by Agnes Forest
“Well, yes. That. But also, we must have a feast this evening!” Lord Benedict added. He was doing a little dance with his feet and Sawyer found it curious. “Do you care for scallops?”
“I have enjoyed them in the past, yes,” Sawyer replied.
“Oooh, goody, goody,” Lord Benedict said. He was fluttering his eyelashes. Percival lit his pipe again. “Goody, goody,” he repeated, dancing off towards his horse.
Lord Benedict couldn’t explain it; he was unaware of his own happiness. For so long he had been under the oppressive thumb of Lord Phillip Lockfield.
“I fear that I was not invited for scallops,” Percival said, pipe in mouth.
“You should come anyhow, old chap,” Sawyer said, still collecting himself.
“Truly? Just show up uninvited?” Percival asked in wonder.
“That’s what I’m suggesting,” Sawyer replied.
“Very well, then.”
That is precisely what Percival would do.
Sawyer remained on the patch of land for some time, watching the misty field, marveling at his good fortune. All the battles that he had fought in his life had been leading up to that one battle, it seemed. All the fighting, the bloodshed, and the lives lost, they had all been so that Sawyer might prove victorious on that most auspicious day.
He would relish the moment in silence for a bit longer, and then he would go and claim Lady Vivian.
Chapter Twenty-One
Lady Sophie Langton was eating a crust of bread. It was hard and stale in her mouth, the butter did little to revive it, and she relished in it. What could be more appetizing than a Wednesday night at Almack’s when the ton came to life and gossip reigned? On that particular night, there was a special piece of gossip going around, and Lady Sophie couldn’t wait to get to the bottom of it.
“I fear that all this cake will give me a double chin,” Lady Sophie said, fanning herself.
“Oh, dear Lady Sophie, you already have one,” Lady Blythe Hennessy replied. Her hair was particularly red that night because she had had it stained in town, and her lips appeared to be stained the same color. That rather expensive stain was coming off on her mashed potatoes, which looked as though they’d been kissed by berries.
“My, but there are so many in attendance tonight,” Lady Elizabeth said. She had a glow about her. Since becoming a close acquaintance of Lady Vivian, she had someone to confide in. Lady Elizabeth could finally speak her heart and mind.
“I notice you have very little by way of intrigue to say this evening,” Lady Sophie said, lifting her brow.
“What’s to say?” Lady Elizabeth asked with a warm smile. “I’m merely content.”
I’m so excited for the news of Lady Vivian, that I won’t share a peep, Lady Elizabeth thought to herself.
Lady Sophie and Lady Blythe eyed her with suspicion. They knew that she was concealing something.
In truth, Lady Elizabeth knew more than most. For since that fateful morning where Lieutenant Sawyer Cook slay the dragon, much had transpired and Lady Elizabeth learned of it all through post. When a letter did not suffice, the girls would meet in town for warm cocoa and giggling. How absurd, they had thought, to indulge in cocoa and giggling. Such a cliche. But they did it anyhow and immensely enjoyed themselves.
There was no more extraordinary sight than seeing Vivian at her desk, scrawling her happy letters. She’d write feverishly and the ink would get everywhere. Both Georgette and Fanny complained that Vivian was getting ink on her gowns every day, and so Lady Vivian borrowed an apron from the cook.
Not only was she delighted to have a friend to write to, but those letters were about Sawyer, of all things. It was as though she were writing a book about him.
In essence, Lady Elizabeth sat there at Almack’s supper room with a warm smile upon her lips. It was a look of contentment, mischief, and the sense that good things were on the horizon.
“Eat your bread,” Lady Sophie said. She hated to be the only one at table indulging.
“Oh, but Lady Sophie, the food here is terrible,” Lady Elizabeth said with a laugh. The other ladies went dumb. It wasn’t polite to talk of how bad the food was in proper company. That was only to be done behind closed doors. Lady Sophie continued eating her cake in silence.
“When do you think that she’ll arrive?” a young lady at another table said.
“I daresay within the hour,” another replied.
