by Cindy Anstey
“Oh, I do apologize.” Juliana rushed back to the tree, picked up his coat, dusted it off, and sheepishly handed back to him. “I, ah…”
“Dropped it?”
“Yes, most careless of me. I was not thinking.”
“A habit?”
“Well, actually no. I am seldom accused of not thinking. It is more on the order of being overly opinionated or easily distracted, but only by my aunt. Father would never say so.”
“Very kind of him.”
“Well, no, not really. I only seem to do imprudent things when it is expected of me. Strange, do you not think? Father has great respect for my intellect, so I am invariably witty and wise in his presence. Difficult to imagine, is it not?”
“Very difficult.”
Fortunately, the fellow’s friendly smile had returned, or Juliana might have been piqued. He was teasing in such a subtle manner that he was almost being familiar.
They continued to assess each other in companionable silence. It was a rather pleasant sensation, and somewhat surprising. Juliana had not expected to experience any headiness this Season—not in London, and certainly not in the backcountry of Dorset. Apparently, one should never underestimate the allure of a mysterious stranger.
“Here we are, friends and neighbors,” a voice interrupted her musings.
Both started guiltily and turned toward the sandy-haired man. He was leading the dappled pony at a brisk pace down the road. The pony looked calm and unfazed by the adventure.
“There is the cart, all ready for you,” he told the pony. “Good job, old boy,” he said over his shoulder. He led the pony to the front of the cart and started reattaching the leathers. He continued to soothe the pony with his monologue. “Now, did I not tell you that you were going home? Would I lie to you? I am sure, Miss, ah … I am sure your mistress will make sure you have plenty of sweet hay.” The sandy-haired stranger looked up at Juliana for confirmation.
“Absolutely, the sweetest. Bonnie always gets the best … after all the other horses, of course.” Juliana was amused by his attitude toward the poor pony. She was a sorry example of horseflesh, made all the more obvious by the gentlemen’s fine specimens tethered to a nearby shrub, but he used a tone that was gentle and full of kindness. Admirable.
The sandy-haired stranger nodded. “Right-oh. As I said, Bonnie will get you the best hay.”
Juliana laughed. “No, no, I will do it for Bonnie. The pony is called Bonnie; it is not my given name.”
He looked up at her and smiled. “I think Bonnie is most apt for a damsel in distress.”
“Oh no, not at all. A damsel would be called Amelia or Octavia, even Brunhild. Bonnie is such a simple, unassuming name; it would not do at all.”
His brown eyes twinkled. “Ah, but it might, for such a bonny young maid.”
Juliana felt sudden warmth on her cheeks and turned her eyes to the ground briefly. She glanced up in time to see his companion roll his eyes.
The stranger completed his task without further comment or flirtation, patted the pony on the flank, and slowly walked toward Juliana. The wind gently lifted his sandy hair, splaying it across his forehead in a wild fashion. “Your carriage awaits, my lady.” The gallant held his arm out to lead her to the cart.
Juliana recoiled slightly. She sidestepped, almost bumping into the blue-eyed young man in her haste. “Thank you again,” she said to cover her acute discomfort.
She was so gauche, so unpolished. She had made a cake of herself. The art of conversation was a talent that she had long since mastered, well able to hold her own on the topic of natural sciences—particularly the lady beetle—but this art of flirtation was another thing. She had always known her country manners to be a little coarse; it had never bothered her before. However, the contrast between the gentlemen’s smooth manner and her awkward response … well, she would have to try harder if she were to blend into London society.
Juliana climbed into the cart, settled herself on the hard, wooden bench, and took up the reins. Doing her best to recover some dignity, she nodded with a benign smile and flicked the leathers. Unfortunately, she noticed the amusement in the young men’s eyes, and Juliana ruined the nonchalant effect she was trying to impart by chuckling and grinning broadly. Oh well, perhaps next time.
Juliana directed Bonnie around the offending rut and back onto the crest of the road toward Grays Hill Park. She flicked the reins across the pony’s back to encourage a little more haste and prayed that Paul, Aunt’s wizened head groom, would see her coming. She knew that he would be more than willing to institute a little subterfuge to protect her from Aunt Phyllis’s sharp tongue. It was easy to spot a confederate.
