by Dorothy Mack
Her first reaction to such a calamity had been a spirited denial of the situation. The look that had passed between them had merely been an expression of the mutual satisfaction any two persons in like circumstances might be expected to experience. It was totally impersonal. The sensation of faintness that had overcome her at the touch of his hands on her waist had been a delayed reaction to such unusual and sustained labour. The trembling that had seized her when he had cajoled her obedience with a smile and soft words was mere physical weakness, not a longing to be held and comforted. Oh, yes, there was a reasonable explanation for all these manifestations.
But she had not been able to explain away the desolation that had swept over her when she had glanced back from the gate and seen all his attention focused on the injured Jeb. Somehow, that vision had unleashed a flood of memories that came rushing in on her in a tide she was powerless to resist. She had suffered just such a sense of desolation when Edward had gone to war and again when news came of his death. After so many years, she had forgotten the feeling. She didn’t wish to recall it ever again, and especially she didn’t wish to associate it with Andrew Massingham. He was the last person in the world she would choose to love. She didn’t even like him above half.
Vicky hadn’t realised she was repeatedly pounding her fist into her thigh until contact with one of the splinters jerked a cry of pain from her and brought the grey’s head around in mild surprise. She was almost in sight of the stables, having mechanically guided her mount despite her dazed emotional condition. There were things to be attended to immediately; her own problem must wait. She kicked the grey smartly and increased the speed of his shamble for a bit. Further exertions were spared her, for one of the grooms, spotting his mistress approaching on a mount unworthy of the name, came running to meet her. Within five minutes, a rescue party had been organised and supplies gathered to take out to the scene of the accident. Vicky saw them off, then ordered a horse to be saddled.
“And who would the horse be meant for, Miss Vicky, if I may be so bold?”
Vicky jumped. “You startled me, coming up behind me like that, Manley. It’s for me, of course. I must ride over to Jeb’s cottage to warn his wife about what has happened.”
“Well, now, seeing as it’s going to take me the best part of half an hour to get those splinters out of your hands and the lads will likely have him back afore then, you’d best send one o’ the stable hands to ride over with the news.”
“She’ll take it better from me, Manley. I promise I’ll have my maid take care of my hands as soon as I have seen Nora.”
“That you won’t, Miss Vicky. That city woman will wring her hands and pussyfoot around and end up causing you more trouble than the splinters themselves. You know I’m the nearest to a doctor on the place, and I’ll make a quick clean job of it.”
“Then I’ll come back after I’ve seen Nora.”
“Your pa would have had my hide if I let you ride off like that. Now, give over argufying, Miss Vicky, and go on back to my room while I send one of the lads off to Laycock’s.”
And such was Vicky’s exhaustion at the moment that she did refrain from further argument. A scant half-hour later, she was entering her own rooms to change. As promised, Manley had made a clean job of her hands. They were sore but free of splinters. She only wished she could say the same for her heart. That formerly well-armoured organ had been pierced in a surprise attack that had left her gasping. Almost the last thing she would elect to do at the moment was face any other human being while her thoughts were in such turmoil, but if she did not appear for tea, questions would be raised, and that was an even less palatable option. Sir Hugh was downstairs now, and Mr. Massingham himself would drift in before long.
She rang for Trotton and wandered listlessly over to the long mirror in her sunny green-and-yellow boudoir. The pale and heavy-eyed reflection that stared back at her was sufficiently disconcerting to produce a tiny spurt of self-disgust. What she needed was an infusion of courage, but, barring that, she was going to do her level best to transform this woebegone creature in the glass. If she didn’t want her wounds probed, then it was up to her to disguise those wounds.
Consequently, when Trotton arrived on the scene, she found her mistress in an unusually demanding frame of mind. Nothing would do but she must wear her daffodil-yellow muslin with the French tucks and frothy lace.
“But, miss, that dress is for summer!” exclaimed the abigail, scandalised by such a solecism. “This is November!”
“Never mind, Trotton, it is the happiest colour, like liquid sunshine, and I have a great desire to wear it one final time. Winter will be upon us before we know it.”
For once, she wasn’t perfectly content to simply renew the smoothly coiled hairstyle she adopted for daytime wear, but asked Trotton if she could perhaps make a double coil.
“And do we not have some ribbon that matches the yellow gown, Trotton? Could you wind it around the edges just to confine the coils? But hurry, mind, I’m terribly late.”
Mystified but never unwilling to exercise her prized talents, Trotton set to work with dispatch. Ten minutes later, she was slipping the muslin confection over a hairstyle that she did not consider completely contemptible, considering the inadequate time span allotted her. As she did up the buttons, half her attention was on her mistress’ odd behaviour. She had expressed satisfaction with the results of the dresser’s manipulations but she was frowning into the mirror, and now she was pinching her cheeks to produce some colour.
“Would you like me to apply a touch of rouge, Miss Seymour?”
Vicky started slightly. “No … no, thank you, Trotton, I must go down now. Are all the buttons fastened? Thank you very much.”
