by Pamela Aidan
“My lady,” Manning began again, his voice low and strained, “please allow me to thank you once more. Your kindness to my sister has greatly eased her distress. I left her sleeping peacefully, a thing I had not thought possible after this afternoon!” He glanced over at his other sister with a grimace before turning back to Lady Sylvanie. “You were of vastly more comfort than ever Her Ladyship was. She would not stay with Bella above five minutes and then would only plague her with questions…make her tell the whole horrid thing if she could, stupid woman!” He paused, then ended softly, “I am indebted to you, ma’am.”
“Lord Manning.” Darcy could hear the lady’s dulcet reply clearly although she was turned away from him. “How could I not offer whatever comfort was in my power to give to your poor sister? Such distress must engage my sympathy. That my efforts are deemed helpful is all the thanks I could wish.”
“I shall not forget this,” Manning insisted, “nor your part in it, Darcy. Lord, what a business!” He sighed and lapsed into silence. Then, picking up a fork, he turned to his meal.
Lady Sylvanie’s brief, blush-tinged smile acknowledged the approval Darcy did not hide when she turned back to him, but the moment passed, and soon she was in full possession of herself. It was enough, though, to reveal to him that his companion had a woman’s heart as well as an artist’s soul, and he was pleased with his discoveries.
“We did not have the pleasure of your company this afternoon,” Darcy began. “I trust you are well recovered, my lady? Or perhaps you conceal your discomfort?” he asked, remembering her glance of pain before beginning her song.
“You are remembering my song, Mr. Darcy.” Her eyes rested on him lightly. “Such perception! An uncommon quality in a man! Yes, I have recovered from my heedless indulgence of last night, I thank you. What you saw earlier was due entirely to the sad nature of the song.”
“You are easily touched by suffering?” he asked.
“Easily touched by suffering?” she returned, surprised. “I do not take your meaning, Mr. Darcy.”
Darcy motioned to Manning on her other side. “Your waiting upon Miss Avery in such a manner as to earn Manning’s gratitude must prove you very intuitive in regard to that condition of the human heart.” She began to shake her head, refusing his compliment, but he would not allow it. He pursued his point. “And further, if a song can evoke in you another’s pain…You cannot deny that either, for I saw it.”
“I see it would be pointless to deny, for you will have it no other way, sir.” Lady Sylvanie looked discomfited as a blush colored her fair cheeks again. “But it would appear that we have unknowingly joined hands in calls upon our sympathy, Mr. Darcy. Miss Avery credited you with her rescue and told me of your tender calming of her hysterics.” She lifted her wineglass and looked speculatively at him over the rim. “Perhaps I am not the only one who is ‘easily touched by suffering.’”
“Perhaps.” He smiled back at her and decided to take a different tack. “Your music — I confess it is not what I am used to hearing in drawing rooms like that of Norwycke Castle.”
“I beg your pardon if you did not like it,” she answered.
“You mistake me, ma’am,” Darcy countered quickly, not certain whether she was teasing or he had offended. “Your music was all your brother declared and more. I liked it quite well. I meant that I have never seen a lady play a harp like that before, or sing in such a way. Usually the grand harp is used to exhibit one’s proficiency, and more formal arrangements are offered in company. Or am I mistaken in this as well?”
“You may declare it to be so with far more authority than I,” she acceded, her eyes flashing momentarily in Sayre’s direction. “I have not had the privilege of attending many drawing room recitals.” Darcy followed her look, not sure of what to reply. Why had Sayre kept his half sister virtually hidden from the world? Was it, as Lady Felicia had intimated, a means of spiting his father’s widow? If that were the case, why was she being introduced to Society now, at an age that was perilously close to being labeled ‘on the shelf’?
The doors to the dining room opened, saving him the necessity of a reply, for the attention of all the room was caught by the entrance of the missing Trenholme. Lady Sylvanie’s nose wrinkled in disgust as she and Darcy, with the others at table, took in his disheveled appearance. He had not changed out of his riding clothes, and his coat and waistcoat flapped unbuttoned about him. He had apparently worked at his neckcloth but with only that degree of success which had resulted in it loosening so that it sagged about his neck. Stumbling into the room, he almost went down before falling into his seat between Lady Beatrice and Lady Felicia, who nervously edged their chairs away from the strong odor of Blue Ruin that emanated from the house’s younger son.
