“She has played nearly all the parts in our attic at home,” Elise said.
So unused was Fanny to praise that, in spite of the events of the last few days, she opened up like a flower when the sun emerged after rain.
* * *
After breakfast the following day, Fanny took Caro’s manuscript out into the garden, where she sat in the fragrant rose arbor and read it from start to finish. With each act, her appreciation of Caro’s skills grew. She had done so well that which Fanny had always thought would be so hard. The duchess had told a vastly entertaining story using only dialogue and stage directions. A very humorous farce, indeed! The heroine and her three suitors reminded her very much of Elise’s peril-fraught courtship.
At tea, which was served under an orange-striped awning on the patio, Fanny asked, “Did you use my sister as a model for Gabrielle?”
Caro said, “Truth is stranger than fiction, do you not agree? How could I possibly improve on Elise’s romance?”
Elise rolled her eyes. “I see that I must read this play, if only to ensure accuracy.”
Ruisdell said, “I hope you were true to the facts. I should not like to see Elise’s character marry anyone but me.”
Beverley asked, “My dear? You have not made Ruisdell out to be the loser, I hope?”
“It was extremely tempting, and a very near thing,” Caro admitted. “It is quite annoying to know a man who gets everything he wants out of life.”
Fanny said, “Getting everything you want sometimes means getting more than you want.”
Everyone was silent for a moment before Ruisdell said, “I suppose you are referring to yourself, Fanny. I am happy to be your guardian. This business of yours has made the perfect opportunity for our family to leave Town and spend time with Ned and Caro in the country.”
“You are very gracious, to be sure,” Fanny said, hoping no one but the duke noticed her irony.
“I should like you to play the part of Gabrielle, Fanny,” Caro said. “I know you could do it beautifully.”
“I should be honored. And the male parts?”
“Ned is being coerced into Ruisdell’s role. We have a very eager vicar and a perfectly marvelous schoolmaster who shall do the other two parts. Shall you have any trouble memorizing your part?”
“Not in the least. Memorization comes easily to me. I shall begin at once.”
* * *
After tea, Fanny tried to immerse herself in her favorite activity, learning a part and shutting herself away from the rest of the world. But her mind and heart were treacherous.
Why is Buck not here? He should have been behind us by only a day. When will he hold me again? Or is he truly tired of me and all the problems I create? Closing her eyes, she summoned the memory of being in her captain’s arms, the warm feeling of his hand cupping the back of her head, the sound of his heartbeat through his waistcoat, the bass throb of his voice in his chest as he spoke to her in gentleness.
Where is he? Surely he must arrive tomorrow.
{ 25 }
BUCK SCARCELY SLEPT THE NIGHT BEFORE HIS DUEL. He felt like he was merely a hand operating separate from his body. In his mind, the body was the united pair of himself and Rosalind as he clasped her slender frame, feeling the length of her against him. Now that she was out of reach, he was acting independently to punish the man whose indiscretion had taken her away from him.
His promise to Westringham to delope was troubling him. Warmsby was a rotter, and if Buck did not kill him, he had no doubt that Warmsby would devise even worse devilry in the future. The earl obviously had no sense of honor.
Westringham called for him at half four, and they set out on horseback for Hounslow Heath. Freezing fog gave a good impression of a dark winter morning. The hoofbeats broke the eerie quiet of London before daybreak. Buck wore his heaviest greatcoat, but the fog, like Warmsby’s insolent phiz, had a perfidious quality, sneaking down the back of his neck. To the devil with the man!
Neither rider spoke, but Buck noted Westringham’s battle face as they trotted out of Mayfair to the dueling site. He knew Warmsby could not possibly have as stout and loyal a second as he possessed. Buck and his lieutenant had faced every kind of enemy and nuisance but, as Westringham had told him, this was not the deck of his ship, and Warmsby was not a Frenchman.
