ball?”

  Giving a hand to each, Rebecca apologized for being a marplot, but, “Is a secret,” she finished with a dimple.

  “So everyone says,” Mr. Street observed. “Including Lady Ward. But we know—”

  “—how she means to dress!”

  “Do you?” said Rebecca, highly intrigued. “Oh, do pray tell me! Is it Joan of Arc? My lady let fall a little hint about a warrior maid.”

  Mr. Street said confidingly, “Wrong warrior, ma’am. She will come as—”

  “—Queen Boadicea!” Miss Street finished in triumph.

  “A warrior, indeed. Though I had thought she was wed—no?” Rebecca could not imagine that sharp-featured face hidden beneath a great helm, and, dubious, murmured, “Are you quite sure? I doubt it will become her.”

  “Several of the gentlemen have a tidy wager riding on it,” Miss Street said confirmingly. “The Reverend Boudreaux, Colonel Shephard, my brother—”

  “—and de Villars and Glendenning,” said Mr. Street.

  Rebecca’s heart gave a jolt. “D
e Villars?” she echoed, hollowly.

  “At your service, dear lady,” purred a deep and familiar voice at her elbow.

  It was ridiculous to tremble so as she gave him her hand. Many in the room must be watching her reaction to this man who had fought her brother. She should appear cool, and was infuriated to feel her cheeks burn because of a treacherous memory of being crushed to his breast and smothered with kisses.

  “Not too ardent, love,” he teased softly, as he kissed her hand. “Else they may guess ’twas your bewitching self we fought over.”

  She bit her lip. What an uncanny knack he had for putting her at a disadvantage! Suppressing a powerful desire to rap her fan over his horrid head, she said in an undertone, “What a pity you are so well recovered of your deathbed!”

  Walter Street, who had been engaged in converse with a military man, now turned to ask, “May I make you known to Captain Holt, Mrs. Parrish?”

  Rebecca gave the captain her hand, and he bowed over it stiffly. “And did you track down all your poor Jacobite wretches, sir?”

  “Had I done so, ma’am,” he said, his eyes chips of ice, “I might already wear a major’s epaulettes.”

  De Villars gave him a surprisingly friendly smile. “Better luck next time. Ah, there you are, my Peter. Have you seen The Little Parrish?”

  “A vision well worth the waiting for.” Sir Peter bowed over Rebecca’s hand, then turned to greet Holt.

  The Duchess of Chilton came up to say she had met Anthony earlier in the afternoon and found him a delightful child. She was a large lady of late middle age, with a jolly face and an amiable but lethargic disposition balanced by a tireless tongue. De Villars’ attempt to monopolize Rebecca was foiled, and he turned with faint boredom to the discussion of the rebellion that now occupied Ward and Captain Holt. The Duchess was well under way with an enumeration of the sterling qualities of each of her numerous grandchildren. Rebecca managed to appear politely attentive, but her attention drifted to Ward and de Villars as they stood side by side.

  They presented a marked contrast, for although both had the easy assurance that comes with birth, breeding, and a fine education, there all resemblance ceased. Ward, his powdered hair enhancing the perfection of his features, was clad in a coat of maroon velvet, open to reveal a superb brocaded waistcoat. His knee breeches were of deep pink satin; diamonds glittered in the buckles of his shoes and in a great ring he wore. He presented a handsome, gallant figure, the very essence of masculine grace and charm. De Villars, on the other hand, looked positively Satanic. He also wore a velvet coat, but it was black, the only trim being heavy silver embroidery worked on the cuffs of the great sleeves. His waistcoat was of silver lamé, his breeches a light grey. His hair, which, when allowed to curl, tended to soften his gaunt features, was well powdered, but far more austerely dressed than were Ward’s softly waving locks, and the only jewellery he affected was a great ruby ring. He was not Satanic, of course, Rebecca thought judicially. But he lacked Sir Peter’s gentleness and kindness. His manners were haughty and often offensive, his every thought and action directed towards the furtherance of his own schemes. Her verdict, arrived at with regret, was that he was, at best, a care-for-nobody; a violent gentleman of lascivious appetite. And of minuscule fortune.

  Sir Peter proffered his arm. She cut off her deliberations and went with him to be presented to those guests whose acquaintance she lacked. The ladies were gracious, the gentlemen gallant, and Rebecca chattered and laughed and won them all with her gaiety and unaffected good manners. But her heart was heavy, and her mood did not improve when a flurry of activity at the door marked the entrance of a tall lady whose hair shone red-gold in a ray of sunlight. Rebecca was fairly sure that The Monahan was the “charming lady” who had informed Snowden of the wager which had precipitated the duel. If she had “a score to settle” with de Villars, however, there was no visible sign of ill-feeling between them now. He lost no time in joining the small crowd surrounding The Beauty and kissed her hand with obvious affection, while she laughed and appeared to flirt with him merrily.

  The room became warmer and noisier as more and more guests arrived. Many were bachelors, and soon Rebecca stood at the centre of a group of admirers. She was teased about her fishing prowess, scolded for having deprived London Town of her divine presence these past few weeks, flattered, and flirted with to a highly satisfactory degree. From the corner of her eye she noted when Sir Peter gravitated to The Monahan and a little later was amused when Mr. George Melton came in, looked about, and wandered nonchalantly to the side of Mrs. Boothe. His sober visage seemed to be even more grave than usual, marking which, Rebecca wondered if he was jealous because her aunt had been chatting with Colonel Shephard, a chubby, red-faced, and genial retired heavy dragoon with a splendid pair of whiskers.

