She was saved from saying anything about the weather when Miles’s mother rose from her chair and said, “Well, ladies, shall we take our tea in the drawing room?”
Lady Iverson stood up, and, with a last smile for Lord Dunston and himself, departed in a whisper of velvet. Only the faint fragrance of some spicy perfume remained to remind Miles she had sat beside him for a while.
Chapter Nine
The tall French doors in the drawing room that led out to the garden were half open to the cool night air, to the breezes that carried the scent of late-blooming autumn flowers. Sarah drifted toward them, her teacup in hand, glad of the coolness against her skin, the gentle silence to combat the women’s chatter behind her. When she was certain no one was paying her any attention, she pushed open one of the doors and slipped outside.
There, she found herself in an enchanted garden.
Someone had strung white and blue Chinese lanterns in the trees and placed them along the edge of the terrace. They glowed with the same silvery, opalescent light as the moon, casting a glow on the trees and shrubs, making the neat flower beds into something exotic.
Enchanted by the unexpected sight, Sarah drifted over to stand by the marble balustrade and look down into the garden. Below her, a fountain sent a spray of water into the air, dancing and murmuring, blending its music with the voices of the women that floated from the open door.
Soothed by the beautiful sight, by the peace of being alone at last, Sarah leaned against the balustrade and closed her eyes. She inhaled deeply of the fresh night air.
What an odd supper it had been. Odd, and disquieting. At least, she had ceased to feel all fluttery and school-girlish when Lord Ransome was near! She had begun to be quite annoyed with herself for such ridiculous and unwarranted reactions. She had met handsome men before, and none of them had ever made her want to giggle.
Tonight, she had felt more like herself again, even when seated right next to him for the entire length of supper. Yet something even more unsettling had happened, as she listened to him speak of the evils of poverty and war, of how humans had no need to look for imaginary ghosts in their lives. She felt she had seen a tiny glimpse of the real Lord Ransome, as he was inside, and not just his golden outer self.
She had a glimpse of a man who saw things, felt things deeply, even as he hid behind a practical military-man facade. She felt that he probably concealed that side even from himself, and it only came out in very small bursts, as it had tonight.
Sarah found herself wanting to know more of that side of him, to talk to him, confide her own thoughts and fears. Such a man as she had glimpsed in Lord Ransome tonight would surely understand those fears.
But then, she might just be imagining all of this. He might truly only be what he chose to show the world—a genial gentleman, who had enjoyed his military life and was settling into one of country gentry.
Sarah prided herself on her practicality, her sensibleness, but she knew that, deep inside, she harbored a kernel of Mary Ann’s romanticism. She had found her girlhood refuge not in novels as Mary Ann did, but in historical works. She went away from her irresponsible mother, and the sisters she was often expected to look after, into the worlds of medieval knights and ancient Greek philosophers. She had longed for a life different from her own, and that was what Sir John Iverson offered her when they met.
He had offered her learning, and a work that would benefit people for generations to come. He had told her that history was not dead, but something that lived around them and affected them all the time. Sarah had been fascinated by this, and had come to imagine John as a sort of intellectual white knight, who would rescue her and carry her off into her childhood fantasy world.
It had not proved to be exactly like that, of course. John had taught her much, and she loved the work they did together. But he had been so much older than her, so set in his ways and often bewildered by her desire to socialize. Many was the night when he had sent her off to a rout by herself while he stayed home with his books. He had taken her away from the old life, it was true, yet he had scarcely been any sort of white knight.
She had misjudged Sir John because of her girlish fantasies, and she did not want to misjudge Lord Ransome, too. Especially since misjudging him could cost her her work, before she was close to being finished with it. She could not read more into his flash of sadness and wisdom than there had been.
Sarah’s teacup clattered in its saucer, and she looked down at it distractedly. She had forgotten it was there, had even forgotten she stood on the night-swept terrace all alone. She lifted up the cup and took a sip of the now cold liquid. It was smoky and strong, bracing, and it brought her back to herself.
