Waltz With a Stranger

by Pamela Sherwood

  A third clerk now came forward to greet them. “Good morning, sir—and madam,” he added, nodding to Aurelia. “How may I assist you today?”

  “I am…Trevenan.” He sounded as if he were still getting used to calling himself that, Aurelia thought. “And I would like to see some of your engagement rings.”

  “Certainly. We have a fine selection of them, with a variety of gems and settings.” He turned a beaming smile on Aurelia. “Does the young lady have a particular preference?”

  “Oh, I’m not—”

  “Miss Newbold isn’t—”

  They spoke at the same time, then broke off, equally embarrassed. The clerk glanced from one to the other in obvious confusion. “This lady is not your fiancée, my lord?”

  “Lord Trevenan is marrying my sister,” Aurelia explained.

  “But Miss Newbold wears the same glove size as my betrothed,” Trevenan added. “So, with her assistance, we can ensure a proper fit for the ring.”

  The clerk recovered at once, but then he’d probably heard stranger explanations. “Of course, my lord,” he said smoothly. “What would you and Miss Newbold like to see first?”

  Aurelia glanced toward the jewelry counter. The red-haired woman had made her selection at last. She was smiling triumphantly down at her no longer bare ring finger, while her suitor appeared to be settling accounts with the clerk.

  “Why don’t we start with sapphires?” she suggested. “Since there are some out already.”

  Once the other couple had exited the shop, the clerk brought over the tray of rings.

  “These certainly are beautiful stones,” Aurelia said, gazing down at them. Sapphires had always been her favorite gem, reminding her of mountain lakes and summer skies at evening.

  Trevenan studied them in his turn. “Indeed. Some of them are the color of the sea in Cornwall on a fine day.” He picked out a ring with a square-cut stone surrounded by an intricate frame of gold filigree. “Do you think Amy would like this one?”

  Aurelia pursed her lips doubtfully. “It’s very impressive, but perhaps a bit too heavy to suit my sister. Maybe something more delicate?”

  “You have a point.” He returned the ring to the tray. “Gold or silver for the setting?”

  The clerk gave a discreet cough. “If you’ll pardon me, my lord, I must point out that our engagement rings are set in either white gold, yellow gold, or platinum. And platinum has become increasingly popular in the last few years,” he added.

  Trevenan glanced at Aurelia. “Which would your sister prefer?”

  “That would depend on the stone,” she replied. “Rubies always look best set in yellow gold, but emeralds and sapphires can look well in either. Personally, I prefer yellow gold, simply because it seems warmer—and a better contrast to the stone.”

  “I believe I agree with you.” Trevenan turned back to the tray, then, after several seconds’ perusal, he picked up another ring. “What about this one?”

  “Much better,” Aurelia approved. Ravishing, in fact. The round-cut stone was a clear cornflower-blue, smaller than the first sapphire but of remarkable clarity; a circle of tiny, rose-cut diamonds surrounded it like the petals of a flower.

  Trevenan held out the ring to her. “Would you mind trying it on?”

  After a moment’s hesitation, Aurelia tugged off her glove and slipped the ring onto her finger. The slender gold circlet, cold at first, grew warm against her skin; the diamonds twinkled with rainbow sparks and the sapphire shone like the heart of a sunlit sea.

  “Excellent taste, my lord,” the clerk declared.

  “It is very beautiful,” Aurelia said, watching the light kindle in the stone’s blue depths.

  “It is.”

  Some note in Trevenan’s voice made her look up. He was watching her with the most unfathomable expression in his dark eyes. She felt her cheeks grow warm and her pulse flutter in response. Annoyed at herself, she dropped her own gaze and tugged off the ring. “Amy might like this one. But perhaps you should look at a few more, just to be sure.”

  “Perhaps I should,” the earl said after a moment. He turned to the clerk. “Would you be so good as to show us some of your diamond engagement rings?”

  “Of course, my lord,” the clerk agreed. “Very fashionable they are—diamond rings. Especially nowadays, owing to the mines in South Africa.”

