Sabrina

by Kruger, Mary

  “Where are we going?” she asked after a few moments.

  “It has occurred to me that you’ve seen little of London. High time you saw what you colonials threw away.”

  Sabrina, staring at the great mansions of the aristocracy passing by on her left—Devonshire House, Holdernesse, Apsley—opened her mouth to retort, but then stopped at the twinkle in his eyes. Why, he was teasing her! “We heathen Americans could never appreciate such splendor,” she said primly, and he laughed. He had laughed very rarely in her presence before, and she was surprised at the pleasure it gave her.

  “I can see, infant, that you must be educated. You do need to have someone watching over you.”

  “And that, I suppose, will be you?”

  “Certainly.”

  “I shall endeavor not to be too much of a trial to you.”

  “I shall bear up.”

  “Will you let me drive?”

  He flicked her a look. “Certainly not.”

  “But I have driven before. Farm carts, it is true.” Her eyes took on a soft look. “Grootvader—my grandfather Van Schuyler—used to take me up with him, if I weren’t too busy in the house. I enjoyed that.”

  Oliver concentrated on controlling his team, which was frisky and eager to pass the slow-moving cart ahead of them. “Well, I’ve no intention of letting you handle my prize bays,” he said, glancing over at her. She appeared not even to have heard him. There was a look in her eyes that vaguely troubled him, a sadness that reminded him, again, of her reaction to Grandmama’s illness. For the first time he wondered about her life in America, not because of his scanty knowledge of her background, but because of the way it had marked her. “Come, Sabrina.” His voice was brisk. “Don’t you even wish to know where we are going?”

  She looked up, mischief sparking in her eyes again. “To Whitehall, I hope?”

  “Good God, why would you want to go there?”

  Because that is where you spend your time. “It interests me.”

  “I doubt that,” he said, swinging the curricle onto Piccadilly, thronged, as usual, with vehicles of all types. They passed the Pulteney Hotel on their left, Green Park on the right, with the chimneys of Buckingham House just visible over the trees.

  “Why?”

  “Because I doubt you are seriously interested in politics, or know much about it, either.”

  “I think you’d be surprised.”

  “No, miss, I’ve no intention of getting into a political discussion with you, so spare your breath. And don’t sulk.”

  Sabrina slowly relaxed, though inside she was vexed. What would he expect from her as a wife, if she were not allowed to share his interests? “Sorry, sir,” she said, her voice so subdued that Oliver suddenly found himself turning off Piccadilly, though he’d had no intention of doing so.

  “And here we are,” he said, a few moments later. Once Whitehall had been the site of a splendid palace, since destroyed by fire, and now all that remained of the buildings Inigo Jones had built for Charles II was his Banqueting House. Almost directly opposite was a newer building, housing the Horse Guards, and, further down, was Downing Street, where the Prime Minister lived in a simple, unpretentious building. Sabrina looked at everything in silence, but she took everything in, especially the building containing the Foreign Office. Oliver, convinced that this expedition could only be boring to her, kept his peace as well. It was only when he had turned the curricle and they were driving toward the City that he spoke again. “Lord Castlereagh expressed a wish to meet you.”

  Sabrina looked up at him. “He did? Why?”

  “Because you are lately come from America and he thought perhaps you could tell him more about the situation there.”

  “President Madison has not seen fit to take me into his confidence, sir.”

  “No sarcasm, Sabrina. You could, however, tell him what the ordinary people are thinking.” He glanced over at her. “No one wants war, Sabrina, but it seems it’s where we’re heading. Any information could help.”

  “Mm.”

  “Would you care to meet him?”

  “Lord Castlereagh? I don’t know.” She paused. “I feel I would be betraying my own country.”

  “I assure you, you won’t be. Think about it. Ah. Here is something I believe will interest you more.” He pulled the curricle to a stop and, as Rawlings came around to hold the horses, jumped down and came around to help Sabrina down. They were at the Tower and, for the moment, all thoughts of politics were forgotten.