“But that is neither here nor there.” Lady Sylvanie recovered her poise and smiled at Darcy, although not before he detected what he was tempted to think was a look akin to satisfaction. “You are curious about my harp, Mr. Darcy? It was my mother’s, and it was she who taught me to play and sing the songs that you heard tonight. We spent many a long night sharing the music and stories of her people. She was Irish, you know, and a descendant of Irish kings. It was only right that I should learn her music.”
“Yesshhh, she was.” Trenholme’s slurred voice boomed across the table. “Irish, that is. As Irish as the grass is green, Darcy! An’ they’re all outta kings, you know. Scratch ’em an’ they bleed blue, evra one.”
“Bev, you’re drunk!” declared Sayre angrily.
“Completely f-foxed, my dear brother.” Trenholme staggered to his feet and bowed, but the movement threw him off balance, and he tumbled back down into his seat. “An’ you would be too, if you…No, mustn’t say…Where was I?” He rounded on Lady Felicia, who shrank from him in confusion.
“You were making an ass of yourself,” snapped Manning, “and doing a damned fine job of it. Sayre, send for his man and bundle him off to bed before he says something he should not.”
“I’ll say wha’ I like in my own h-home, Manning. It is still our home, ish it not, Sayre?” He stared hard down the table, trying to focus on his brother.
“Shut your mouth, Bev!” His Lordship commanded, alarm spreading over his face, “or I swear, I’ll have the servants pitch you out!”
“Right, then. Pitch me out, but keep tha’ little half-Irish b ——”
“Trenholme!” Darcy rose menacingly from his chair. He would countenance the discourtesies that ran rampant about Norwycke no longer. “Keep a civil tongue in your head. I’ll not have you abuse your sister further, no matter how —”
“Half sister,” Trenholme corrected him. “Never forget, half….” He rose unsteadily. “Well, Sayre, that should make you happy, eh? Defending her!” He turned to Darcy, motioning him closer. “She don’t need it, you know. Little b ——. Sorry, Her Ladyship can take care of herself.”
“Which seems to be more than you can do.” Manning rose and joined Darcy. “Lady Sylvanie looked after Bella with more compassion than —” He stopped and looked up at the ceiling, collecting himself. “Trenholme, you disgust me; and if this is the manner in which we are to be entertained, I swear I will pack up Bella and return to London as soon as she is able.”
“No need for that, Manning.” Sayre broke the shocked silence at His Lordship’s declaration and then addressed his brother firmly. “Bev, your company is not required this evening. I strongly suggest you go to your rooms and let your man attend you.”
Trenholme surveyed his brother and their guests with a defiant smirk until he came to his half sister, whereupon his countenance suddenly flushed dark with anger. Seeing his reaction, Darcy moved closer to her. Looking down into Lady Sylvanie’s face for an indication of how he should assist her, he saw that her fierce, unflinching gaze had returned, and that she was flinging its full power back at her half brother. Suddenly, Trenholme rose and threw down his napkin. “I shall leave you to it, then. I c-consider myself absolved. Here, you the
re!” He motioned to the serving men. “Require your assistance. Believe I am drunk.” He flung an arm around the neck of the nearest one and, leaning heavily upon him, stumbled out of the room.
The rest of that evening’s supper passed in the sort of strained artificiality that Darcy detested. He could not quiet the turmoil in his mind at Trenholme’s offensive behavior toward his brother, his guests, and most particularly, Lady Sylvanie; nor could he help but speculate on its connection to the vile business at the Stones. To Lady Sylvanie, his words had been of the cruelest nature. Darcy did not wonder that the scene they had witnessed must be the uppermost subject in the minds of everyone, but it made for poor conversation and the happy mood of the gathering was lost. After Trenholme’s departure, Lady Sylvanie withdrew into her pose of indifference, and Darcy could think of nothing to say to her that would not be considered an invasion of her privacy. Instead he was constrained merely to observe her with admiration as she conducted herself regally through the remainder of the meal, unbowed by the curious looks the other guests cast her.