Lady Sophie leaned over to surreptitiously listen in on this conversation. She hated when others knew more than she did.
“They’re speaking of Lady Vivian Ravenswood,” Lady Sophie whispered.
“Are they?” Lady Blythe said with anticipation. She tried to listen in as well.
“Whatever is the news? I only heard of the duel. We were all awaiting word but nothing. Silence,” Lady Sophie said as though it were the most horrible word ever spoken.
“Heavens, do you think that Lord Phillip is dead? I shall die as well,” Lady Blythe went on.
“It’s all such a mystery,” Lady Elizabeth said. “I have not heard a word, as well. I do hope that everything turned out for the best.”
She was eyed with suspicion again from her table mates.
“I feel faint with anticipation,” Lady Sophie added.
“I think that’s from the heat. It’s stifling in here,” Lady Blythe added.
“Indeed,” Lady Sophie replied, fanning herself vigorously.
And so it happened in the supper room that night that everyone was all atwitter with speculation about the fate of Lady Vivian, the soldier, and Lord Phillip. Despite being a war hero, everyone still referred to Sawyer as ‘the soldier.’
Upstairs in the gentlemen’s room, things were no different.
“Forty pounds,” Calvin said, smoking a cigar and looking out the window. He had the attention of the entire room.
“Come off it!” another gentleman replied.
“Forty pounds that Lady Vivian Ravenswood and Lieutenant Sawyer Cook shall be married before the season is out.” Calvin turned to face the gentlemen and leaned against the window pane.
“I don’t believe it,” a man said, throwing down his cards in protest. “It’s as though you wish to relieve yourself of forty pounds.”
“I do, in fact,” Calvin went on. “It’s burning a hole in my pocket and I can’t stand it any longer. I desperately want one of you fine gentlemen to have my forty pounds so that my pocket can return to the cool, inviting place that it once was.”
“That’s the devil burning a hole in your pocket. This isn’t a gambling hall!” Lord Rutherford said, throwing down some gaming chips at his table. The men looked to him in confusion. “Well, these are just chips, not coins,” he protested.
“I’ll take your bet of forty pounds!” Christian Sherbet cried, bursting into the room. “And I’ll raise you twenty.”
As had happened on many occasions, Sherbet was dancing when word spread quickly that Cain was up to something. He ran up to the gentlemen’s room, knocking over three dukes on the way. Sherbet didn’t even apologize.
“Lord Sherbet, were you not rooting for the marriage?” Calvin asked in confusion.
Sherbet had to stop to think about it.
“What a ridiculous question, of course I’m rooting for them,” Sherbet explained, offended.
“Then why are you betting against them, old chap?”
“Because I need sixty quid, that’s why,” Sherbet replied, as though it were the most sensible thing in the world.
“Lord Sherbet, I’ll give you sixty quid for nothing if you sit down and leave all of this alone,” Calvin replied.
“Right, then,” Sherbet said, sitting.
“As I was saying, since Lord Sherbet raised the bet, I will as well. I wager sixty pounds that Sawyer Cook and Lady Vivian shall be wed before the season is out. Any takers?”
There was silence. The men looked about from side to side, seeing who was going to bite.
“What cowards,�
� Calvin said, shaking his head. He crossed his arms about his chest and walked around the room, interweaving the tables. “And to think, you are the most prestigious men of Britain. Some day you will own this country. Maybe some of you already do. You’ve been to Eton, Oxford, you’ve seen combat in the Americas, in France. You’ve traveled far and wide, to India and Egypt. You have undertaken expeditions to jungles and rainforests, you’ve enjoyed safaris in Africa. . . “
There was snickering amongst the men.
“You’ve eaten the world’s richest cuisine; you’ve danced with courtesans . . .”
“More than danced!” A man cried.
“Good for you,” Calvin replied. “You own everything that we see. Out there, out that very window!” Cain ran to the window and flung it open. “Those buildings are owned by you. That vast black sky with the stars, you don’t actually own that but you think you do. This very wood . . .” Calvin said, dropping his hands upon a table.
The wood, the wood, Sherbet thought to himself with pride.