When the heath came into view, they slowed their mounts to a walk. Buck inhaled the sharp fragrance of dew on the yews surrounding him. Instinct told him that he could not expect decency from his opponent. It would be just like him to stage an ambush. So ready was he for this eventuality that he arrived at the agreed upon spot with some surprise.
The earl was late. Dismounting, Buck threw his reins to his second and began pacing the ground, making certain it was universally flat and not likely to cause a stumble.
He heard the rattle of a carriage harness. Through the fog, a small gig appeared and disgorged a man in black.
“The doctor,” Westringham said. “Good man.”
Once introduced, the doctor said, “Any sign of your opponent?”
Buck shook his head in annoyance. His heart was thundering with anticipation.
At last, the tall figure of Warmsby broke through the fog, followed by the short, almost insignificant figure of his second.
Neither man offered an apology. Warmsby questioned Westringham. “Weapons?”
Buck’s second handed him the case, containing two silver chased dueling pistols. Warmsby weighed them in his hand. Choosing one, he gave the case back. Buck took the remaining weapon.
The duelists took up their positions, back to back in the center of the field. Buck flexed the muscles in his arms and neck.
A white handkerchief fell to the ground. He began to count out his ten paces forward. The back of his head seemed to witness Warmsby doing the same, as his ears strained to hear the soft sound of a man’s boots meeting the grass.
One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight . . .
Instinct made Buck throw himself to the ground. A ball whizzed over him.
Cursing, Buck got to his feet. The man stood across from him wearing an expression of shock combined with dawning fear.
Buck turned so his side faced Warmsby, raised his arm, and looked down the barrel of his gun as it pointed to his cowardly opponent.
“I’ve shot upwards of two dozen Frenchman right between the eyes, you coward. I have absolutely no problem with doing the same to you. You do not possess a shred of honor. You are no gentleman. If you do not wish to become my next victim, you will leave today for the Continent where you will live out the rest of your miserable life. You will never mention Miss Edward’s name again either here or in whatever unfortunate place you choose to settle. If I hear of your return, I will hunt you, and I will kill you. Is that clear?”
Warmsby nodded slowly, his face a mask of fear.
“Our seconds will accompany you to your lodgings, where you will pack your gear and then proceed straight to Dover, where you will take the first ship out on the tide.”
The earl nodded again. Then, signaling his second, he moved as one in a dream to mount his horse and ride away with Westringham following. Only then did Buck lower his weapon. He was so angry that he shook.
“Why did I let the worm go?” he asked the heath.
* * *
Whether the Earl of Warmsby would have left the country on his own or not, Buck would never know. However, with the knowledge that he was being watched, the spineless earl did board a freighter from Dover bound for France on the evening tide.
{ 26 }
FANNY SPENT THE NEXT DAY AT BEVERLEY HALL wandering in the bright sunshine through the grounds looking out over a sparkling sea. She imagined a frigate, its sails all unfurled, with Buck on the bridge, hands on his hips. The ocean had been his home for so many years. She missed him so. How he would love this view!
With the intention of distracting herself, she began memorizing the part of Gabrielle from the manuscript she held in her hand. W
hen the sun was at its zenith, Caro found her sitting on a rock overlooking a vista of surf pounding against cliffs. A little girl in a white dress with a pale blue pinafore held her hand.
“Fanny, I should like you to meet my daughter, Emmaline. Emmy, this is my friend, Miss Edwards.”
The tow-headed girl, who looked to be about three years old, fashioned a perfect curtsey.
“You should not curtsey to me, Lady Emmaline!” Fanny said, laughing. She stood and curtseyed back to the little girl. “I should curtsey to you.”
Obviously shy, the little girl stuck her finger in her mouth. Her mother gave her a nudge. Twisting this way and that, Emmaline said, “Can you come to tea in my nurthery?”
“I would consider it an honor, Lady Emmaline. What time do you have tea?”
The wind off the sea blew the toddler’s curls about her face as she looked up at her mother in question.
“Four o’clock,” Caro said.
“We got gingerbread!” the little girl said.
