by Gloria Gay
Mrs. Presleigh was certain this time Belinda would take and be married into one of the great families of England and thus she would fulfill her mother's obsession, which was to regain the social prominence her family had once enjoyed. They had an adequate income from the estate yet this was not enough for Mrs. Presleigh who yearned once more to be included in the prominent circles that her family had once belonged to.
Her constant nagging often sent Mr. Presleigh to the card rooms in search of prey to wheedle invitations to balls and soirees. Socially prominent acquaintances that were in their cups were easy prey for the amiable Presleigh, who had a natural charm.
Mrs. Presleigh had insisted on a new and expensive wardrobe for Belinda. She and Aunt Jenny pored for hours over fashion magazines, although Mrs. Presleigh's choices generally prevailed over the better taste Aunt Jenny possessed.
On the eve of the Presleighs' departure for London for Belinda's second Season, unknowingly, Belinda had given her mother an idea. Belinda was sitting on the window seat, absent-mindedly scrawling Berrington's name over and over on the border of a notebook. There was a faraway look in her eyes as she did this, her mind going back to that day when she had seen Lord Berrington naked.
Mrs. Presleigh, flushed and excited, had come up from behind her at the window, bursting with wardrobe plans, had surprised her lost in daydreams and had glanced at her notebook.
"Belinda, what is this?" She had asked as she snatched the book from Belinda's hands. "Are you fond of Lord Berrington?"
Blushing, Belinda had answered quickly, "No, no, Mama, of course not—I was just—I don't know why I was doing that."
Belinda's chin trembled in remembrance of an incident that seemed as though it had happened a century ago.
"Are you in love with him? Answer me, girl," Mrs. Presleigh had pressed, her eyes like an Inquisitor's, probing Belinda's features.
"No, Mama—you're imagining things. Of course I am not."
"Why then were you writing his name?"
"He's our neighbor…that was the only reason."
"Does he look at you?" her mother had asked with extreme interest.
"No, Mama, he has never glanced at me."
"At the last ball at Winterhill, did he speak to you?"
"No, other than the usual greeting at the receiving line."
Even at that ball Mrs. Presleigh had again tried to accost Berrington, dragging Belinda at her side. But Berrington had been quicker. He was adept at outmaneuvering the Dragon Mamas, as they were called, when they tried to corner him into dancing with their daughters.
After this incident they had gone on to London, and Belinda's second Season became pure, distilled torture, for if her mother had been desperate a year ago, she seemed a hundred times more so now, with her desire to have a high rank in society feeding daily on itself.
Belinda's wardrobe seemed excessive to Belinda, and fit for an earl's daughter. But she said nothing. It was useless to protest, in any case.
This year Belinda would take, her mother had declared a few days after their arrival in London.
And she had made certain of it.
Mrs. Presleigh availed herself of an invitation to a house party at Lennington Hall, a sumptuous estate an hour's drive from London. She had obsessed over the ten-days' sojourn when she had found out that Lord Berrington was in the guest list.
Lennington Hall was a vast estate, half of which had stood for four hundred years. It was said that the heir to the house of Anjou, Charles VIII, had visited here for a week. Its most peculiar feature was a huge wine cellar that seemed more like a dungeon, and indeed, there were certainly legends of enemies of the Crown having been imprisoned within its damp stone walls.
The place—a tour of which had been given to the whole group at the beginning of their stay—was declared by the ladies to be romantic, Gothic and eerie.
"And I am certain he will attend, my dear," she had expressed to Belinda, "for Lady Celeste, that fast little baggage of a widow, is also to be present."
"Mama. I would rather not go," Belinda implored. "Could we not stay in London instead? I was to go with Sally and her aunt on a long walk along the Serpentine and to the Tower and on Saturday to the gardens at Kew."