  Later Oliver would look back on this day and realize that he had not enjoyed himself so much in a long, long time, nor had he laughed so much. Like most members of the ton, he tended to live his life in a small area of London, rarely straying outside it. He had not always been so insular, but the sights of London were familiar enough for the prospect of squiring a young miss about to be inexpressibly dull.

  Sabrina, however, was decidedly not like any other young woman he had ever met. Perhaps it was because of her upbringing, but she did not yet have the veneer of boredom most people in society considered essential. Instead she looked at the grim fortress that William the Conqueror had built, bright-eyed with amusement and wonder. She gazed with awe and delight at the Crown jewels, and wrinkled her nose at the menagerie. She did not, however, shriek in pretended fright at the lions and tigers and leopards, or hang onto his arm, for which he was profoundly grateful.

  He was as glad as she was, however, to leave the Lion Barbican that housed the menagerie, walking through a narrow tunnel into the pale sunshine, and as glad to stop at St. Paul’s. America had nothing like this grand cathedral, Sabrina admitted to him. Oh, she told Oliver, she had heard that some of the buildings in Washington City were quite grand, but she was certain none of them could match this building. Oliver nodded in grave agreement, but he nearly lost his poise when she showed such delight in the whispering gallery below the great dome that it delighted him. He had not thought a tour of London’s sights could be so enjoyable.

  Eventually, though, it was time to go home. After climbing the great dome and taking in the view of the city, spread out before them, they walked down St. Paul’s steps in sunlight increasingly golden, and drove away through the warren of streets that made of the City, the financial heart of London. Sabrina, quiet now, watched the neat rows of terraced houses, brick and stucco and stone, going by her without really seeing them. Today had been enjoyable for her as well, if not quite in the same way as for Oliver. At last she had his regard, if only as his ward. She would do anything to keep it; she would do anything to keep him from looking at her, as he had looked at Lord Harland’s illegitimate daughter.

  “Is there really such concern about war with America, sir?” she asked.

  Oliver glanced over at her in surprise. “Of course there is,” he said. “Things are bad enough fighting Boney right now without having to fight another war.”

  “But don’t you think we have a cause?”

  “‘We?’ You’re not in America anymore.”

  Sabrina’s lips tightened. “But I am an American, sir, and there’s no excuse for impressment.”

  “There is when American ships harbor British deserters,” he retorted.

  “Perhaps your navy should consider why their sailors desert,” she snapped back, and again he looked at her in surprise.

  “Where did you learn anything about this?”

  “In my father’s shop. It was a gathering place for the village, because we’d get the newspapers first, and people would discuss them.”

  “I see,” he said, thoughtfully. “And how did they feel about the war?”

  “Most of the people in my area don’t want it and say if we go to war it should be against the French.”

  “I see.” His voice was dry. “And so why doesn’t your country take hostile action against the French instead of us?”

  “What hostile action?”

  “Calling off commerce between our countries.”

  “Wh
ich has hurt America.”

  “And do you think England hasn’t suffered?”

  “You look healthy enough, sir.”

  He shot her a glance. “I am fortunate, I don’t deny that, but our economy is in bad shape just now. Especially the manufacturing towns. Without American cotton, the mills have nothing to spin. It’s part of the reason, I fear, for the latest riots,” he said, referring to the recent unrest in Leeds.

  It was Sabrina’s turn to be thoughtful. “I see. I never thought of that. But, sir, with England’s Orders-in-Council and Napoleon’s decrees, we couldn’t do much trading, anyway. If our ships touch at a French port, the British seize them, and if an English one, the French. But at least the French don’t board our ships and impress men off them,” she added.

  “A necessary evil, Sabrina.”

  “Not when Americans are taken off.”

  “It is a matter of opinion whether some of them are Americans or not.”

  “So what my country thinks doesn’t matter? I thought you broader-minded than that.”