When it came time for the ladies to withdraw, Darcy rose and helped her with her chair. She had not worn gloves that evening, so when she laid her delicate hand in his, its warmth and softness were not disguised. The sensation was, he found, very pleasant, and her private, parting expression of thanks for his assistance was most gratifying. He resumed his seat with a smile that he could only just mask before Sayre called them all to the sampling of his cellar’s best.
“We may not dawdle long, I fear,” Sayre continued after proposing a toast to the evening and downing a respectable portion of the brandy in his glass. “The ladies desire to play at charades, and if we are to have any peace later this evening” — he winked — “we must present ourselves in the drawing room without undue delay.” The gentlemen groaned and laughed, but only the most desultory of small talk followed to flavor their time. A creeping impatience with his company drew Darcy away to one of the windows and the moonlight’s stark illumination of the maze of hedges in the garden beyond it. The play of light and shadow against the snow reminded him of a chessboard stretched crazily askew, pinned to the earth here and there by the garden statuary. And what piece am I upon the board? As he sipped at his brandy, a curiosity took possession of him about how Lady Sylvanie was handling the gentle inquisition surely taking place among the females in the drawing room. He pulled at his fob and brought out his timepiece. Another five minutes should certainly suffice for this obligatory masculine ritual. He took another sip, this time taking care to enjoy the fire as it slid down his throat. Not unlike the lady, he thought to himself wryly, cool and fiery. He did not need to be concerned over how she fared with the other women, but he should have liked to watch her as she did so.
Sayre finally signaled the end of their exile, and with a heightened expectation, Darcy put down his glass and followed. As he had guessed, Lady Sylvanie sat in unruffled composure near the hearth, leaving him in no doubt that she had held her own against the more practiced drawing room strategists ranged against her. Lady Felicia’s smile upon the gentlemen’s entrance was rather forced in appearance, but Miss Farnsworth was seen to be deep in distressed consultation with her mother and aunt. Lady Sayre’s relief and joy at the entrance of her husband was likely the greatest that His Lordship had seen upon his lady’s face in quite some time.
“Ah…well, my dear,” Sayre began uncertainly. “It is to be charades, is it not? Have the slips been readied?”
“N-no, Sayre,” Her Ladyship stammered, “but it shall be done directly. Felicia, my dear, would you be so kind?” The gentlemen, in good form, scattered about the room among the ladies to await the assignment of teams. Darcy sauntered to the hearth and took up a position against the mantel behind and to the side of Lady Sylvanie, smiling down into her upturned face as she followed his progress.
“Do you enjoy playing at charades, Mr. Darcy, that you smile so?”
“In general, I avoid activities that involve playacting, my lady. My smile is not for such games.”
She arched a brow at him. “But you are playing at one now, are you not? The drawing room game of feint, parry, and retreat. I believe that was a feint, sir, and I am expected to parry. Or is retreat the proper move? You must pardon my ignorance of the game. I am, as I told you, unskilled in drawing room etiquette.”
“Your move should be determined by your strengths, not your opponent’s expectations.” Darcy’s smile deepened as he warmed to her allusion to fencing. “Always move to your advantage.”
“Strange words for a man to give a woman, Mr. Darcy. I had rather understood that it was the object of the male of the race to allow as little advantage as possible to the female. Are you entirely sure you do not wish to take back your advice?”
Darcy chuckled at her acuity. “It is a dangerous gift; I admit! I suppose I might be considered a traitor to my sex, but I do not take it back.” His grin faded slightly as he adopted a less frivolous tone. “I believe, ma’am, that it is advice you have already taken.” He nodded toward the other ladies. “And with cause.” He stopped, curious to see whether she would confide in him or dismiss his words as mere banter.
“Lady Sylvanie!” Monmouth’s call interrupted the moment.
“Yes, my Lord?” Lady Sylvanie looked over in question to the Viscount.
“You are teamed with Darcy, Lady Beatrice, and me.” He waved the paper slips with their names written on them. “We shall make a splendid team, even if Darcy does remain as stiff as a statue, I have no doubt!”