Belinda's love for Richard Berrington had grown with the years, rather than abated, into a sturdy, painful passion she kept locked in her heart. She could live with the realization that hers was the most impossible of dreams so long as it was kept hidden and away from the ridicule and humiliation it would shower her with should it ever be exposed.
Whenever she coincided with him at a ball or soiree, she kept as far away from him as possible, preferably with the length of a ballroom between them. A rush of feeling went through her on entering a room and instinctively knowing he was among the guests, or when he walked into a ballroom she was in. The sight of him each time was overwhelming, and she often felt she was drowning when near him. She glanced at him rarely, for this reason, and only when she was certain he was not looking her way.
Her mother, on the other hand, had no such reticence and often pointed him out to her with a proprietary air, merely because he was their neighbor. Mrs. Presleigh had always believed that but for the untimely death of her beautiful daughter Roselle, she would now be calling Berrington "son-in-law."
By the third day at Lennington Hall, Belinda was spending a lot of time in solitary walks, avoiding the female guests who stared rudely at her and whispered unkindly. The gentlemen, on the other hand, merely ignored her.
But while Belinda was out in her solitary walks, her mother was busily at work, bribing servants into her bidding.
"Why do you do that, Mama, what do you hope to gain by it?" She had asked her mother.
"Hush," her mother had hissed. "It is nothing for you to concern yourself with. Great opportunities don't just fall on your lap, you must go looking for them."
"What opportunities?" Belinda had asked, realizing with a sinking heart that her mother was scheming on her behalf.
"Never you mind," her mother had answered dismissively.
It was in this way Mrs. Presleigh had come across a letter for a late night assignation from Lord Berrington to Lady Celeste.
There were few footman tempted with Mrs. Presleigh's gold coins that could resist her bidding. In this way she had intercepted the letter from Lord Berrington which bore his family crest. The note addressed the intended recipient only as "My dear."
Mrs. Presleigh had sat for a few moments in fierce concentration in the privacy of her room to think of a way to convince Belinda that the letter was addressed to her.
The hallway was deserted, for everyone was out in a garden party, everyone but Lord Berrington, who had gone into town to meet the coach of a friend who was a late guest, when Mrs. Presleigh made her foray.
Having first made certain that Lord Berrington's valet was downstairs in the servant's hall, Mrs. Presleigh, trembling with excitement at her daring, entered Lord Berrington's rooms and quietly closed the door behind her. She breathed the scent of orange water and leather that hung in the air, and after a quick cursory glance, went to the writing desk upon which a leather case of stationery stood wide open.
With trembling hands she grabbed an envelope and rapidly stole out of the room and down the hall, her heart racing. She reached her bedroom out of breath and closed the door behind her, leaning against it to calm her racing heart.
She looked around and saw her daughter's notebook, and flipping the first few pages on which poems were scribbled she began practicing Berrington's handwriting.
After an hour of assiduous work she was content enough with it to try it on the paper. After writing Belinda's name in a perfect imitation of the earl's handwriting she sat back in satisfaction, proud of her work. She had been clever as a girl and had quickly learned penmanship, and this, together with a natural ability for drawing had made the task considerably easy. Then she carefully removed Berrington's seal with a knife, softened it up with a candle an
d replaced it on the envelope.
Glancing at her daughter's name on the envelope, Mrs. Presleigh was certain that even Lord Berrington would be hard put to distinguish it from his own writing. She was glad Berrington used the modern envelopes rather than folding and sealing the paper as was the custom. It must be his years at war that had made him adopt envelopes, she thought.
She slipped the letter into her large reticule and went in search of her daughter.
She found her by herself, as usual. All that would soon change, she determined, as catching her daughter's eye she beckoned her toward her.
"Darling—"
"Mama," said Belinda, "Lady Belmont was looking for you."
"Never mind Lady Belmont," said her mother excitedly, taking her by the arm. "I have something of the utmost importance to tell you. Come, let us go over to that quiet arbor where we can talk."
Once there, Mrs. Presleigh led her daughter to a bench and sat beside her.