  White diamonds, colored diamonds, in simple and elaborate settings, alone or in combination with other gemstones…Wickes and Taylor boasted an assortment that Garrard and Company, jewelers to the royal family, would not have disdained. When consulted, Aurelia gave her opinion of the rings Lord Trevenan singled out for closer inspection; when asked, she presented her hand for the proper sizing. She was careful not to reveal her own preferences too plainly. This was to be Amy’s ring, chosen by Amy’s man, and she’d do well to remember that.

  Trevenan finally selected a half-hoop ring: a trio of diamonds set in a carved band of yellow gold. Though the stones weren’t particularly large, they were of fine quality, flashing white fire with every movement of the hand. It was splendid without crossing the line into vulgar, and Aurelia thought it would suit her sister admirably.

  Afterwards, she asked to see some brooches, choosing one in the shape of a ribbon bow, fashioned of yellow gold and set with tiny winking brilliants. It would provide a glittering accent to anything Amy wore, from shirtwaists to ball gowns. The price made a sizable dent in the money she’d brought with her, but surely a coming of age was ample excuse for extravagance.

  Their business concluded, they left the jeweler and engaged in some desultory window-shopping among the Arcade’s other establishments. Trevenan found Amy’s birthday present in a small shop specializing in articles of women’s finery: a silk fan painted with a design of flowers and butterflies in delicate pastel shades, perfect for whatever Amy chose to wear for the ball.

  “Thank God that’s settled,” he remarked as they left the shop.

  “Yes, and you even managed to survive it,” Aurelia said lightly. As had she, come to that.

  “Just barely, I’ll have you know,” he retorted, then gave her a reluctant smile. “Thank you for your assistance—and for remembering the Arcade. I suspect I’d have found this experience much more trying elsewhere. Now, have you any more shopping left to do?”

  Aurelia shook her head. “Nothing that can’t wait. What about you?”

  “That depends. What would you like for your birthday?”

  Taken by surprise, she protested, “Lord Trevenan, it’s not necessary to—”

  “Yes, it is,” he contradicted her gently but inexorably. “You’re coming of age too. It’s only right that you should receive a gift.”

  Aurelia flushed; he did have a point, and she was making far too much out of the matter. Quickly, she sifted through her memory for unexceptionable gifts. “All right. I should like some new sheet music. I hadn’t realized how limited our selection was until I took up the piano again.”

  “More Chopin?” he asked, smiling.

  “I was thinking of some popular tunes. Maybe some of the songs from The Gondoliers?”

  “I’ll bear that in mind,” Trevenan replied. He consulted his watch. “It’s well past noon. Would you care for some refreshment? We can go back to Fortnum and Mason, if you like.”

  Aurelia hesitated, remembering yesterday’s unfortunate encounter. “Refreshment would be welcome, thank you. But perhaps someplace else this time.”

  “Of course. Shall we try Gunter’s instead? Unless you think it’s too cold for ices.”

  “Unless we’re in the middle of a snowstorm, I can always eat an ice!” she assured him.

  He laughed outright. “A woman after my own heart! Then let’s go and find a hackney.”

  ***

  Situated in Berkeley Square, Gunter’s Tea Shop displayed a sign marked with a pineapple—an emblem of hospitality, Trevenan informed a fascinated Aurelia. Entering, they found a table in a quiet corner of the tearo
om—not yet filled with patrons—and seated themselves. A smiling waiter hurried up at once to greet them and offer suggestions on what to order. Bemused by his attentiveness, Aurelia agreed to try the Neapolitan, one of Gunter’s specialties.

  “Good heavens!” she exclaimed when the confection was set before her: three luscious-looking layers of pink, green, and white ice cream, topped with red rosettes made from currant water ice. “I’ve heard the saying ‘too pretty to eat,’ but I’ve never believed it, until now.”

  Trevenan grinned at her over his own dish of strawberry ice. “Well, I think you’d better try to eat it, because it won’t be nearly as pretty when it melts.”

  “True.” Aurelia picked up her spoon. The first taste, a mingling of strawberry, vanilla, and pistachio, astonished her. “Oh, my. We have ice creams in America too, but not like this!”

  “Gunter’s ices are something special,” Trevenan agreed. “I still remember my first one. I must have been all of seven years old at the time, visiting London with my parents.”