“Lady Iverson?” a voice said behind her. “Are you quite all right?”
Sarah turned around to find Lord Ransome’s mother, Mrs. Browning, standing in the open doorway. Her pretty face held an expression of concern.
“Oh, yes, Mrs. Browning,” Sarah answered. “I am well. I just needed a bit of air; I never meant to stay out here so long.”
“I quite understand. It was growing rather stuffy in there.” Mrs. Browning came out onto the terrace to stand beside Sarah, her silken skirts rustling and flowing around her. “It is almost time for the gentlemen to rejoin us, and I thought we could set up some tables out here for the cards. Do you think it is warm enough?”
“It’s a beautiful evening; I think it’s a lovely idea.” Sarah looked back out to the garden. “Everything is so perfect tonight, Mrs. Browning.”
“I wanted it to be special, for my son’s first gathering here at Ransome Hall. That is why I left Bath to come here.” Mrs. Browning laughed. “I am not much of a country sort of person! But one must make some sacrifices for one’s children.”
“How long are you going to be at Ransome Hall?”
“Oh, a week perhaps. There is a ball in Bath I absolutely must return for. But I hope that tonight will help ‘launch’ Miles, so to speak, into the neighborhood, and encourage him to socialize more.” She leaned toward Sarah, and added confidingly, “You would not think it to look at him, but my son is really very shy.”
Sarah felt her eyes widen with surprise. “Shy, Mrs. Browning?”
“Yes. Oh, not with his Army friends. With them, he is as voluble as anyone could wish. But with other people, Society people in particular, he is quite shy.” Mrs. Browning gave Sarah a speculative glance. “You seem a sensible sort, Lady Iverson, and my son appears to like you. I hope you will help him out a bit when I have returned to Bath?”
Sarah hardly knew what to say. Lord Ransome liked her? As far as she could see, he treated her no differently than he did anyone else. “I—will certainly do my best, Mrs. Browning.”
Lord Ransome’s mother nodded, as if satisfied, and turned around to go summon the footmen to bring out the tables. As they hurried about, carrying chairs and table linens and relighting lanterns that had gone out, Sarah stood still by the balustrade, her mind spinning. Lord Ransome, shy? He genuinely liked her? His mother wanted her to help him?
This evening could scarcely grow any stranger. It was almost like one of those odd dreams that had been plaguing her of late. For a moment, she wished she could run away back to the hunting box where she lived, and crawl under the bedclothes with a book about the Vikings.
But she could not, of course. The party was still young, and she had card games to get through. All too soon, the servants had finished their task and the guests came out onto the terrace in a jeweled horde. There was much laughter and jostling as everyone searched for their places, and flirtatious shrieks and giggles. It was obvious that some people had been imbibing more than tea in there.
Sarah wished that she had some of whatever spirits those had been.
Mary Ann came up to her side, and took her hand. “Here you are, Sarah! I feared you had gone off back home.”
Sarah smiled at her. “I could scarcely leave you, now could I? I just came out here for some fresh air.”
>
“I talked to Lord Dunston’s granddaughter, Miss Milton, in the drawing room. She enjoys novels, too. Would it be all right if I just sat and talked with her while you play cards? I am such an absolute fool when it comes to cards.”
That was all too true, Sarah thought. For such a smart girl, Mary Ann just never could seem to remember if the ace was high or low. “Of course, dear. Just do not go wandering off anywhere.”
As soon as Mary Ann hurried off with her new friend, Mrs. Browning took her place. “Lady Iverson, could you make up a whist table with my son, and Mrs. Hamilton, and Lord Dunston? Miles is the only one without a partner.”
Sarah glanced past her to see Lord Ransome standing beside a table, with Mrs. Hamilton chattering away beside him. He nodded politely at whatever she was saying, but he watched Sarah and his mother. When she caught his eye, he gave her a faint, almost pleading smile.
And her flutters came right back onto her.
