by Edith Layton
“Fine?” he asked with such emphasis that they stopped walking abruptly and the rest of the company had to meander on and pretend very busily that they didn’t see the pair halt in their tracks and hold an argument in hushed whispers.
“Fine? When you present yourself as some sort of a ... freakish thing, American or not, to amuse yourself or them, I can’t say which.”
“They bore me, Will,” she said with quiet emphasis. “And when they’re not boring, they’re patronizing me, I can tell. Because I’m not one of them, and not even a ‘lady’ as they see it. Or even born English, as you are. But yes, sometimes I need to amuse myself and it gives me great pleasure, perhaps the only pleasure I’ve gotten since I came here, to see how far they’ll continue to go, despite all the terrible things I tell them, simply because they believe me to be rich beyond their most pressing needs.”
“But how can you expect sincerity from anyone when you refuse to be sincere in turn?” he asked.
“Well, I don’t expect it,” she snapped. “I don’t expect anything. All I want is for sufficient time to go by until I can go home again.”
“Oh Faith,” he sighed, hearing how her voice broke at the last, almost making “home” a two-syllable word. “It’s the first time you’ve ever been away, you’ll get used to it. And I promise I’ll take you home myself when it’s time. But, at least, why not give it a chance till that time? Why not make some friends while you’re here?”
“Well I have,” she said, rubbing at her nose and searching for a handkerchief in her reticule so it would look as though she had to sneeze, for really, these waves of black sorrow which came over her so suddenly when she let herself realize how far from home she was, how surrounded with strangers she was in her new circumstances, were sometimes embarrassingly overwhelming. “There’s Lady Mary, and the Washburn sisters, and that nice little Miss Protherow,” she said, snuffling and abandoning the search for a handkerchief as she gained control again.
He took her arm and they began walking again, since he’d noticed the way the others were slowing their steps or frankly hanging back, and whispering together.
“I meant,” he said softly, “gentlemen friends. Remember, you promised your grandfather to try.”
“Yes,” she admitted, “I did promise ... to at least make friends. I will try. But Will, they’re so stodgy and trivial and, except for the earl, they’re all such jinglebrains, too.”
“Even the dashing Lord Deal? The fellow you disappeared with for so long this afternoon,” Will asked slyly.
“Dashing indeed. Precisely.” She laughed. “Because Methley says he’s almost a hermit, but when he does appear on the scene, he dearly loves to cut a dash. At least he’s not boring, but there’s nothing at all to take seriously about him, the earl says.”
“And he?” Will asked curiously, looking to where the tall gentleman was strolling alone after he’d been relieved of Faith’s company.
“He,” Faith smiled, following the direction of his glance toward the earl, “might well become a friend, Will. But that’s all.”
“I see,” Will said, and he thought, Ah well, it’s early days yet.
“Do you?” asked Faith, and she thought, I don’t think so, my dear friend, I hardly think so at all.
THREE
After dinner a storm blew up. The ladies sat in the drawing room and made desultory conversation, and then, as though some composer with a fine sense of irony was orchestrating the night, even as the first gentleman set foot in the room to join them, a rumble of thunder drowned out his opening words. This, of course, gave the company a great deal of conversation immediately, and though she imagined she was, Faith was not the only one to bless the sudden early summer storm for the diversion of its unexpected appearance.
Timid little Miss Protherow was secretly able to dry her damp palms on the velvet seat of her chair and breathe a shaky sigh of relief. She’d been dreading the onset of evening all day, remembering that Mr. Haskell had begged her for a song last night, and then, when time, on her side for once, had ended their evening without her performance for the company, he’d vowed he’d hear her out this night. Since it was difficult for her to even chat comfortably with a gentleman, much less one she admired so much as she did Mr. Haskell, she counted herself fortunate that the noise of the storm spared her the agony of singing to him in public tonight. It was fortunate, too, that since the thunder caused the company to forego the pleasures of a domestic musicale, she never had the chance to discover that by the time he’d reached his room last night Mr. Haskell had forgotten both the promise and Miss Protherow entirely.
But there were, after all, fully twelve highly visible, highly eligible, and highly nubile young women at the house party at Marchbanks, plus some older sisters and a great many mamas, with a clutch of chaperones and a surfeit of accompanying maids, and not a few of these attendants of a sportive nature, so it was understandable that a fellow might be distracted. And as there were fourteen eligible gentlemen invited to be distracted by them (for since the ladies had the ordering of the invitations, they spited nature and drew the balance in a way to please themselves), plus a good many papas and uncles and scores of valets and grooms to go with them, it was not surprising that Miss Protherow should have dreaded performing before such a gathering. Still, although she considered it something on the order of singing at the Opera itself, her hosts thought the party merely a comfortable number for a country gathering. But then, they had a daughter to marry off.
Not that they had a thing to worry about on that score. The Lady Mary had been hailed as an Incomparable the moment her little satin-shod toe had touched social waters a few months before. She was titled and lovely, demure and obedient, wealthy and well-bred. The Duke of Marchbanks already had four excellent offers for her, in writing, on his desk and five other verbal ones waiting to be put to paper the moment he gave some encouragement. Or she did.