  He’d been orphaned young, Aurelia remembered; a sailing accident in Italy, Amy had told her. “Did they often come to the city—your parents?”

  “Only on business or for a brief holiday. They were Cornish to the bone, and happiest at home. As I am,” he added. “In fact, I never feel quite myself when I’m anywhere else.”

  “You must be counting the days until you can return,” Aurelia remarked.

  “I am, indeed. I only hope your sister takes to Cornwall—and the rest of you, of course.”

  “Oh, Amy enjoys the seaside very much,” Aurelia assured him. “She loves going to Newport in the summer. Is Cornwall very like Newport?”

  The door swung open, cutting off his reply and admitting a burst of laughter and chatter.

  “Well, girls, let’s have ourselves a real English tea!” a boisterous female voice declared.

  The words and the speaker’s familiar, flattened vowels rang in Aurelia’s ears, seemed to stop the blood in her veins. Not again. Fate could not be so unkind. Steeling herself, she glanced casually toward the door—and almost sagged with relief. American girls, without a doubt—chaperoned by an older grey-haired lady—but not a Vandermere among them.

  Silently thanking providence, she turned back to Trevenan. “You were saying, my lord?”

  His expression told her he was not deceived; his words confirmed it. “Are you all right?”

  Aurelia tried to smile. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?” She popped another spoonful of her Neapolitan into her mouth to avoid answering; fortunately, the chattering group of Americans had moved to a table on the other side of the room.

  Trevenan sighed. “There’s no need to pretend, my dear. I know what’s troubling you—your sister’s already informed me.”

  Aurelia swallowed, feeling a sudden chill in the pit of her stomach that had nothing to do with the ice cream. “Amy told you—about Charlie and me?”

  “Yes. I hope you will not be too upset with her. I asked her just what the relationship was between your family and the Vandermeres.” He paused, then resumed gently, “I’m so sorry you were hurt by someone you cared for so deeply.”

  Aurelia exhaled slowly. The memory his words evoked was painful, but it was the dull pain of an old wound, not the raw agony of a new one. “I did care for him,” she admitted. “Very much. There was a time I thought I’d never get past the caring—or what came after.”

  Trevenan’s face darkened. “The way he abandoned you, you mean?”

  “It’s a little more complicated than that.” She fiddled with her spoon. “It’s not that I’m absolving Charlie from all blame. I blame him for plenty, believe me! But what happened was partly my responsibility. If he abandoned me…well, I made it easy for him to do so.”

  He frowned. “No honorable man would abandon the woman he loved if she was injured!”

  “Perhaps not. But would an honorable woman—facing disability and disfigurement—insist that he stay?” Aurelia countered. She took a breath to quell her agitation before going on, the words spilling from her in a barely controlled torrent.

  “When Charlie came to visit afterwards, he could barely look at me. I could tell what my accident was doing to him, how frightened he was at the thought of being tied to a cripple for life. And I knew what his family expected of him. He was supposed to make an advantageous marriage to a woman who’d be the perfect Society hostess, beautiful and charming at all times. I couldn’t promise any of that anymore, so I offered to set him free. And he accepted.” She paused, smiling wryly. “My own fault, I suppose, that I was in any way surprised. He praised me for my selflessness and told me I’d always be as dear to him as a sister. He even said his family would be willing to assist mine with my care, should the need arise—”

  “God, what an unmitigated ass!” Trevenan interrupted in tones of deep disgust. “Did anyone in your family happen to overhear this self-serving rubbish?”

  His blunt speech was oddly comforting. “No. But the doctor came in, fortunately, and told Charlie to leave because he was clearly distressing the patient. Mind you, he didn’t know the half of it, but I couldn’t bear to tell anyone in my family what had happened.”

  “Except Amy.”

  “Except Amy, and even then, not right away. Of course, she’s referred to him as ‘Stupid Charlie’ ever since.”

  “She’s being entirely too generous.” Trevenan paused, his face still thunderous. “Well, if it’s any consolation, I am sure he’d be kicking himself if he could see you now!”

  Aurelia felt herself color. “Thank you. That’s quite a compliment.”

  “It’s no less than the truth. You’ve turned your life around since then. You should be proud of that.” He looked at her and smiled, the last signs of anger vanishing. “Very proud.”