Juliana kept her gaze firmly on the road ahead. No swallows could distract her now; the invigorating smell of the salt air could not entice even the slightest diversion or glance to the water. No, no more accidents or incidents, at least not today. She would be the staid, mindful lady that she needed to be. But just as the road twisted inland, Juliana couldn’t help herself. She turned to look behind.
Disappointingly, both strangers were no longer looking in her direction. She had already been dismissed from their minds. Juliana took a deep breath and let it out slowly. It was not that she was truly attracted to either one—how could she be?—but it would have been ever so flattering if they, or even just one of them, had found her intriguing. No, it would seem that the vast, empty ocean had captured their attention instead. They both stared at the waves. Not flattering at all.
It was only then that Juliana realized that while she had been forthcoming, far more than was necessary, about her reason for this harmless conspiracy of silence, the gentlemen had not. Actually, they had divulged hardly anything at all, while she had … Juliana shuddered in recollection of her babbling tongue. She really needed to take hold of that organ and cultivate the silence that exudes a more knowledgeable air.
Juliana sighed. Perhaps the delay to London was a godsend. It gave her more time to school herself in the ladylike arts of elegance and witty discourse; she had spent too much time wielding a net and not enough time fluttering a fan.
CHAPTER
2
In which a locket of great sentimental value is lost and a locket of a suspicious nature is found
“ONE WOULD THINK THAT A MODISTE WOULD BE able to design a gown that a lady could shed by herself. But it would appear not,” Juliana complained as she waited impatiently for Nancy to finish undoing the back buttons of her mucky walking dress.
“Yes, Miss.”
There had been no disapproval or alarm in Nancy’s expression when Juliana had arrived in complete disarray, hair falling about her ears, out of breath, and in a severely soiled gown. The short, freckled maid simply dropped her armload of linens on the closest flat surface and rushed after her. She hadn’t even inquired as to what had occurred. In less than a month, Nancy had become quite accustomed to Juliana’s uncommon behavior.
“The cart hit a rut,” Juliana explained needlessly, avoiding any reference to being out alone or falling off the cliff.
“Yes, Miss.” The maid’s tone was excessively neutral.
All twenty tiny pearl buttons were at last undone, and the dress dropped to the floor. Nancy laid the muslin ruin upon the bed in such a way that the ingrained dirt was concealed. She knew to be cautious. Aunt Phyllis often entered a room unbidden. “It was such a handsome dress, Miss. The latest fashion.”
“Just the latest fashion for Lambhurst, Nancy. I imagine it would … will look rather rustic next to my cousin’s London styles.”
Juliana realized that she sounded petulant. It was unintentional, for the dress had been her idea. She had asked her aunt to help her find a local dressmaker for her London Season wardrobe. Lambhurst fashion was a vast improvement over anything she could have had made in her hometown hamlet of Compton Green. Aunt Phyllis had protested that all the best styles came from London, but, as Juliana was covering her own costs for the Season, there was little
that her aunt could say. Besides, seeing her niece in country fine while Carrie paraded in London elegance suited Aunt Phyllis perfectly.
The fact that Juliana could afford gowns to rival the most moneyed in society but chose not to, well, that was a source of great amusement for her aunt—one that she pretended to hide. Perhaps Aunt Phyllis did not resent having to present her niece to the beau monde at the same time as her daughter, but her barely veiled hostility hinted at such a possibility.
The woman need not have worried. Carrie had her youth, as she was one year younger than Juliana, and her social ease, due to countless elocution, dancing, and etiquette tutors; and soon she would be a fashionable beauty enjoying the Season. Carrie would eclipse Juliana utterly—which played into Juliana’s plans exactly.
Juliana intended to put her time in London to better use than shopping and attending frivolous fittings. She would be seeing to the publication of the Telford research—a fascinating project about the Coccinellidae. It was an important study on the lady beetle, which had begun simply as a common interest between Father and his motherless daughter, but it had grown to the point where it now formed the basis of their lives. It was something that Aunt Phyllis would never understand and certainly never approve of.