“Of course, Mrs. Browning,” she said, careful to keep her expression politely blank. “I would be happy to.”
“Oh, dear, Lord Dunston! Never say I have made us lose again,” Mrs. Hamilton cried. She tilted her golden-curled head, her face the very picture of consternation.
“Of course not, Mrs. Hamilton,” Lord Dunston said gallantly. “My fault entirely.”
Miles grinned at them. What a most diverting evening it had been, he thought, much more than he had imagined it would be when his mother was planning everything out. He had actually enjoyed himself, and ceased to look about for his uncle whenever someone called him “Lord Ransome.” It had been—enjoyable.
And that was mostly due to the fact that Lady Iverson was next to him for a good deal of the evening. Supper had moved quickly, as he looked at her, at the way her hair gleamed in the candlelight, the animation on her face when she spoke of the Vikings. When she left the dining room, a great deal of the light and air seemed to depart with her, leaving the evening dull and dry, full of masculine talk of politics and port.
He glanced at her now, sitting across from him at the whist table. She laughed good-naturedly at Mrs. Hamilton’s and Lord Dunston’s words, and folded her own cards in her hands. “Or perhaps we won because Lord Ransome is such a superior cardplayer?” she said.
“He is certainly that,” Lord Dunston agreed.
Lady Iverson smiled across the table at Miles, and he couldn’t help but smile back. Her cheeks were flushed with the pleasure of the game, and her wariness had yet to return. She looked relaxed and happy.
Miles wished things could always be just like this. But, of course, they could not; all he could do was enjoy this very moment.
“Where did you learn to play cards so skillfully, Lord Ransome?” she asked. A footman stopped to offer her a glass of sherry from his tray, and she took it and sipped at it. The pinkness in her cheeks brightened and warmed.
Miles found it difficult to concentrate on her question, as he watched her sun-touched throat move when she swallowed. The tiny pulse at the base of her neck fluttered.
He looked back down at the table, at the scattered cards, and reached for his own snifter of brandy. He took a deep drink of it.
“Evenings were long and dull on the Peninsula,” he answered. “Cards were often all that lay between us and going mad with boredom. So I became quite adept.”
Lady Iverson gave him a sympathetic smile.
Mrs. Hamilton squeaked. “Oh, poor Lord Ransome! How perfectly fearful. You must be so happy to be home in England now, here in this lovely house.”
Miles turned to her. She was a pretty woman, if a bit silly and empty-headed, and she seemed kind. It appeared her husband did not appreciate that kindness, though; Mr. Hamilton sat at the table next to theirs, and whenever his wife laughed, he cringed. It was obvious that the Hamilton marriage was a mismatch, and they were only just starting out.
Miles could not help but feel a bit sorry for Mrs. Hamilton, even if it was rather disconcerting when she fluttered her lashes at him, or reached out to touch his sleeve with her lace-gloved hand.
“I am very grateful to be here, Mrs. Hamilton,” he answered. “There are many who were not so fortunate.”
Lady Iverson watched him steadily with serious eyes. “You mean—the ones who did not come back at all?”
He looked at her. He had the sudden, irrational urge to tell her of the friends he had lost, the guilt that gripped his heart when he thought of them, left behind in foreign graves. He wanted to tell her of Jack, who had died in his arms on the battlefield, of Will, who had lost his leg, and died in an agony of blood poisoning in a field hospital.
But, of course, he could tell her none of this. They were in a polite social setting, and even if they were not, she was a lady. He could not be such a boor as to tell her of these horrors.
He wasn’t even sure why he wanted to. Those were in the past; they were locked up in his memory, and there they would stay.
“The ones who did not return, yes,” he said slowly. “And also those who did return, only to find misfortune. But I hope to be able to help some of them, now that I am so fortunate as to be settled here.”
Lady Iverson nodded faintly; the wariness crept back into her face, closing her expression. It was as if she knew what his words meant.