“Umm, my favorite tea,” Fanny said.
Caro hoisted Emmaline up into her arms and kissed her forehead. “Would you like a picnic, Fanny? I can send someone out with chicken and fruit and some lemonade. There’s a path along there where you can go down to the shore.” She pointed the way.
“That would be lovely. How thoughtful you are.”
“Well, I cannot have you working all the time.”
“I need an occupation, and this is my favorite one.”
“Very well, then. I will see to your picnic and we will see you at tea. The nursery is on the top floor, facing east.”
“Thank you!”
The duchess began to walk away with Emmaline before turning around to say, “Oh, I almost forgot. Ned’s Uncle Randall will be dining with us tonight. He is quite an Original.”
“I look forward to meeting him.”
After the delivery of her lunch, Fanny made her way down the rocky trail to the beach and sat in the warm sand to enjoy her picnic. The crash of the waves and hoots of the gulls made for an exotic setting. After consuming her picnic, she rested on her hands, arms stretched out behind her.
Why did the sea make her melancholy? Thinking on this for a while, Fanny realized it was because the sea had been home to Buck for many years. She would very much like to experience life at sea with him. How small and petty London would seem against the canvas of other continents, other styles of living. Fanny recognized that that was one of the things she loved about Buck—his vision. He was truly a man of the world. He did not judge her by the suffocating tenets of the ton.
He should be here by now. If he was going to be delayed, surely he would have written. Something is wrong.
* * *
In the event, Uncle Randall proved to be an experience. A tall man, like his nephew Ned, he had a full head of bushy white hair and walked with a cane and a pronounced limp. He addressed Fanny with Georgian gallantry, which included a kiss on both of her cheeks. They were placed next to each other at dinner, which amused Fanny when she realized that Ned’s uncle had most probably been invited so that she would have a dinner partner.
“Now, young lady,” he said over the cream of asparagus soup, “Why is a lovely gel like yourself not married?”
Fanny felt herself blush like a beetroot. “I . . . I am engaged to be married.”
“Military man?”
“He was a sea captain until the war ended.”
“Good job! Military man, myself. Made a first-class husband to my Minnie. Ask Ned.”
Overhearing his uncle, Ned laughed. “Yes, Uncle, that you were. When you were not off fighting in America, you were a devoted husband.”
“America?” Fanny asked. “Oh, tell me about America, Lord Randall. I long to visit there.”
“Visit there? Zounds! Why would you want to visit that uncivilized place?”
Fanny was taken aback and could find no proper answer. Obviously, the man did not share her admiration for the former colonies.
“No concept of breeding. Rabble.”
“Surely, Uncle, you found something or someone to admire there,” Caro said.
“Democracy brings out the worst in people. Mob rule,” the old man said.
Fanny bit the insides of her mouth before she could say something rude. Clearly, here was a man who was holding tight to values she was inclined to challenge.
“Uncle, that’s coming on a bit strong. America is not ruled by a mob,” Beverley said. “They have some very sound thinkers there—Jefferson, Franklin. I have met them when they visited London.”
“God alone deserves the right to pick his rulers. They are born to their class and chosen by it, not elected by an uneducated horde!”
Thinking of the dandies of the born aristocracy with their habits of drinking, wenching, and gambling, Fanny could not hold back her indignation. “I would appreciate it, Lord Randall, if you would clarify what you mean.”
The speaker turned to face her, his face flushed, his eyebrows raised. “Ain’t it obvious?”
“Not to me,” Fanny said, hoping she sounded sufficiently meek.
“In America, it doesn’t matter what state you are born into. Anyone, anyone can arise to office. Excepting, that is, a man of the Negro race. At least they draw the line there.”
Fanny asked, “What qualities do you see as being necessary for a person to be a leader?”
She felt rather than saw her sister squirming uneasily.
“You are but a gel,” Lord Randall said, looking at her with sudden distaste. “What do you know of such things?”
Fanny drew herself up. “I think the most important qualities in a leader must be wisdom and compassion. I have read much of George Washington. He personified these traits.”