Darcy rolled his eyes as Lady Sylvanie laughed. “No doubt, indeed, Lord Monmouth.”
Lady Felicia came over to them. “My Lord Viscount, you must be mistaken. Mr. Darcy’s name cannot be among your slips, for it is here with mine.” She held out her slips to Monmouth’s view.
“His name is there, ma’am, but it is also among mine.” Monmouth matched hers with those in his hand. “You must have put him down twice.”
Lady Felicia looked dumbly at her slips and then at Monmouth’s. “It is not possible,” she declared in a voice small with confoundment.
“But true nevertheless,” Monmouth replied firmly, “and as I have only two other and Darcy would make a fifth on your team, I must insist on keeping him even if he is the veriest clodpoll at charades!”
“Thank you, Tris.” Darcy bowed mockingly. “I, on the other hand, shall refrain from informing the room of your shortcomings. But should anyone ask about that unfortunate adventure commandeering the Northern Stage, I shall be forced to divulge all.”
“Darcy!” Monmouth laughed. “That was eight years ago!”
“And your driving hasn’t improved a wit, old man,” Darcy returned dryly, his eye on Lady Felicia, who still puzzled over the two sets of slips in her hands. She continued to examine one and then the other, shaking her curls with a frown.
“I am certain that I wrote it but once,” she said under her breath. “How came it to…” She stopped. Her brows rose up sharply, her eyes narrowing, as she focused on Lady Sylvanie. “Unless some other one added his name again.” From his stance above and behind her, Darcy could not see Lady Sylvanie’s face and therefore could only guess at what was displayed there in response to Lady Felicia’s unspoken accusation. From the slight stiffening of the lady’s shoulders and the sudden guardedness that flushed Lady Felicia’s countenance, he would have wagered that the fierce princess had returned. A twinge of sympathy for Lady Felicia briefly surfaced but was quickly suppressed.
“My lady.” Lady Sylvanie’s voice was devoid of its music. “It is easily proved. Did you not write all the names? Then, examine the slips; see if there is one that is not in your hand.”
“They appear all in the same hand to me.” Monmouth looked over Lady Felicia’s shoulder at the slips. “Give it over, my lady; it was a simple mistake — or a clever ruse. Regardless” — he smirked — “you shall not have Darcy.” A flash of hot indignation appeared in Lady Felicia’s eyes and colored
her cheeks, but it was quelled immediately when she turned it upon Lady Sylvanie. Her complexion paled, and the look in her eyes reminded Darcy of a deer caught in the hunter’s sights. Without a word, she curtsied hurriedly to all of them and retreated to the other end of the drawing room.
Monmouth traced Lady Felicia’s quitting of the field for a few moments before looking up at Darcy, both brows lifted in surprise. “A rather easy victory, wouldn’t you say, Darcy?”
Stepping around her chair, Darcy bent to catch Lady Sylvanie’s attention. She tilted her face up to his, her gray eyes alight with amusement, but he sensed she also looked for an indication of his approval. His answering smile teased from her a laugh fraught with more delight than he’d heard her dare express before. “An easy victory, to be sure, Tris,” he tossed over his shoulder, “but whose was it, I wonder?”
The evening of charades passed quickly and, to Darcy’s surprise, rather agreeably. Lady Felicia kept her distance from him and the other gentlemen in a manner more in keeping with his idea of what was proper in his cousin’s fiancée. Monmouth and Lady Beatrice were engaging partners in the game, as inventive in their own mimes and poses as in the piecing together of their opponents’. He and Lady Sylvanie were less supple in their play parts but held up their end of the partnership with keen observations and swift identification of the themes and phrases of the opposition.
When the ladies finally rose, Darcy felt a twinge of regret that this part of the evening was ended so soon. He had quite simply enjoyed himself, and he knew to whom that enjoyment was due. Along with the other gentlemen, he took a place at the door to bid the ladies goodnight as they departed the room. When it came Lady Sylvanie’s turn to take her leave of him, he could not suppress the urge to take her hand and delay her just a moment. She looked up at him in smiling question. “Mr. Darcy?”
