Regency Debutantes

by Margaret McPhee

  Kathryn’s eyes lit up, and she smiled before waiting politely for Lady Maybury to deliver her verdict.

  ‘It’s certainly a splendid suggestion, but Kathryn and I will go alone. We’ve been monopolising you, Nicholas, and we should allow you to pursue your own interests for the day. You will grow bored with constantly escorting an old lady and her companion.’ She faced her grandson. ‘Is that not a better idea?’

  Ravensmede returned his grandmother’s look in full. Something unspoken flashed between them, something slightly dangerous that conflicted with the smiles upon their faces.

  Sensing the underlying current, Kathryn felt unease prickle between her shoulder blades.

  ‘A veritable genius.’ replied Lord Ravensmede. ‘Your concern for my welfare is admirable, Grandmama, but I am of a mind to enjoy the beach tomorrow too. You would not forbid my interest?’

  Faded green eyes locked with bright green, in a battle of wills, and then the dowager inclined her head. ‘Not this time,’ she said.

  Anna Marchant left the maid to close the gaping front door and hurried towards the parlour at the back of the house, pulling off her gloves and straw bonnet as she went. Just as she expected, she found her husband sitting comfortably spread out upon the sofa reading a newspaper. He glanced up briefly as she shut the door firmly behind her, then resumed his examination of the article in which he appeared engrossed.

  ‘You’re back sooner than I expected,’ said Mr Marchant without taking his eyes from the paper. ‘Did the visit not go well?’

  ‘The place is empty. A serving girl told me that Lady Maybury and her companion have gone to Brighthelmstone.’

  ‘So?’ Mr Marchant could barely keep the boredom from his voice.

  ‘With Lord Ravensmede.’

  ‘So?’ he said again.

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ snapped Mrs Marchant. ‘Must I spell it out for you?’

  Henry Marchant slowly lowered the newspaper from before his face and looked at his wife with an irritated expression. ‘Madam, I’m sure that is what you intend, so hurry up and be done with it.’

  ‘Lord Ravensmede has hired a house for them all in Brighthelmstone. He is living in the same premises as Kathryn!’

  ‘And his grandmother,’ pointed out Mr Marchant.

  ‘It’s all of a sham, I tell you. He’s taken Kathryn as his mistress under the guise of her being Lady Maybury’s companion.’

  ‘Nonsense! Eleanor Maybury wouldn’t risk her reputation with such a thing. And I doubt that even Ravensmede would drag his own grandmother into such a scheme. Besides, if Ravensmede wanted Kathryn as his mistress, he would have taken her by now, and as blatantly as he did all of the others.’

  ‘Whatever you say, the rumours are already starting, Henry!’ she snapped. ‘Think what they’ll do to Lottie. Where will her chances of a good match be then, when her cousin is publicly denounced as a slut?’

  ‘I’m sure you’re mistaken, Anna.’

  ‘There’s very much more danger than you realise.’ She thought fleetingly of Amanda White’s threat. ‘I’m sure that a trip to Brighthelmstone is in order.’

  Mr Marchant’s eyes rolled up into his head. ‘I think you’re overreacting, my dear.’

  ‘You’ll see who is overreacting when your niece is the talk of the town and your own daughter’s chance of marriage is ruined because of it. Hasn’t Kathryn lived as part of this family for the past three years? Do you think I’ve learned nothing of the girl’s nature? I’ve said all along that she is a sly and wanton miss, and now I’m proved right. Will you let her destroy Lottie’s chance? Are you content to let your brother’s daughter ruin everything for your own flesh and blood? Mark my words, if one hint of this comes out before Lottie has made a match, then she’ll be on the shelf for ever!’ Mrs Marchant pressed a small lace handkerchief to her eye and gave a sniff.

  With the weary resignation of a man who knew full well that his wife would give him no peace, Henry Marchant closed the newspaper, folded it in two and sat it upon his lap. ‘What do you wish to do?’

  ‘Fetch Kathryn back from Brighthelmstone. Have her live here with us.’

  ‘You dislike the girl immensely, Anna. Why do you want her back here?’

  ‘If she’s under our control, then we can limit any danger she might do. She’s safer where we can keep an eye on her.’ She made no mention of Mrs White and what the widow had insinuated. ‘For the sake of my daughter’s future I’m prepared to suffer Kathryn’s presence.’