She was out of the door before she finished, hurrying down the hall, but her footsteps lagged as she descended the last few stairs and it was necessary to gather her courage together. At the door to the drawing room, her chin went up and her shoulders went back perceptibly. The man following the quiet-footed butler from the back of the house thought she looked extremely fatigued.
A moment or two later, when Cavanaugh announced him, his surprise was the greater to find a sparkling-faced Vicky accepting a cup of tea from her aunt while she gaily apologised to the assembled company for her lateness. He arrived in time to hear her declare that she had been detained on a matter of estate business. Mr. Massingham’s black brows escalated comically, but he merely returned Lady Honoria’s greeting with the warm smile he seemed to reserve for her.
It was Drucilla who exclaimed at the torn and stained condition of his pale tan pantaloons, which no ministrations of Cavanaugh’s had served to restore. Vicky had already noticed the darkening bruise on his chin, no doubt caused by contact with a log, and the glance of revulsion he cast at the teapot. While her aunt expressed concern over the former, she remedied the latter situation by rising and pouring him a glass of Madeira, which he accepted with an absent murmur of thanks, his attention being claimed just then by all the other occupants of the room demanding to know what had occurred. His brief factual account of the accident was not permitted to stand unremarked, nor was Vicky’s part in the affair to remain dark, though her eyes sent a warning signal to Mr. Massingham, a signal that went unheeded as he proceeded to describe her participation in the most laudatory terms that rendered the earlier cheek-pinching quite superfluous. Her flustered squirming was intensified when Drucilla said admiringly, “And just look at you in that delectable gown, looking as though you had never lifted a finger all day except to ring the bell for a servant to bring you another sweetmeat from the dish.”
The others laughed and Vicky buried her scratched hands in the folds of her gown, a gesture not lost on Mr. Massingham, who said only that he envied her her maid and could only wish he had been in a position to correct his own appearance before joining them all.
“Never mind about your clothes,” soothed Lady Honoria. “It was a fortunate thing for Jeb Laycock that you were both at hand
when the accident occurred. It could have had much more serious consequences than a broken leg.”
“Who finally set the leg?” Vicky inquired of Mr. Massingham.
“I was most happy to resign my claim to the honour in favour of one of your trainers answering to the salubrious title of ‘Twister,’ who claimed more experience than I in setting bones.”
“Yes, he is quite clever at it with animals, and humans too,” Vicky said seriously, and looked a bit surprised when the others laughed at her unconscious order of preference. “So the only casualties were Jeb’s leg and your boots, which are sadly scratched. I fear they are ill-fated. They escaped ruin after the holdup, only to be spoiled in another accident.”
“I have every confidence my groom will be able to conceal all but the worst of the marks,” Mr. Massingham said easily, “but what is this about the holdup? I don’t recall any injury to my boots at all on that occasion.”
“I had formed the intention of cutting them off you to spare your wounded leg further injury, but Mr. Tolliver wouldn’t let me.”
“God bless Mr. Tolliver!” exclaimed Mr. Massingham fervently.
Vicky, observing that all the gentlemen present wore identical expressions of horror at the contemplated sacrilege, produced a trill of airy laughter. “I vow you men are all alike in valuing your precious boots above humans.”
All three were quick to deny this accusation as pure calumny.
“The real difference is that we men become attached to our clothes and, unlike females, are not forever looking for an excuse to change them,” Lord Ellerby explained patiently.
The others nodded in solemn agreement.
“And we females reserve our affection for humans. So that is the real difference between the sexes! Thank you for explaining it so clearly,” twinkled Vicky.
She took charge of the conversation then, steering it to light topics and keeping it entertaining by the power of her sparkle and wit. It was a scintillating performance that induced a mood of hilarity in the company, though she did wonder once or twice when discovering her aunt’s eye fixed on her in a calculating manner if she might be in danger of overplaying her role of social butterfly. Though she contrived to pass over Mr. Massingham for the most part, on those few occasions when their glances clashed, she was left in no doubt that he too remained uncaptivated by her performance. There was a brooding quality about the look he bent on her, containing more than a hint of displeasure.
Sulky as a bear with a sore head, she thought with perverse satisfaction, taking in his negligent posture as he lounged in the chair. He had no manners at all. Both Sir Hugh and Lord Ellerby cast him quite into the shade.
The elder of these two paragons, whose manoeuvres to get his hostess’ undivided attention had not been so subtle as to go unperceived, finally succeeded in establishing himself next to her on the blue sofa by the device of bringing her another cup.
“Allow me to tell you that it was a magnificent thing you did for your tenant this afternoon,” Sir Hugh began in a voice meant for her ears alone.
“Nonsense,” replied Vicky rather shortly. “Anyone who could lift more than a pennyweight could have done what I did. A seven-year-old child would have been of equal use in that situation.”
“Now it is my turn to cry nonsense, though your modesty does you great credit and is just what one would expect from someone of your generous nature, always so ready to assist those in difficulties.” His smile was warm with admiration, but it caused a chill of apprehension to feather down his hostess’ spine. Not this too, on top of everything else she had borne this afternoon!
After eight years on the social scene, it was almost second nature to parry fulsome compliments, but such was her flustered state that all her skill deserted Vicky at this moment. “I fear you are trying to flatter me, sir,” she protested weakly.