For the Lady Mary hadn’t shown any outsize preference for any suitor and though her parents knew she’d take whomever they chose, it pleased them to wait on matters for a little while longer to see if there were any she or they particularly preferred. The noble Boltons were, as everyone in the ton knew, prepared to be liberal. They’d made clear that so long as a gentleman was enormously wealthy and of impeccable lineage, he might be considered for the honor of applying for their lovely daughter’s hand. But there was no great hurry; she could remain available for at least a few more months. After all, a man with a full stomach can afford to peruse the menu and keep the waiter waiting. Then, too, there was the matter of the American girl, Miss Hamilton. The duke owed her grandfather a favor and showing off the chit with his Mary would do no harm, even though, as it became increasingly clear, it would do neither of them any especial good. But then, Mary didn’t need any benefits from the relationship, and the American girl certainly didn’t seem to want any.
For instance, the duke thought, looking over to where the young people were congregated before he went off to the card room with some other gentlemen, look at the chit now. Unusual style, but pretty with it, and with a fortune coming from her grandfather to improve her all out of recognition. Foreign to be sure, American to boot, so not quite the thing for a gentleman with both name and funds to his name. But she might do well enough for some young sprig whose family would be pleased to see him finally settle, and settle comfortably at that.
And there she was, surrounded by the likes of young Greyville, who, granted, once was not worth a look, but who was now sure to be old Crowell’s heir, and Gilbert North, a younger son but one with a fine estate in the Midlands, and Porlock and Trowbridge, both a bit rackety to be sure, but each with a manor and a townhouse in his pocket. And who were all her smiles for? The Earl of Methley, who had an old title, a castle, two manors, and a townhouse, but all mortgaged up to the rooftops and every bit of it for rent or sale to save it from the auction block including, obviously, from his presence here, the owner of these honors and properties h
imself.
The duke sighed; he’d told Godfrey he’d present his girl to society, and he had, but he couldn’t prevent her from wasting herself. He was her host, not her jailer or banker. Perhaps, he mused, as he entered the card room with thoughts of more perfectly matched suits in his head, he’d have his own lady, or Mary herself, have a word with the girl before she ruined herself entirely. But had the duke lingered on longer, he might have changed his timetable a bit and hauled his guest away to have that word with her himself, at once.
“A real rattler,” Lord Greyville said with some pleasure, after a roll of thunder had silenced the conversation in the room, “but don’t tell me, Miss Hamilton,” he sighed, “I know, you’ve got worse than this sort of thing going on every night at home.”
He’d been a bit disgruntled since the American girl had so far bested each one of his boasts of the horrors and dangers his own home offered, especially when all he had to contribute were a few apocryphal ghosts, which he couldn’t produce on demand anyway. Had he but known it and pushed the matter further, the spirits in question would have carried the day, or the night, and clanked away with the honors uncontested. Her homeland held a great many wonders but wasn’t old enough to be properly haunted, a fact for which Miss Hamilton was profoundly grateful, as she didn’t relish the thought of spectral visitations, feeling she had enough of her own phantoms to cope with.
Miss Hamilton was a fine looking female, Lord Greyville thought; he especially liked those large and speaking eyes. Though he’d always preferred blond and curling tresses, there was no denying she had a first-rate shape, or else he wouldn’t have complimented her on her blue frock tonight; he wasn’t a man to comment upon fashion unless manners demanded he explain his stares. But it made a fellow feel very small to be constantly told, even if only by inference, by a smashing young woman, that she thought he lived in a land as safe and tepid as her bathtub.
But Miss Hamilton surprised and gratified him this time by only saying quietly, in response to his challenge, “Oh no, I think thunderstorms are universal.”
Mr. Rossiter, from where he stood at Lady Mary’s side, smiled approval at this unexceptional answer.
“The weather then is the same?” the Earl of Methley asked, with one thin dark brow arched high in amazement. “But my dear Miss Hamilton, you were only just telling me how pleased you were with how temperate our blessed isle is in comparison to your homeland.”
“Ah well,” Faith answered with a sweet smile that took the curse off her words in Lord Greyville’s eyes, if not his ears, “Our summers are hotter and our winters colder, of course, but—”
“It might just be a matter of latitudes,” Mr. Rossiter put in quickly, “or longitudes, since we come from an area which is, I believe, several degrees both to the south and to the west of here.”
And as he expanded on this dull theme, several of his listeners began to fidget with their fobs or fans, healthy competition being one thing, geography lessons another. So it was that there was a general murmur of gratification when he was done and the earl said, nodding just as though he might have understood the lecture, though due to its impromptu nature, even its author had not, “Still, how tranquil by comparison it must be for you, this vacation here with us.”
Before Mr. Rossiter could speak to intercept the comment that was aimed at Miss Hamilton, young Lord Greyville, clearly goaded beyond his limited capacity to endure, interrupted him by saying with patriotic zeal, “Yes, damme, Methley, we all know the Yanks have blizzards in July and heat waves at Christmas and giant toads and whatall monstrosities to contend with every day, Miss Hamilton told us all about those. But it ain’t as though they’re safe as houses here, for we’ve had a war going on around us for donkey’s years, and they have not. We’ve only had Napoleon slathering on our doorstep since forever,” he sneered, “and bless me but I’d rather face a dozen of Miss Hamilton’s wild bears and opposums than the likes of him. So I, for one, think they ought rather to be grateful they were safe at home, by comparison,” he concluded, shooting a triumphant look to the earl, “until now.”