  Her heart lifted at his words. He was right; no one could take away or mar the triumph of her recovery—least of all the Vandermeres. “I’ll try to remember that from now on.”

  “Well, you’ll have Amy—and myself—to remind you, lest you forget.” Leaning back in his chair, he added briskly, “Now, let’s finish our ices before they turn into soup!”

  Smiling, Aurelia picked up her spoon again.

  Ten

  A queen in opal or in ruby dress,

  A nameless girl in freshest summer greens,

  A saint, an angel—every canvas means

  The same one meaning, neither more nor less.

  —Christina Rossetti, “In an Artist’s Studio”

  Amy frowned down at the card in her hand, then looked back up at the house before her. No mistake in the address, although she’d envisioned something quite different from this rather handsome terraced townhouse.

  Of course, Mr. Sheridan was grandson to a duke, she reminded herself. Not some penniless bohemian toiling in a squalid garret in Soho or Chelsea. He mightn’t be exceptionally wealthy, but he could certainly afford to lease a house like this and have his studio on the same premises.

  No one knew she was here, which was just as well, as she suspected Aurelia at the very least might have tried to talk her out of it. Originally, she’d planned on taking her maid, but Mariette had shown signs of the same cold that had felled her sister’s maid Suzanne. Instead, Amy had donned a hat with a thick veil that concealed her features before venturing out.

  Screwing her courage to the sticking place, she marched up the walk and rapped smartly on the door. A middle-aged woman in a severe black dress answered her knock.

  “May I help you, ma’am?” she inquired in a pleasant, well-modulated voice.

  “Good morning. I am Miss Newbold, and I’ve come to see Mr. Sheridan…in a professional capacity,” Amy added at once.

  “Mr. Sheridan has stepped out for the moment, miss, but he’s expected back shortly.”

  “Perhaps I might wait for him in his studio?” Amy suggested with her most winning smile. “It is a matter of some importance, I assure you.”

  T
he housekeeper—as Amy assumed she must be—pursed her lips but finally nodded. “Very well, miss. If you’ll follow me?”

  Amy obeyed, relieved not to have encountered greater resistance. But then, she reasoned, Mr. Sheridan must receive many visits, whether from potential patrons, collectors, or models.

  “In here, miss.” The housekeeper showed Amy into a large salon on the ground floor. “I’ll tell Mr. Sheridan of your arrival as soon as he comes in,” she added, and withdrew.

  Left alone, Amy gazed around the studio with interest. Canvases of varying sizes, in different stages of completion, hung from the walls or sat propped upon easels, and the room itself smelled not unpleasantly of turpentine and linseed oil. Too curious to sit down, she folded back her veil and wandered about the studio, examining the paintings one by one.

  A few landscapes—certainly not on par with Turner or Constable, but Amy had to admit that they were gracefully rendered, with what appeared to be special attention to the qualities of light and shadow. An autumn scene, rich with images of ripening fruit and turning leaves, seemed bathed in a mellow radiance that evoked a sense of shorter days and cooler temperatures. In another painting, a lighthouse shone blindingly white against the brilliant blue of a summer sky and the shimmering green of a turbulent sea.

  Mr. Sheridan was indeed talented, Amy conceded grudgingly but fairly. At sixteen, she’d have given her eyeteeth to paint even half as well; acknowledging her own lack of artistic ability had been a bitter pill to swallow, though she’d come to terms with it, for the most part. Nonetheless, she would have enjoyed finding a serious flaw in at least one of Mr. Sheridan’s paintings. But even his portraits were well-executed, far superior to the stiff family likeness her parents had commissioned five years ago, which now hung in the library of their Fifth Avenue home. Reading the placards, she discovered that several members of Sheridan’s family had posed for him, though not—to her relief—Lord Glyndon. One portrait in particular drew her eye—that of a brown-haired girl in a green dress sitting on a fallen tree trunk. A book lay open on her lap, but she gazed straight out from the canvas with merry brown eyes and the barest hint of a welcoming smile. She looked like someone who had just caught sight of a dear friend and was about to spring up to greet her—or him, Amy amended. Despite her best efforts, she found herself oddly charmed by the sitter’s open, guileless expression.