  Mr. Street was Rebecca’s dinner partner, and she was seated between that gentleman and Captain Holt. A tall, extremely ornate silver epergne blocked her view of the person sitting opposite, until that individual summoned a footman to remove the offending article. A laugh went up. From across the table Rebecca encountered two deeply lashed eyes of grey that twinkled at her irrepressibly. Scarlet, she saw Mrs. Monahan lean forward slightly, so as to see who had requested the adjustment, then settle back, an enigmatic smile on her lovely face. Rebecca could only be grateful when Mr. Street engaged her in a lengthy discussion of the merits of Mr. Walpole, despite his scandalous relationship with Molly Skerrett. Captain Holt was not a bright companion, but after a few glasses of wine, he become fairly human and dinner went along merrily enough.

  Someone asked Ward what he planned for them in the way of entertainment at the ball. “A few surprises,” he said smilingly, “and—I hope—several delights. Among which will be our lovely Mrs. Parrish, who will sing for us.”

  De Villars asked through the applause, “Before midnight, Peter?”

  “No. It will have to be after the unmasking.” Ward explained to Rebecca, “Did you sing before midnight, ma’am, everyone would recognize that pretty little voice of yours.”

  The Reverend Boudreaux said that Ward was too good to them, but over his mild tones could be heard Lady Ward’s comments that Mrs. Parrish did have a pretty enough speaking voice, although it was rather husky. As the reverend stopped speaking, her following remark was murmured with disastrous clarity, “I wonder if that could be because she tipples.”

  Mr. de Villars, who had just taken a mouthful of wine, choked, and had to be pounded on the back. His chivalry aroused, Lord Glendenning launched into the tale of a jaunt he had made to Wales in search of a splendid stallion who had proved to be a perfect slug.

  Rebecca knew that several diners were looking at her sympathetically, but her dislike of Lady Ward’s arrogant manner was fanned to a flame. She stared fixedly at the blancmange on her plate, and hoped with all her heart that tomorrow at least twenty other ladies would have decided to be Queen Boadicea. Warming to the notion, she decided that each of their costumes would be far more attractive than that of Lady Ward. From here, it was but a step to envision the great house fairly crawling with Boadiceas. Ward Marching would be positively overrun with versions of the fierce first-century Queen. There would be some famous mix-ups, thought Rebecca gleefully, and the ball might turn out to be a much livelier affair than one might have— She stiffened with shock as her ankle received a brisk kick.

  De Villars was regarding her with a look of warning. She was appalled then, both by her lapse of manners in having allowed her thoughts to drift while at table, and also by the knowledge that she must have presented a picture of dejection. De Villars’ eyes turned to the right. Glancing that way, Rebecca discovered another gaze pinned to her. She responded brightly to a remark of Mr. Street’s, but her heart sank. My Lady Ward had very obviously noticed her behaviour and was probably thinking her an ill-bred girl, sadly wanting in manners.

  She looked gratefully at The Wicked Rake. He was conversing politely with Mrs. Shephard, a flirtatious woman co
nsiderably younger than her husband, but as though he sensed her regard, he glanced at Rebecca. She smiled a silent “thank you.” A grin flickered, then he returned his attention to his dinner partner.

  From the head of the table, Sir Peter Ward marked this small exchange. His own polite smile faded into something approaching a frown.

  Mrs. Monahan, who had also missed none of it, was affected differently; her reaction was, in fact, exactly the reverse of Sir Peter’s.

  * * *

  When the ladies adjourned to the withdrawing room, Lady Ward entertained them with a kindly lecture anent the ills of absent-mindedness, which was, she declared, the product of an inferior intelligence. Her austere gaze rested often upon Rebecca during this monologue, and there was little doubt but that the widow was being reprimanded. Happily, Rebecca was rescued. A footman approached to tell her that Sir Peter sent his compliments and the suggestion that she might wish to look through the music and make her selections. She agreed at once, and he led her to the music room, adding, “The master says he will join madam so soon as the gentlemen are done with their port and cigars, and that if it is convenient, you could practise your songs with him in the morning.”

  A fire burned in the large pleasant chamber, although the evening was not very chill, and the room was a blaze of light from the many branches of candles. The footman, having ascertained that Mrs. Parrish was comfortable, bowed and departed. Rebecca found quite a lot of music in the armoire chest he had opened for her, but upon leafing through it, discovered that it consisted mainly of pieces for violin or harpsichord, and there were very few songs. She could accompany herself, if necessary, but she always sang more smoothly if she could concentrate on the words without having to attend to the music as well. It occurred to her then that the lighter pieces might be more often played, and thus be stored in the harpsichord bench.

  When Anthony had told her of his encounter with the mice, she had supposed the creatures to have been lurking somewhere underneath the bench. She discovered her error when she opened the lid. There were four of them: a mother and her offspring, and they had been busy, for the music was in shreds. They began to scurry wildly about and, with a yelp of fright, Rebecca dropped the lid and retreated. She was almost to the door when she heard Sir Peter’s pleasant laugh ring out. The gentlemen must be leaving the dining room. She paused, her eyes thoughtful.