“Washington!” Lord Randall looked as though he might spit. “How can you revere a man that led those people to revolt against their king and country? They were bandits, criminals! King George was their divinely appointed sovereign, not George Washington! Lud, the man had wooden teeth!”
Fanny put her napkin up to her lips and did her best to hide her amusement.
In a quiet voice, Ruisdell said, “Lord Randall fought bravely against the colonials, Fanny. He was seriously wounded, which necessitated the removal of his leg.”
She straightened her face. “I am very sorry.” Fanny’s glance flew to her host and hostess. They looked remarkably sanguine while her own family members were gazing at her with reproof.
Once more, she had strayed from the strait and narrow path. This time, however, she could not find it in her heart to be sorry. No matter what she said.
{ 27 }
BUCK AWAITED WESTRINGHAM’S RETURN in the dining room of Grillon’s Hotel. He was growing vastly weary of White’s and its rumor mill. Even though the duel did not eventuate, he knew that tales of it would. As he sat nursing a whiskey and drawing patterns on the white linen tablecloth with his knife, his mind was far from the dark-paneled drawing room and its candlelit magnificence.
His thoughts were with Rosalind. On the morrow, he intended to set off for Cornwall. The ride would take at least three days. He could scarcely wait to hold his fiancée in his arms again. For a feisty little thing, she had been remarkably pliant, cuddling into his waistcoat. They belonged together. It was more than just a physical togetherness. Slender she may be, but her spirit was hearty. He would champion her in an argument against most men of his acquaintance. And she possessed that same hunger to see and experience other ways of thinking and doing that he missed from his days at sea.
His normal opposition to the married state did not come into play here. His Rosalind was nothing like his mother. He doubted she had a vain bone in her body.
Westringham finally arrived.
“All shipshape and Bristol fashion?” Buck asked.
“He sailed on a merchant vessel bound for Le Havre. Vast amount of luggage, so I think he took you seriously.”
“Good. You deserve a good dinner. Beefste
ak? Potatoes?”
Westringham studied his menu. “Glad you chose Grillon’s. I’m tired of the lamb at White’s. Gossip, too.”
“I agree. May I order you a whiskey?”
The waiter was hovering.
“Right. And I’ll have turtle soup, steak and kidney pie, and apple tart, “ the lieutenant said.
“Sounds good. I’ll have the same. And a bottle of claret,” Buck ordered.
Over dinner, Westringham hemmed and hawed in a way that Buck recognized signaled his reluctance to bring up a subject.
“Out with it,” he said. “What is it you want to say?”
Westringham looked up and then took a gulp of wine. “The fact that you were willing to duel over a lady’s good name surprised me. But not as much as your engagement. You have always been strongly opposed to marriage. May I ask what has changed?”
“I met Rosalind again.”
“You have never explained why you refer to her by that name.”
Buck laughed. “I haven’t, have I?” He sipped his whiskey and looked into the distance. “It must have been, oh, three years ago. She appeared like a sprite in Ruisdell’s garden, dressed as Ganymede from As You Like It.” He rehearsed to his friend the circumstances of his first meeting with his fiancée. “I soon realized she was a girl and whipped off her hat. Down came the most beautiful waistlength auburn curls you ever saw. From that moment, I told her she would be Rosalind to me.”
Laughing, Westringham said, “I agree that she is an unusual young lady, but you are far older and more experienced. She is lovely, but there are many lovelier women.”
“I have had a lifelong bias against women in general because of events of my childhood. Rosalind demonstrates that it is possible to be a beautiful woman without being vain, cruel, and silly.” Buck twirled his wine glass and looked into its depths. “But, you say, that is to define her by what she is not. So, in other words, Rosalind is not overly concerned with her beauty, does not need homage. She is uncommonly compassionate and concerns herself with things of moment, even at cost to herself.”
Rescuing Rosalind (Three Original Ladies and Their Gentlemen) Page 13