And so Madame Greville, the renowned modiste of the town of Lambhurst, had been called in and put to immediate use. Aunt Phyllis had helped pick the beautiful fabrics in the dullest of colors—and suggested an abundance of lace and flounces, which Juliana had immediately censored. The resulting wardrobe was a mixed set of gowns—some suiting Juliana’s tastes and others suiting her aunt’s—all well made, if somewhat classic in style.
“I would very much appreciate anything you could do to make the dress serviceable again, Nancy. I really did like it.”
“Yes, Miss, you looked rather corky in it.”
Juliana smiled and dropped a coin on the girl’s palm.
“Miss?”
“That is in case you need to replace any part of the skirt. Keep any left over.”
“Thank you, Miss. I will have it back ’ere in the mornin’.” The vow of silence was implicit between them. Aunt Phyllis would not be informed.
The coin quickly disappeared behind the maid’s frilled white muslin apron. “’Ow about yer Pomona green gown, Miss.” Nancy opened the doors to the large wardrobe sitting in the corner of the ivy guest room. It was deliciously full.
Juliana felt a rush of pleasure at the sight of all those rich materials. As she was not usually prone to such frivolous feelings, the emotion surprised her. She snorted and shook her head. She had a touch of vanity in her after all.
Nancy brought over a gown that had long, full sleeves tied in three places with ribbons. As the maid pulled the gown up over her shoulders, she made a startled sound and Juliana turned.
“Is something wrong?”
“Oh, no, Miss. Just surprised is all.”
“By what?”
“Yer locket, Miss. I never seen you without it afore.”
Juliana’s hand went to her throat. Her neck tensed, and the pounding of her heart filled her ears. She pulled away from Nancy’s ministrations and rushed over to the mirror. Nancy was right. Her fingers were right. The locket was gone.
“Oh dear, oh dear,” Juliana lamented. “I had it on this morning. The clasp must have broken. It could be anywhere.”
“I’m that sorry, Miss. It were special, weren’t it?” Nancy met her eyes in the mirror with a twinkle. “From a particular gentleman?”
Juliana smiled at the ludicrous suggestion. “Nothing so romantic, I am afraid, Nancy, but just as sentimental. It was my mother’s.” She laid her hand across her empty neckline. “Father gave it to me last August, on my birthday.” She swallowed against the sudden lump in her throat. “I thought very highly of it.”
Nancy resumed fastening Juliana’s buttons in silence. It gave Juliana the opportunity to fret in earnest. The locket had been a special tribute, a gift from her dead mother upon reaching her majority. A lovely necklace, not too large or ornate, it accented most of her dresses and could be hidden under those that were not set off by the etched silver. Best of all, it held a tress of her mother’s straight dark hair, so unlike her own wavy reddish brown. Juliana touched the widow’s peak on her forehead. That was a gift from her mother, too. Or so she had been told.
“Primping again, I see,” Carrie Reeves teased from the doorway. She ambled across the floor, wafting lavender as she did so. Stopping at the full-length mirror, she swept her hand up under her carefully piled coiffure. It was a new look for her. It added the height she needed but was too severe for her youthful face.
Juliana stepped behind her cousin and pulled a few honey-brown tendrils from around the nape of Carrie’s neck. Juliana worked absentmindedly, her thoughts focused on the loss of her locket. Nancy completed the last of her buttons, curtsied and started toward the door.
“Where have you been, Juliana? Mama was looking for you earlier. We have news.” Carrie watched Juliana from the mirror. The tendrils had done the trick; Carrie looked like a fragile porcelain doll, no longer her mother in miniature.
“I told ya, Miss Carrie,” Nancy quickly interrupted, “Miss Juliana were out walking in the gardens.” She glanced toward Juliana, who nodded her appreciation and dismissed her at the same time.
“No one could find you,” Carrie persisted after Nancy closed the door.