  Mr Marchant digested his wife’s words. ‘Kathryn is now four and twenty. We cannot force her to come back with us. The last time I saw her she seemed determined in her role as Lady Maybury’s companion. And I don’t suppose she can have too fond a remembrance of this house.’

  ‘Why should she should think of us with anything less than gratitude? Had it not been for this family Kathryn would have ended up in the gutter. However, I concede that she always was a selfish, addle-brained miss, and perhaps that has biased her memory,’ said Mrs Marchant. ‘That’s why I have a plan.’ For the first time since entering the parlour she smiled. ‘You need not worry, Henry. A little family trip to partake of the sea air and Kathryn will return with us to Green Street.’ Her smile broadened. ‘And then she’ll be sorry, very sorry indeed, for all the trouble that she’s caused.’

  The day was fine and warm with a pleasant sea breeze. They had encamped on the beach at a secluded spot not far removed from the town of Worthing, and enjoyed a tasty lunch from the depths of the hamper. Lady Maybury, having battled valiantly against the combined effects of fatigue, heat and a full stomach, lost the struggle and finally succumbed to sleep beneath the shade of her parasol.

  Kathryn sat on a small stool placed upon the sand. The wooden drawing board was balanced on her thighs, and she stared completely entranced by the vast expanse of sea that stretched before her.

  ‘Do you mind if I watch while you paint?’ Ravensmede sat down beside the slight figure that seemed dwarfed beneath the drawing board. He could not see her face beneath that hideous monstrosity of a bonnet. Momentarily he wondered why she was still insistently wearing the mud-brown hat; he knew full well that his grandmother had been doggedly trying to add to her companion’s wardrobe piece by piece.

  She turned then and looked up. ‘I don’t mind, but I warn you that it shall not take long before you grow deeply and thoroughly bored.’ The small pink mouth curved in a tantalising smile. An errant curl fluttered across her cheek.

  She was teasing him! One dark eyebrow arched wryly. ‘Perhaps. I’ve never watched an artist at work. This will be a new experience for me.’

  ‘Then I hope it will be an enjoyable one.’ She fixed her paper into place and, after checking the sharpness of her pencil, began to sketch.

  ‘I thought you meant to paint the scene.’

  ‘Yes. But I’ll draw it out first in pencil so that I may rectify any mistakes I make. Only when I’m happy that I have the proportions correct will I begin to paint.’ All the while her hand moved swiftly, lightly against the paper, her gaze flickering constantly between the sea and the white patch of paper.

  Ravensmede’s gaze flitted from the view to the paper to the fine bones of the woman’s face. She was clearly intent on her task, her gaze never wandering once. There was an openness about her expression, as if she had let fall the careful guard of politeness. This was the Kathryn that he’d witnessed humming behind the tree in St James’s Park, who had gazed unseeing at a blackened fireplace in her aunt’s house, and smiled when he touched his fingers to her cheek. It was the first time she’d knowingly let him witness her escape, to wherever it was she went when she looked so faraway. He could see the same look in her eye, as if she were present in body only and her mind somewhere else altogether. ‘You must have had a very good drawing master!’ The faint marks on the paper were beginning to take shape.

  A laugh that caught on the wind was carried out to sea. ‘I taught myself! Anyone can sketch if t
hey practise enough, and believe me I practised!’ Still her gaze moved methodically between the lapping water and the white page. Her eyes were narrowed and her face crinkled against the sun. ‘Have you tried your hand at it?’

  ‘As a child, never since. My mother said it was quite the most ugly picture she had ever seen. My talents lie elsewhere, or so I am told.’

  Only then did she pause, and look up into his face. ‘I’m sure your mother was wrong.’ Her voice was quietly serious and her eyes filled with compassion. Then she smiled and the moment was gone, as quickly as it had arrived. She resumed her scrutiny of the view. ‘I can teach you if you like.’ It was uttered lightly, as if it were of no importance. The pencil scraped against the page, making a vertical line here, a horizontal line there.