  Oliver glanced over at her again. She was sitting very straight, her arms crossed over her chest and her chin outthrust, and she looked so adorable that he had a sudden urge to kiss the cross little pout off her face. “Of course your opinion counts,” he said, subduing the urge. Good God, what was wrong with him? He didn’t even like her. “And, as it happens, even Castlereagh has admitted that we’ve done damage with the impressment. There have also been several bills laid before Parliament asking for repeal of the Orders-in-Council, if only to help ourselves.” He was quiet for a moment, concentrating on driving through a narrow passage left by a cart that was taking up nearly half the road. “But what can we do, Sabrina, if certain people in your country are willing to go to war over Canada?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, after a few moments. “There is no way to prevent it, then?”

  “Most likely not, but I hope and pray there is.”

  “Can’t you do anything, sir? After all, you are at the Foreign Office.”

  “I appreciate your faith in me,” he said dryly, “but, no, there is nothing I can do.”

  “Actually, you’re doing something now.”

  “Such as?”

  “Being seen with an American. Won’t that destroy your credit?”

  He turned to grin at her. “Not quite, but let’s do a thorough job, shall we?” With an expert twist on the ribbons, he turned into Hyde Park. It was late afternoon, and already the ton had flocked to the park, walking, riding showy mounts, driving. Sabrina had heard about this daily procession, but she had never before seen it, and when she turned to Oliver her eyes were dancing with mischief.

  “Why, sir, you are in danger of becoming fashionable.”

  “Hardly.” But Sabrina probably would be, he thought, and wondered why the idea filled him with such gloom.

  Curiosity was running high about Oliver’s fiancée. He was aware of that, but Sabrina was not. She stared about her with the same wonder that she had shown all through their excursion, and while Oliver had enjoyed it then, he didn’t relish other people’s reactions to her innocent enjoyment. Never did he want others to laugh at her. Her proper behavior could only add to his consequence, he told himself. “Endeavor to look bored, infant,” he said in a drawl.

  Sabrina reluctantly tore her eyes away from the dazzling scene of splendid phaetons, dashing curricles, and stately landaus. Drivers wearing livery in every shade of the rainbow were cast into the shade by the parade of elegant people showing off their elegant plumage, in carriages, mounted splendidly upon horseback, or on foot, strolling along. Sabrina didn’t know where to look first, at the stylishly-garbed young ladies in the charming yellow phaeton ahead, or the elegant dandy who surveyed the scene through a quizzing glass, his scarlet coat and puce waistcoat an affront to one’s eyes, or the dashing young women upon showy mounts, one of whom was smiling a bit too freely at Oliver. She was probably a Cyprian, Sabrina thought with a bit of a thrill, and glanced at Oliver’s impassive countenance. With all this going on she was expected to be bored? “Why?” she asked.

  “Because you expose yourself as a green girl when you gawk.”

  “But I am a green girl. Was I gawking?”

  “Yes. With your mouth wide open, like a fish.”

  “I was not!”

  “Easy, infant.”

  “I wish you would not call me that.”

  “That is what you are.”

  No, I’m not, Oliver! I am a woman.

  “I believe you are about to acquire your first admirer.” In fact, several young men were eyeing the curricle and the lovely young woman who sat next to Oliver. The fact that she was engaged, and to a man said to be both handy with his fives and skilled with a sword, would discourage most suitors, but some were bolder than others, or interested only in flirtation. Soon several young men were riding alongside, flirting with Sabrina, who was sparkling under such attention. Oliver concentrated on keeping his bays under control, for if they were to bolt in this crowd only disaster could ensue. That left the field open for Sabrina’s court of admirers, who were glad that his attention were directed elsewhere. Their compliments and flattery were extravagant, and soon Sabrina, taking none of it seriously, was flushed and laughing, while, beside her Oliver grew ever more morose.

  “Oliver,” someone called. Oliver looked up at the woman who was coming toward them and cursed under his breath.