"What is it? Why are you so agitated?" asked Belinda.
"My dearest…" Mrs. Presleigh hesitated, then said boldly,
"You sly creature, you could have told me Lord Berrington had his eye on you!"
"Lord Berrington!" Belinda stared at her mother in astonishment.
"As I was leaving my bedroom, a footman approached me, Belinda, asking for you," said Mrs. Presleigh as she leaned toward her daughter.
"For me? What did he want?"
"He wanted to deliver a letter to you from Lord Berrington."
Speechless at these words, Belinda stared at her mother.
"There must be a mistake," she finally said, her voice coming out in gasps. "Lord Berrington would never write to me—"
"And why not?"
"Why, because—because—"
"Don't talk fustian, Belinda," said her mother, her voice severe. "Why shouldn't his lordship write to you as well as any other? Are you of lower birth than the rest?"
"You said a letter?"
"Yes, dear, and here it is." Mrs. Presleigh dug into her reticule and brought out the envelope. She handed it to Belinda.
"I read it, my dear, you must forgive me. I could not imagine why he was writing to you and curiosity overtook me."
Belinda gazed for a few moments at her name written in bold black ink on the envelope, her eyes wide. Then she unfolded it to get the letter out. Her eyes raced across the square masculine handwriting:
My dear,
I agree with the general opinion that the wine cellar is a most romantic place for a rendezvous. Will you meet me there tonight at midnight? Send word with the carrier of this letter. I shall not be here this afternoon, as I am to meet a friend and will not be back until late.Instruct the footman to wait for my return so that he can give me your answer.
Yours everlasting,
Richard Berrington
Again Belinda ran her eyes over the words, unable to believe that Lord Berrington had written her such a letter and with such a request. Why, they were strangers to each other!
"Mama, there must be some mistake—perhaps Lord Berrington wrote my name—meaning to write someone else's."
"There is no mistake. Stop acting like a fool, Belinda!"
"Mama…there is an intimacy in the tone of this letter, which suggests he is writing to a friend. And even if he wrote the letter to me, it is a most improper request. He could not possibly think I would accede to such a proposal."
"And why not?"
"Mama!" Belinda stared at her mother. "You would allow such a meeting?"
"Lord Berrington is a gentleman, my dear," said her mother quickly. "You can have no fear in that regard. And it is quite obvious he has an interest in you—"
"Mama, please. Lord Berrington has never once glanced at me, not even when you have cornered him into it."
"Listen to me, miss," Mrs. Presleigh said in a strident voice, "Your father and I have been practically shunned from society; humiliated so many times I have lost count. Can you not care more about your parents?
"Belinda, you are the only one left that can restore the family's social prominence. And now Lord Berrington expresses an interest in you and you act in this way? Have you no love for us?"
"Mama— I cannot, I’m sorry, but I will not."
For a few moments Mrs. Presleigh searched her mind desperately for an idea with which to convince her reluctant daughter. Then a smile came to her lips.
"My dear," she said, "you leave me no choice but to reveal a confidence." She took her daughter's hand, and went on,
"Lord Berrington had a private word with me yesterday, while you were out in one of your endless walks where you go to hide from everyone."
"You spoke to him? But—but I have seen how he avoids you, Mama, he almost runs when you approach him."
"Belinda," said her mother severely, "you are speaking nonsense. Are you with me every minute of the day to say for certain I have not had the opportunity of speaking to him?"
"Well, no…"
"Well, then, be quiet and listen to me. It was yesterday in that little parlor behind the drawing room, my dear. We began to converse casually. I suppose, dear man that he is, on seeing that I was in a receptive mood, he felt he could trust me with a confidence. And I must confess, Belinda, that I was startled at his revelation, for it was about you! Believe me, dear, I was so unprepared for it that it came as quite a jolt.