  A blossoming of warmth erupted in Ravensmede’s chest. He longed to lay his arm across her shoulders, to hold her to him. ‘I would like that very much, Kathryn.’ Since his dismissal of Harry Silverton he had felt extraordinarily happy. Knowing that she held the golden-haired youth in no regard and had sought his own protection gladdened his heart. It was better than winning a fortune night after night at the gaming tables. Better than an evening spent drinking with Caddie and the boys. And infinitely better than any time he had spent in any other woman’s company. He watched while she covered the entirety of the page, excepting the odd patch here and there, in pale blue paint.

  As if in answer to his unasked question she offered an explanation. ‘It’s a wash to unify the background. It should also stop the glare from the sun bouncing up from the page and dazzling my eyes. Conditions today are perfect and it should dry in no time. Would you like some paper and a pencil?’

  ‘For now I’m content to watch you. But I’ll hold you to your promise of sketching lessons.’ The sun beat down with a relentless strength. ‘Kathryn, would you mind if I removed my coat?’

  She did not look up from mixing her paints. ‘Of course not. You must be melting beneath all that wool.’

  He peeled off the offending item and laid it down by his side. The cooling breeze fluttered through the fine lawn sleeves of his shirt, and he toyed with the idea of removing his waistcoat and neckcloth, but thought better of it. Daubs of paint were stroked on to the paper by her delicate hand. Just watching fascinated Ravensmede. The slow repetitive action, sometimes tentative, sometimes bold, held his attention so that he could not look away. A sheet of calm sparkling water, clear and deep, of quite the brightest turquoise coloration he had seen. Small waves lapping against the shoreline in the distance. Cloudless blue sky stretching out far to the horizon. She captured it all. And the air of peace that surrounded them. Nothing sounded except the soft rush of the sea on the sand and the cry of the gulls circling high overhead. It was enough just to sit by her, to be in her presence. No need for words. Soft sugary sand warm to the touch, all yellow and fawn, golden and white. On and on she painted, as if driven by the magic of the place to set down a record of what had existed for this one afternoon. And all the while Ravensmede sat by her side.

  One last brush stroke and she cocked her head to the side. ‘Mmm.’ It was a gentle sigh of consideration. With deliberate care she set the board aside and clambered to her feet. ‘Pins and needles in my legs.’ She wiggled and stamped her feet to ease the numbness and, unmindful of her bonnet ribbons that were flapping around her chin, pressed the weighty drawing board into the Viscount’s hands. ‘Please can you hold this, just so that I may check that I haven’t missed anything. I always find looking at it from a distance helps.’ Without waiting for an answer she moved several paces away and turned to inspect the painting.

  Ravensmede looked down at the drawing board. ‘You’ve captured the view splendidly.’

  ‘And you, sir, are looking at it upside down!’ came the cheeky reply.

  His mouth curved to a grin. ‘I beg your pardon, but I can imagine how it will appear the right way round.’

  ‘Here, let me hold it while you look.’ Just as the board was halfway between them, a gust of wind lifted Kathryn’s bonnet clear off her head. She loosed her grip on the board in order to catch it back, just as Ravensmede engaged in the same idea. The drawing board dropped to the sand, bouncing on its side before fortuitously landing on its back. The ties that had secured the painting dislodged in the fall, and, before either Kathryn or Nicholas could move, the sheets of paper were sent flapping and tumbling along the sand. ‘Oh, no! That’s all the paper I have left!’ The bonnet forgotten, Kathryn scrabbled along the shore, and successfully captured the newly finished coastal painting along with four blank sheets. Another five blew ever further away.

  Nicholas caught her elbow. ‘You have the painting. Let the others go. We can buy some more.’

  ‘No, paper is costly and all my money is accounted for. Please!’

  With that look in her eyes and the long wind-blown hair tumbling in a cascade of curls reaching far past her shoulders, Ravensmede would have granted her anything. In a gallant gesture he chased the sheets until at last he had caught each and every one. His exertions had taken him quite some distance along the beach, but when he looked round the slight figure was running towards him. Her hair glinted a reddish golden brown in the sunlight and was billowing wantonly in every direction. A pair of finely shaped ankles and calves were visible each time the wind gusted around her skirts; moreover, the material was blown to cling revealingly against the shape of her thighs and hips. As he collected the papers into a tidy pile, one caught his eye. It was not blank, but contained a pencil drawing executed in great detail. The breath caught in Ravensmede’s throat. His eyes raked the picture a moment longer before he bent low to the ground as if catching the papers up to him, and slipped the folded sheet into the secret inner pocket of his waistcoat.