“Acquit me, I beg of you, of any charge of insincerity.” Sir Hugh’s hazel eyes echoed the plea. “I am quite serious.”
Vicky was casting around in her unresponsive mind for something to discourage him. “And I, sir, am almost never serious. My nature is almost entirely frivolous, so be warned,” she said with desperate flippancy, feeling utterly besieged. It was too much to bear in one day. She must escape!
Sir Hugh was smiling indulgently. “Now you are joking me to pay me back for embarrassing your modesty with my praises. Very well, I shall be silent on that subject.”
“You do not pay me the compliment of believing me, sir.”
“How can I, when your conduct belies your words? Is it frivolous to nurse a wounded man through fever? Is it frivolous to run a thriving business?”
Vicky achieved a tinkling laugh despite her jangling nerves. “As to the first, I daresay I can rise to an emergency as well as the next person, but your second example is invalid because I only dabble in the business for the short periods that I am in residence at the Oaks.” She shuddered theatrically. “I could never bear to spend any considerable stretch exclusively in the country. I should go perfectly mad from boredom, isn’t that so, Aunt?”
“What’s that, my love?” Lady Honoria looked up from her corner, where she was chatting quietly with Mr. Massingham.
“I am calling on you to support my word, Aunt. I have been explaining to Sir Hugh that I would expire of boredom if I had to reside in the country for more than a month or two at a time.”
While she was speaking, Vicky pinned her relative with an imperative stare that caused that lady to blink once or twice before she answered smoothly, “Er, yes, so you say, my dear.”
After this corroboration, Lady Honoria’s glance reverted immediately to Mr. Massingham, but she suspected she had lost something of the gentleman’s attention. He listened courteously to the anecdote she was relating and produced the appropriate reactions, but his hooded gaze seemed to be drawn to her niece’s profile as steel to a magnet, and she sensed that he was straining to hear the latter’s conversation.
This proved less personal than what had gone before, since Vicky had determinedly brought Drucilla and Lord Ellerby into a discussion of musical tastes. Sir Hugh had become noticeably less voluble and even had to beg pardon once for inattention. He watched his hostess in some bewilderment while the conversation degenerated into a three-sided debate on modern composers.
Vicky’s nerves were nearly at screaming pitch when their callers finally took their leave, but she felt she had acquitted herself well under trying circumstances. She hoped she had given Sir Hugh something to think about this afternoon. In this case, necessity had resulted in inspiration, for it had suddenly become crystal clear to her that that solid country gentleman would never seek a bride from amongst the town belles. His was not a passionate nature; his emotions were moderate and would be governed by rational judgment. She doubted her attraction for him would long survive the painful intelligence she had just conveyed respecting her preferred lifestyle and place of abode.
Even more important, she was persuaded, after her performance at tea, that no one could possibly suspect that her feelings for Mr. Massingham had undergone a startling reversal that had left her bemused and shaken.
Therefore, it was a distinctly unpleasant surprise to find her aunt awaiting her in her boudoir when she finally thought to achieve some privacy. The smile she summoned to her lips was contradicted by the wariness in her golden-brown eyes as she leaned against the door for support and regarded her relative with concealed trepidation.
“Surely you are not surprised to see me here,” said Lady Honoria as Vicky made no effort to initiate a conversation. “Curiosity was ever my besetting sin. You must have expected that I would wish to know why I was called upon to attest to a monumental falsehood just now.”
Relief surged through Vicky and brought her away from the door. Her secret was still safe.
“And very cleverly did you do it, ma’am —” she chuckled — “without putting your ultimate salvation at risk.”
“At my age, I’ve learned one point
more than the devil,” her aunt acknowledged with exaggerated modesty. “When did your sudden antipathy for country living develop?” Her glance sharpened, and Vicky hesitated fractionally before admitting:
“When it occurred to me that Sir Hugh would never want a wife who preferred to live in town.”
“I might have known; in fact, I did know. You are determined to die a spinster to spite me.” Lady Honoria rose from the cane-backed chair and rustled over to the door. “And who is this latest eligible reject destined for? Miss Fairchild?”
Vicky nodded, smiling faintly at her aunt’s resigned expression. She hugged that poor lady impulsively in passing. “She loves him, Aunt, and if he were not blind and stupid like the majority of his sex, he’d see that she would suit him admirably.”
Lady Honoria made no comment on the tinge of impatience, almost verging on bitterness, in her niece’s voice, saying merely, “Men are not the only ones guilty of mismanaging this love business. In my day, arranging marriages was the parents’ responsibility, and it was better done thusly than by consulting the wishes of foolish youngsters who don’t have the wit to see that love has nothing to do with marriage.”
“Nonsense, you know you adored Uncle Hector!”
“Exactly!” pounced her aunt with a triumphant smile. “But if my parents had allowed me to have my way, I’d have wed a man milliner with no expectations who wrote bad poetry in praise of my non-existent beauty. And I believed every word of it, too! I thought Hector was staid and unromantic.”
Vicky could see that her aunt was away in a land of memories. “You were one of the lucky ones, dearest,” she said softly.