“I went farther than I had intended—into the park.” It was almost the truth.
“You really ought not to do that, Juliana.” Carrie’s concern sounded genuine. “There are a lot more rules here than you are used to—and a lot more eyes to make sure you abide by them.” She sighed deeply. “Ladies are expected to act with an abundance of decorum in Lambhurst. It will be worse in London.”
Carrie shook her head and turned. First staring at the floor and then the bed curtain, she avoided Juliana’s watchful gaze in a studied fashion. Walking over to the window, she pulled back the green draperies and gazed out at the gardens, as if she were more interested in her surroundings than the conversation.
“I hadn’t planned an excursion … but I was piqued, remember,” Juliana prodded.
Carrie sniffed, lifted her chin, and then paused—drawing a ragged breath. She dropped the curtain, and the pretense, finally turning to meet Juliana’s eyes. “Yes, and I do apologize. I didn’t mean to be so vile—you can talk about bugs anytime you wish.”
“Insects.”
“Yes, yes … those horrid little creatures that you find so fascinating. I did not mean to imply that you are a bluestocking.”
“I don’t mind the name, goose. I was quite pleased with the label; it was the way you said it. With such disgust, as if to be knowledgeable were a terrible affliction. One that you share, I’d like to point out.”
“Yes, I don’t know what came over me. Frustration perhaps? It’s this infernal sitting around waiting. I almost wish there were someone else who could present us—but no, that would preclude Vivian, and I wouldn’t want to do that.”
“I am sorry, too, for I knew you not to be in earnest—it was quite unlike you.” It was more like her Aunt Phyllis, but Juliana kept that thought safely tucked away.
Carrie smiled and grabbed Juliana’s hand, pulling her out into the hall. “Enough of that. I must tell you my news.” She brought them to a halt on the top step of the grand staircase. But her words were to remain unspoken, her excitement stifled.
Clicking on the marble below announced the arrival of Aunt Phyllis.
* * *
“YOU CANNOT CONTROL YOURSELF, can you, Bobbington?”
“Whatever do you mean?”
Spencer Northam watched Lord Randolph Bobbington line up his ball, blowing his sandy hair out of his eyes. He stared with such tiresome and painstaking concentration that Spencer knew his friend had not heard a word of his advice.
The two young men were sequestered in the large, heavily paneled billiard room of Shelsley
Hall, Bobbington’s cavernous ancestral home. They had not lingered long on the cliffs of St. Ives Head. It had not seemed prudent. To stay longer would have invited discovery, by someone other than a young lady intent on keeping her own small secret.
Spencer curled up the right side of his mouth into a lopsided smile, recalling the odd miss who had diverted him from his purpose a few hours ago. Very different from the sophisticated, calculating young ladies he usually encountered. No, this one was rather fetching, country fresh and quite a talker … a green but intelligent girl, certainly with a mind of her own. Confident, until Bobbington had flustered her with his cocky flirtation.
Spencer frowned. Lambhurst society was small. It was probable that they already knew her aunt. Spencer hoped that the miss was true to her word and found no reason to mention their appearance on the Head. He had no desire for his name to be bandied about the country as a young man too ripe and ready by half. He had woven the air of passivity into the tapestry of his persona for too long for it to become unraveled at this late date.
“Whatever do you mean?” Bobbington eventually repeated. “I can, indeed, control myself.” He was leaning on the table with his cue resting beside him. The ball he had so laboriously studied lay stagnant and untouchable on the far side of the table. “In what way?”
Spencer realized that he could be accused of woolgathering just as much as his friend. He straightened his back and his thoughts. “For the better part of a fortnight you have extolled the virtues of one Miss Vivian Pyebald. A litany of her marvelous qualities has followed me around every corner of Shelsley, as well as assurances that your devotion is so complete, so constant, that she will live in your heart until you gasp out your dying breath. And then along comes this pert miss and you forget your unalterable fixation. In a blink, you cast your net around a new candidate. We wouldn’t have been on the blasted cliff had you not insisted on staring wistfully at her manor … against the express wishes of your dear mama.”