  ‘Nicholas!’

  He glanced up and, with a smile upon his face, closed the empty distance between them.

  She was breathless and pink-cheeked, wild and wind blown, and, judging from the look on her face, enormously glad to see him. Lord, but he could have taken her in his arms and tumbled her upon the sand there and then.

  ‘Did you catch them?’

  ‘Every last one!’ He passed the sheets into her hands, and, unable to help himself, caught her to him and pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

  She did not chastise him. Rather one small hand reached up and squeezed his arm. ‘Thank you,’ she said simply.

  ‘Come on, we had best get you back to Grandmama. She won’t be pleased when she wakens.’

  The silver-grey eyes were lit with pearly hues. ‘Perhaps she’s still sleeping and has not seen this débâcle.’

  The Viscount laughed and gently swept his thumb across the bridge of her nose. ‘I was thinking more about your freckles. Although, personally, I find them quite delightful.’ He cast her a wicked grin, held her hand in his and walked back towards his grandmother.

  It was fortunate that the Viscount spotted Kathryn’s hairpins in the sand close by her abandoned drawing board, and more fortunate still that the young lady had managed to secure her hair in some vestige of a respectable style before the dowager awakened. Alas, the mud-brown bonnet had been swept far out to sea, a mishap that caused his lordship much rejoicing. Indeed, Lord Ravensmede could not remember a more enjoyable day.

  Chapter Twelve

  It was one quiet afternoon close to the end of the second week of their holiday when Lady Maybury announced her intention to host a ball at her grandson’s townhouse.

  Lady Maybury continued, ‘I haven’t told him of m’idea yet, and I don’t want you letting the cat out of the bag, young lady. It wouldn’t do to pester him with all the details when we can sort those out ourselves.’

  ‘But shouldn’t we check that he’s happy to host such an event first, before making any arrangements?’

  ‘He shall not be hosting the ball. That’s my job,’ said the dowager. ‘I assure you, Kathryn, he’ll be most pleased with my efforts.’

  ‘But…’

/>   Lady Maybury raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you questioning that I know what’s best for m’own grandson?’

  Kathryn saw all the warning signs and sought to pacify her employer. ‘No, not at all, my lady. If you’ve made up your mind then—’

  ‘My mind is made up,’ came the adamant reply. ‘Fetch paper, pen and ink and let us begin the list of guests. There’s no time like the present. And remember that it’s to remain, for the minute, a secret from Nicholas.’

  ‘Of course.’ Kathryn did as she was bid and waited.

  Soon the dowager was reeling off names. ‘Lord and Lady Radford, Lord and Lady Finlay, Lady Hadstone, Mrs Lee, Lady Farrow, oh, and Mr and Mrs Barchester and the Misses Barchester, but most certainly not Mr and Mrs Palmer—they’re too vulgar for words.’ She sighed and waited for Kathryn’s neat script to stop. And then the pause stretched a little longer. ‘Naturally, when Nicholas is married, his wife will take over such duties. This is likely to be the last time I’m able to play hostess for him.’

  Something cold wrapped itself around Kathryn’s chest and squeezed. She was quite unable to move. ‘I didn’t realise that the Viscount was betrothed.’

  ‘Oh, he isn’t…well, not officially.’ Lady Maybury leaned forward and lowered her voice. ‘If I’m not mistaken, that is something that will be remedied before the Season is at a close.’ She gave a sage nod of the head. ‘M’son Charles—that is, Nick’s father, Earl Maybury—thinks it’s more than time that the boy settled down and all that, what with him having sown more than his fair share of wild oats.’ She sniffed.

  A tinge of colour touched Kathryn’s cheeks.

  ‘Still, the least said about that side of things the better. Afraid us Mayburys are not a patient lot, as you may already have guessed, m’dear. But even Nick can’t hold out much longer against his father. Charles’s practically got it all arranged. Gel is from a decent family, good breeding and money too. Can’t think why Nick’s being so confoundedly stubborn. Wretched boy’s got to marry at some time or other.’