"He told me that on several occasions when he is at a ball, he has approached you with the intention of speaking to you, to ask you for a dance. And every time this happens you turn away from him, deliberately avoiding him.
"I told him that you are a shy girl, and that perhaps in a less crowded place you would not repulse his advances."
"I can hardly believe that," said Belinda in a ragged voice.
"Are you saying that I am lying?" Mrs. Presleigh stared at her daughter.
"No, of course not," Belinda gasped out the words, for she was feeling breathless. "But perhaps you misunderstood him…perhaps, because you would like to see an interest in him you misconstrued his words."
"I misconstrued nothing, nothing at all," said Mrs. Presleigh, highly excited. "He spoke to me as plainly as I am speaking to you now."
Belinda thought back to the balls when Lord Berrington had walked in her direction. But at all these times it had been to ask someone standing beside her for a dance. Belinda, unable to look at him as he asked someone else to dance always turned away at his approach. Now a doubt had been planted in her mind by her mother's words.
Could this be true? Had Lord Berrington at any of those times have had the intention of asking her to dance? But he could not. She had overheard people calling her a wallflower and an ape-leader. Lord Berrington danced with beautiful girls, girls she could not hope to equal. And he was often seen in the company of Lady Celeste, who was a renowned beauty.
Yet the tiny doubt that had been planted in her mind was taking root, as sturdy as any seed can be that gives hope to a hopeless love.
"Mama—what was it you wanted me to do? You didn't intend for me to meet him alone, did you?"
"Of course not, silly girl," said Mrs. Presleigh, letting her breath out in relief. "I will be there too. But of course he will not see me. I shall stay in the shadows. I shall only be there so that in your own mind you know you are not doing anything improper and can speak at ease with him. It is in such a setting, away from crowds of people, Belinda that you are at your best. This time you will not turn away at his approach as you do at balls, for, as he told me, he is beginning to feel that he is repulsive to you."
Mrs. Presleigh was now freely expanding on her imaginary conversations with the earl, for now she was certain that she had this business well in hand. Her intuition had not been wrong. Belinda was secretly in love with the earl. And a girl in such a state will believe anything, she thought with satisfaction.
She led her daughter back to the house. "Everything will be perfectly fine. You'll see."
"I want you to plead a headach
e tonight, my dear," said Mrs. Presleigh to her silent daughter. "I will have Cook send up a tray for you. I want you to take a nice refreshing nap instead of having to make small talk to the guests."
"No one ever talks to me," said Belinda.
"All that is going to change," said Mrs. Presleigh with conviction. "Now, go up to your room. I want you refreshed for tonight. I will help you prepare for it with care. This is the most important meeting you are likely to have in your life."
* * * * *
"Belinda, wake up, dear. It's time."
Belinda's troubled dream of running in the woods trying to escape a pursuing wild horse—a horse with Lord Checkster's face—ended abruptly with the sound of her mother's voice. She opened her eyes and glanced at the ceiling of the bedroom, and a sudden realization of what was in store for her that night sent a series of sick waves to her stomach.
Groggy still from sleep she allowed her mother to help her down from the large bed and took a few sips of the tea her mother was pressing to her lips.
"Such a deep sleeper," her mother said indulgently. Mrs. Presleigh was in a good humor when things were going her way.
"I shall help you with your toilette, my dear. I did not want Minnie to assist you tonight," she added, referring to her abigail. "The least number of people involved in this…I mean, the poor girl must get her sleep—"
It was the first time in her life Belinda had heard her mother speak kindly of a servant.
"The pink sprigged muslin, I think," she added, "and your cloak. It's damp in that place and the nights here are cool."
"But I didn't bring my cloak—"
"Ah, well, no matter. You will wear mine. I never travel without it, even in the middle of summer."
"Mama," Belinda said, her voice cracking, "I have a feeling of foreboding about this—could we not—"
"No, we could not. Belinda, I thought we settled the business this afternoon. I will not go through the whole thing again. Don't think about it at all.