“Although it was not crafted with your own hands, you paid someone to do so. Despite all this opulence, this power, this hegemonic strength, no one in this room will accept a mere sixty-pound bet because deep down you are squirrelly pansies and suspect that Lady Vivian will marry for love.
Silence. The men looked down to the ground.
“Calvin Cain, I will take your bet!” the butler cried out. Calvin looked confused.
“You don’t believe in love, then?” Calvin asked the butler.
“No, M’Lord. I think there is no chance in hell that Sawyer Cook shall marry Lady Vivian. It’s all the attendants of Almack’s can speak of,” the butler went on.
“Alright then,” Calvin replied, not knowing what else to say. “Cowards,” he said again to the other gentlemen. “I need a drink,” Cain left the room to go to the Golden Pineapple.
His course would be prevented by, of all things, the presence of Lord Phillip.
“I say,” Calvin said to himself, seeing Lord Phillip hobble through the door. He wore a sling on each arm, as well as a bandage around his head. Now, it must be explained here that there was no damage to Lord Phillip’s head, rather the bandage was for effect. The slings did not help his arms much, either, but they served the same purpose. What Lord Phillip was doing was walking into a field of bees and had covered himself with honey. But there was a reason for it.
During his time of recuperation, Lord Phillip considered his options. He could lay low, he could seek revenge, he could move to Madagascar, or he could use his bad fortune to his advantage. He was told that Madagascar was cold that time of year so he chose the latter.
He figured that, if he played the role of the wounded fighter, he could serve many purposes. For one, he could make Sawyer look like the bloody butcher that he was. Next, he could easily obtain the sympathies of the single females at Almack’s and quickly find a new prospective wife. Lastly, he could finally have a taste of what it is like to be a man returning from the battlefield. For indeed, he had been on a field, and doing a kind of battle, so by proxy it was a battlefield and Lord Phillip would command respect because of it.
For all these reasons, Lord Phillip Lockfield stood tall when he went into Almack’s, and the effect was to his liking. The whole club went silent at first. The music stopped playing and the dancing ceased. This was not all in Lord Phillip’s imagination, but rather it really happened. Then there was cooing from the women and backslapping from the soldiers, and modest nods from the gentleman. All in all, Lord Phillip felt like a god.
“It was most unfortunate but I am healing quickly,” Lord Phillip said to one.
“Yes, you should have seen the way that monster came at me,” he said to another.
“It gives me time to rest and read more Plato,” he said to a third.
Is that the ambassador to Poland? he thought to himself, went off to hunt the gentleman down, and was not seen for the rest of that evening. Surely, the ambassador would be impressed by his bandages.
The buzz had been very buzzy before Lord Phillip’s arrival, but now it was a blistering buzz that even Calvin Cain couldn’t escape. He would forgo the Golden Pineapple in order to see what happened next at Almack’s Assembly Rooms.
First, he would go to the corner to be sullen. Because of the sixty quid and the riotous speech before the rich young men of Britain, Calvin was feeling sick to his stomach. It wasn’t the brandy and cigars but rather the loss of his love, Sawyer Cook. It needs to be explained here that this is brotherly love that true gentlemen have difficulty expressing. This kind of bond goes without words. Calvin Cain did very much fear that the loss of Sawyer would be the loss of a bit of himself.
Once Sawyer came into Almack’s, with Lady Vivian at his side no doubt, Calvin would tackle him. Literally leap across the room and take him down, drag him outside, get him drunk, take him to some seedy part of Amsterdam, get him more drunk, and they’d spend the rest of their days discussing Kant and hiring prostitutes.
This seems rather far-fetched, but it was precisely what Calvin wished to do.
Alas, when Sawyer Cook finally came through the door, Calvin physically held onto his seat so that he wouldn’t take that lunge. He couldn’t botch the situation. Besides, he had sixty pounds on the line.
Yet again, the music and dancing stopped and all stood and stared. Sawyer had no bandages, but rather, looked like he had just had a nice bath. He wore his soldier’s attire with pride.