“Here, here,” a few other young gentlemen said rousingly, as Lord Greyville, flushed with victory, downed the rataffia he’d only been holding for something to do in one gulp and didn’t even notice to gag when he was done.
“Really?” Miss Hamilton said sweetly, cutting across Mr. Rossiter’s reply. “How odd that you should think we ought to be grateful, Lord Greyville. For as I recall, and I’ve a shocking memory usually, we were very lately at war. At least,” she went on as Lord Greyville’s face started to become warm as he began to remember what he realized he ought never to have forgotten, even in his annoyance, “someone burned down our capital city of Washington a few years ago, and I don’t believe it was Napoleon, at least I can’t recall that we ever had anything to fear from him. In fact, as I remember,” she went on inexorably as Mr. Rossiter prayed for the lightning to stop playing about outside and immediately get down to business within the drawing room itself, “it was Napoleon who kindly offered to help us at that time, but only to save our lives, you see, so I don’t believe,” she concluded to an absolute and deafening silence, “that we had, or would have had, much to fear from him here, even if he weren’t marooned on an island halfway to Africa now.”
* * *
Well, good, Faith thought after she dismissed her maid and blew out her candles and slipped into bed. Because likely now she’d be able to go home that much sooner. And from the looks upon the faces of everyone this evening, including Will and even her maid, that might be as soon as tomorrow morning, and probably too, she thought, on a rail, all the way out of town. With perhaps, she thought, lying absolutely still and staring into the darkness, a little bit of tar and a few feathers to speed her on her way.
Oh damnation, Miss Hamilton thought, as one warm tear fled her hot, embarrassed keeping, she hadn’t meant a word she’d spoken and wished she’d cut her tongue off instead of spouting them. She didn’t even like Napoleon. And she wasn’t sure he’d offered help to her country, she’d only been sixteen, after all, at the time, but doubtless if he had, it was out of mischief. And neither did she blame Britain for the onset of the hostilities, since Grandfather had been a rabid Federalist who’d disliked President Madison almost as much as the war which had cut into his shipping and export business. He and his friends never called it anything but “Mr. Madison’s War” anyway.
And lord, she thought forlornly, turning her face into her pillow, he’d be disappointed in her if he’d heard her tonight. Never for voicing her opinion, if it only had been her opinion—but it wasn’t. It had only been that she’d been acutely aware of the fact that she was different, and since she’d arrived she’d been searching for insult in every comment addressed to her. And, at that, she remembered wretchedly, the comment hadn’t even been meant for her.
That young dunderhead Lord Greyville had been brangling with the earl and she had taken him up on it. Then she’d proceeded to insult everyone in the room, including poor Will, who’d been trying so hard to impress his English lady. And all because she’d feared mockery. And partially, perhaps, she thought, stung by sudden guilt, because she wanted so badly to go home.
She longed for home with such acuteness that each sunset she dreaded facing the pillow she drowned in secret tears each night. But it wasn’t because of the English, or the war. The war was over; however reluctantly it had been fought by the Federalists, or willingly waged by the War Hawks, it was done. And since no one had won, and no one had lost, it was better forgotten.
And how could she dislike the English? Their every spoken word reminded her of the one person in the world she adored, her grandfather. He had those same musical arched accents, as did so many of his friends. A great many persons she knew at home from his generation had originally come from the old world, and most of them still had their accents intact. In truth, what she’d heard since she’d come here sounded more like what she had grown up with in Gra
ndfather’s house than what she heard regularly in many quarters of New York, since half the city was immigrant and spoke in the dialects of a dozen lands. Hearing her hosts and their guests in conversation reminded her of long evenings at home when she’d been a girl, sleepily listening to adult conversation spoken in accents she’d come to associate with safety, wisdom, and love.
And no matter what her hosts might have privately thought of her, they’d been unfailingly polite. It wasn’t their fault she’d been foisted on them anymore than it was that she didn’t wish to marry any of them.
Faith turned in her bed, seeking a more easeful position. But as it wasn’t her body but her heart and conscience that troubled her; there was no way she could arrange herself so as to be comfortable with herself. She was almost one and twenty, and unwed. Though she was content with that statistic, Grandfather was not. He’d known she didn’t wish to marry as her mother had done; he understood she didn’t seek a husband at all, indeed, he’d seen her turn up her nose at all the worthy young men who’d called upon her at his home. But still, though she thought he knew her as well as any being on earth could, he couldn’t accept that this was her desire and not her dire fate. He’d believed it a lack in the young men, not in herself. He’d begged her to come to this, his England, thinking, no doubt, that if the long sea voyage didn’t change her mind about his favorite, Will, then one of those glib young blades he remembered from his own youth in London would change her mind about wedlock itself.