  Chapter 12

  “Oliver, how perfectly charming,” came a sweet, fluting feminine voice. Sabrina, distracted from her admirers, looked up, and stiffened. Riding toward them was Lady Marshfield, garbed in a forest green riding habit that suited her to perfection and deepened the color of her eyes. Her hair seemed darker than it had at the opera, her skin creamier, her lips more seductively full and red. She was so intense and vivid that beside her Sabrina felt like a washed-out little mouse. “What a wonderful surprise, to see you here today.”

  Oliver nodded to her and very briefly took the hand she held out to him. “Good afternoon, Lady Marshfield.”

  “Oh, la, why so formal, Oliver?” Moira said. “Surely all the world knows we are friends?” Her eyes narrowed when she saw Sabrina. “I see you have the nursery contingent along today. Is this your charming little ward?”

  Oliver held his breath. The last thing he wanted was a confrontation between the two women. Sabrina, however, merely returned the gaze, calmly and steadily, and Moira was the first to look away. “Yes, this is my cousin. Lady Marshfield, Miss Carrick.”

  “Charmed, I’m sure,” Moira said, and Sabrina nodded.

  “If you will excuse us, Moira, we must be going on.”

  “Why, then, I shall ride with you,” she said, and turned to ride alongside them. Sabrina’s hands clenched briefly into fists. “Do you attend Lady Sefton’s do tonight? I am persuaded everyone will be there.”

  “Not everyone, certainly?” Oliver said, handling the ribbons with almost careless expertise in the slow-moving procession. “I will not.”

  “But, Oliver, you must!”

  “I’m afraid not. I sent my regrets long ago.”

  “Oh, Oliver, you didn’t!” She pouted, and Sabrina, sitting on the other side of him and totally ignored, noticed the effect of that pout. It was utterly charming, or perhaps, it would be so to gentlemen. It also deepened the lines on either side of Lady Marshfield’s mouth. “I was planning to save a dance for you,” she went on. “A waltz.”

  “Apologies, Moira. Some other time, perhaps.”

  Moira pouted again, and shot another look past him at Sabrina. So far she had had little to say in this conversation, and that was as Moira had planned it. She could see that it wasn’t sitting too well with the girl, and that gave her a savage satisfaction. Still, perhaps it was time to include her in the conversation. Young as she was, and from such a savage country, she was certain to be totally without sophistication, certainly too much so to hold a man like Oliver. It was high time he
realized that. “And how do you find London, Miss Carrick?”

  Sabrina looked up, startled. She hadn’t like being ignored and had been uncertain how to handle it, without looking foolish, but she mistrusted this sudden friendliness even more. “I am quite enjoying it, ma’am,” she said, pleasantly enough. “Particularly since Bainbridge has been kind enough to show it to me.”

  Moira’s eyes narrowed slightly, and it was Sabrina’s turn to feel some satisfaction. Good, so that had gone home!

  “How kind of him,” Moira said, sounding bored. “I am sure you must have found it rather flat, Oliver?”

  “On the contrary, Moira, I enjoyed the day very much,” Oliver said, and Moira’s eyes narrowed again. “If you will excuse us now, we must be off for home. My horses have done enough for one day.”

  “Certainly.” Moira moved back a few paces, smug in the knowledge that she had taken most of the points in this confrontation. “One thing you will soon learn, my dear,” she said to Sabrina, “is that a gentleman prizes his horseflesh above all else.”

  Sabrina’s smile was sweet. “This is the first time he’s done so today, my lady,” she said.

  Oliver nearly choked. “Good day, Moira,” he said, and hurriedly turned the curricle out of the park, missing the spectacle of Moira wheeling her horse around, its sudden agitated movement the only clue to her anger. Moira had deserved that, he thought ruefully, as they turned onto Park Lane, but he was not comfortable being the object of contention between the two women.

  “No questions, Sabrina?” he asked after a time. He had not expected her to be so quiet after that encounter with Moira—and, damn, he should have realized that she would be in the park and taken pains to avoid her—but then, today, Sabrina had rarely done the expected thing. There was more to her than he had realized.