Lords bowed and ladies curtsied as Sawyer passed. He had defeated a gentleman of prestige in one of the most talked of duels of the season - every season had a few - and that meant that he was to be respected, bastard orphan or no bastard orphan.
Where’s the devil? Calvin thought to himself, in reference to Lady Vivian.
“Where’s the old bag?” Sherbet whispered into Calvin’s ear.
“Sod it, man. Why don’t you announce yourself from time to time?” Calvin said, crossing his legs and lighting another cigar.
“Why are you alone here in the corner, chap? Are you feeling glum?” Sherbet said, seating himself beside Calvin and crossing his legs in much the same way.
Calvin rolled his eyes.
“I’m not glum,” he replied like a child.
“I don’t know. You look glum to me,” Sherbet said, looking deeply into his eyes.
Calvin considered briefly whether or not he would take Sherbet to Amsterdam with him instead, but he thought it foolish.
“Look at our boy,” Sherbet said, placing his weighty paw on the back of Calvin’s chair. “All grown up.” This was in reference to Sawyer of course, but Calvin couldn’t stand it. They were not the parents of Sawyer Cook. No one knew who the devil were the parents of Sawyer Cook.
Looking about the room, Calvin could see that everyone was rapt. Off in the corner, Lady Sophie stood, shaking with anticipation. But those shakes would betray her when Lady Vivian entered the room.
To say that she looked like royalty is an understatement. Lady Vivian wore white, as she had on her first trip to Almack’s, and her beauty was so incandescent that Lady Sophie fainted in the corner. Just dropped to the ground. Lady Blythe was so mesmerized that she didn’t even notice her friend’s fall. In fact, Lady Sophie Langton would lie there on the floor for the better part of half an hour before she was discovered.
“Good evening,” Lady Vivian said in regards to the frenzy of attention.
“Good evening,” the crowd of Almack’s collectively replied. Well, it wasn’t entirely that uniform, but it was close.
It wasn’t long before music and dancing began again, and the evening came to life. Everyone was awaiting news of what was going on between the stunning couple. As of yet, there was no definitive word, and that meant that the truth would be spoken through action and behavior. One needed to keenly observe them through the night for any clues or hints.
Regrettably, Lady Sophie could not do this from the floor.
Lady Elizabeth
was ever so happy. Not only because she knew what everyone else could not, but also because her friend looked so joyful. She was positively glowing, and it warmed Lady Elizabeth’s heart considerably.
Fanny had attended, of course. Lady Vivian could not go unescorted yet. But Fanny O’Malley was so tired from all the love and dueling and intrigue that the moment she walked into Almack’s she found a chair and went right to sleep. She did not make it more than ten paces into the club before the chair was procured and she was far gone. Could she have placed several chairs together and splayed herself across them, she would. There was only one occasion where she enjoyed herself at Almack’s and that was the evening with the punch. All other instances were dull in comparison.
Lady Vivian made her rounds, greeting everyone that she needed to greet and so forth, but once she was formally approached by Sawyer her heart went on a jig.
“May I have this dance, Lady Vivian?” Sawyer said with a coy smile.
“Oh, I suppose,” Lady Vivian said playfully, looking away.
She was escorted to the dance floor where all eyes were on her. The music began, the dance ensued, and the magic happened yet again. Even amidst a crowd of stares and gossip - gossip that she could actually hear spoken all around her in full voice - Vivian and Sawyer disappeared when they danced together. They were dancing on the steppes of India, or the plains of Abraham, or the shores of the Galapagos, but they certainly weren’t at Almack’s. They were transported.
When the dance concluded, it was a critical moment. The room became hushed.
“You dance exceedingly well, Lady Vivian,” Sawyer said, wishing to reach out and feel her face in his hand, to touch her hair, her skin, her lips, her . . .
“You are a keen dancer as well, lieutenant,” Vivian replied. She, in kind, wished to feel his hand upon her dainty cheek, her hair, her neck, collarbones, her ears.
Alas, none of that was possible.
As the music picked up again, Sawyer put out his hand as an invitation to dance for a second time.
It had been made official.