“That is very good of you, Lord Ransome, to want to use your position to help others!” Mrs. Hamilton cried. She glanced over at her husband. “Some people only care about themselves and their own situations. They do not even care about their own families, let alone strangers.”
Mr. Hamilton appeared not to hear her.
“Indeed,” Lady Iverson said. “I am sure we will be hearing more about your plans later, Lord Ransome.”
There was no escaping that, no matter how much Miles wished there could be. He never wanted to hurt Lady Iverson, not with these new, strange feelings he had toward her, but he knew that his plans were far too important to abandon. He owed it to all his lost friends.
“I hope that I may tell you more about them very soon, Lady Iverson,” he said.
Lady Iverson turned away. “Of course, Lord Ransome. I will be very—interested to hear of any of your plans. Right now, however, I must find Mary Ann. It grows late. If you will excuse me?” Still averting her gaze, she left her cards in a neat pile on the table, and rose in a rustle of fluid black velvet.
Miles and Lord Dunston stood and bowed to her as she left. Only when she had melted into the crowd did Miles sit back down.
As he did so, his gaze caught Mrs. Hamilton’s. For one instant, there was a shrewdness, a watchfulness in those pale blue eyes. Then her lashes swept down, and she gave one of her trilling laughs.
“I suppose I ought to go after her,” she said. “After all, we came in the same carriage. It would not do for me to be left here overnight!”
Sarah saw that Mary Ann was still sitting with Miss Milton, the two of them deep in some earnest conversation. She decided not to pull her away just yet, and instead turned and went down the marble steps of the terrace into the garden.
As she moved farther away from the noisy affability of the party, the cool quiet of the night wrapped around her. Her spinning thoughts stilled, and she breathed deeply of the peace.
Eventually, the only sounds she heard were the crunch of her own shoes on the gravel pathways, the swish of her skirts as they swept over the lavender borders of the flower beds. Once in a while, a particularly merry burst of laughter made its way to her ears, but other than that, she felt all alone in the enchanted night.
All alone—except for Lord Ransome. Even though she had left him behind on the terrace, he still seemed with her. His words were still in her mind.
She stopped at the edge of the manicured gardens, and leaned back against a sheltering old oak to stare up at the moon. She had known that Lord Ransome was not a frivolous man—no one could fight in a war for years and be frivolous. Even so, his words tonight had surprised and moved her. They had been brief, but full of some
pain and despair that was usually hidden. She had wanted to know more, to take his hand in hers, to comfort him if she could.
The urge had been so great, that she had to clutch her fork in her fist until the patterned silver pressed into her skin. It had been so strong that it had frightened her.
Sarah had thought, hoped, that Lord Ransome’s visit to the village would show him how important her work there was. Now she knew, from his words tonight, that he still had some other plan for the land. She did not know what that plan could be; no doubt he would tell her “later,” as promised.
And that would be the end of her work here. She could find another project, of course; she could write her book with what knowledge she had already gained. But it would not be the same.
“I wanted to finish this for you, John,” she whispered aloud. “I wanted to finish it for myself.” It had been the first thing in the world that felt like it was hers.
Well, who says you cannot finish it? a contrary voice at the back of her mind whispered. You just have to work harder at persuading Lord Ransome.
Sarah laughed at herself. How could she ever persuade him of the importance of her work, when her thoughts grew all jumbled and silly when she was around him? She had never been very good at persuasive arguments at the best of times, and feminine wiles only felt ridiculous.
But the voice was right—she did have to at least try to make him see the importance of her position. She had never given up on anything she cared about, not without a fight. She had refused to give in to her mother, when she tried to stop Sarah from marrying John. She had not given the village over to Neville Hamilton, when everyone expected her to. And now this village was too important to just surrender.
Sarah pushed away from the tree, and turned her steps back toward the house. It was time for her to find Mary Ann, and summon their carriage to go home. She had to plan out carefully what she would say to Lord Ransome.
One Touch of Magic Page 8
