by Cindy Anstey
Juliana sat staring out her window at the passing scenery, perfectly content in her sedate outfit of yellow and green. She had no desire, or need, to impress the good Lady Pyebald with her looks. Juliana had divined that her inclusion in this adventure would be better secured if she proved to be of no competition.
The visit to Ryton Manor had played into Juliana’s hand most handsomely. Both her aunt and cousin had been much too occupied before luncheon to show any interest in Juliana’s early-morning whereabouts. The excuses that Juliana had prepared were not needed.
Juliana was relieved. She might employ the same ruse at some other time. She was sure that both Chester and Nancy would fall easily into her plans, say, on the morrow if the desire for another dawn ride struck her. Who could tell how she would feel?
As the coach labored across the road roughened by winter’s assault, Juliana had her first glance of Ryton Manor in close proximity. It was a huge formal house in the Palladian style, where symmetry reigned supreme. Windows abounded on all three levels, with tall chimney pots springing from the roof. The gardens were extensive but dull, due to the earliness of the season.
Ryton Manor was majestic in age and proportion. The family’s noble lineage reached so far back into history that its superiority went unchallenged by all in the area—with the exception of a family some miles north of Lambhurst. Shelsley Hall, or so Juliana had been told, was in much the same predicament as Ryton. The line was deep, but the pockets were shallow. Mismanagement of lands and tenants coupled with extravagance had put a strain on many a peer’s coffers.
There were few signs of this unfortunate happenstance as the coach pulled up before Ryton’s great doors and two footmen in elegant, navy-braided livery rushed to their aid. However, once inside the large hall, the less-than-sound footing of the Lord’s financial status became obvious with the subtle odor of decay. The carpets were worn and turned, the walls shadowed by missing paintings, and the air laden with must.
The drawing room doors were thrown open as the ladies approached, and Aunt Phyllis glided into the stiflingly hot room with an exclamation of delight. “Oh Lady Pyebald, how good it is to see you,” she gushed.
Lady Pyebald was not as Juliana had expected. She was a corpulent woman with gray hair hanging in insipid ringlets about her face, in a young, rather girlish style. Her eyes had not the calculating edge that was present in Aunt Phyllis’s, but a calm, almost vacuous reflection. Her gown was of the latest style, and yet it hung oddly and was far from flattering. She was not at all the sort of woman that Juliana believed her aunt would emulate and call a member of her close society.
“Mrs. Reeves, what a grand surprise.”
Aunt Phyllis was not taken aback; in fact, she laughed and took her bow before replying. “Lady Pyebald, you haven’t changed a whit, still funning. For you did write and expressly request our company today. And here we are.”
“I did?”
“Yes—”
“Yes, Mama, you did.” A winsome young girl swathed in throws answered with an exasperated tone. She lay upon a settee close to the blazing fire surrounded by cushions. Her face was flushed with the heat, but in all other respects she was recognizable as the delicate beauty of the house. Her hair was golden—dressed in an intricate style that must have taken her maid some time to complete. Her eyes were bright blue, but hard to read, and her face was a perfect oval. Juliana could quite understand the sandy-haired stranger’s interest; Vivian Pyebald was quite lovely.
The beauty knew herself to be the object of scrutiny and met Juliana’s stare as one accustomed to the admiring adulation of inferiors. She cast her gaze languidly upon Juliana with a glimmer of interest until, after having swept the length of Juliana’s serviceable gown, even that light disappeared. She dismissed Juliana with a cursory nod and turned to the youngest member of the party.
“Carrie, lamb, you have come to see me.”
“Oh yes, Vivian. How could I not? Are you well? I have been concerned.”
“Oh dearest friend, I was forced to subsist on milk bread one whole day. I shan’t trouble you with such tedium. I refuse to bore you with my trials, though they have been wearisome.”
She patted the seat of a delicate chair conveniently placed beside the settee. “Come sit beside me. You must tell me all about Lambhurst. I am so rusticated. I have heard nothing of good society for a whole month.”
Juliana looked at Vivian Pyebald with admiration. She was playing the room well. There was no doubt that all eyes of the company were upon her.
“Dearest friend, I did warn you,” Carrie chided. “You should never have attempted such a journey—you were testing providence. And see how it responded. I hope it was a lesson learned, and you will never again endeavor to tax your fragile self. In fact, we should not hazard a step toward London until we are assured of your ability to handle the rigors.”
Lady Pyebald laughed, a snide sort of snuffle. “Not to worry, dear child, Vivian is well able to get about. She is merely weary of being bored. She would not hear of any further delay.”
Turning her head, Lady Pyebald stared at Juliana, who was still standing in the middle of the drawing room. “Is this person with you, Mrs. Reeves? For she has not gone away.”
Juliana swallowed her laugh and turned it into a tactful cough. Not only had the good lady forgotten the invitation and the interview, she had apparently forgotten Juliana’s existence.
Neither Aunt Phyllis nor the two young ladies blinked at Lady Pyebald’s lack of memory or manners. Juliana found it remarkable that those esteemed as paragons of polite society were often the most discourteous dragons. But then, her knowledge was limited. Perhaps London would teach her otherwise; Lambhurst certainly hadn’t.
Juliana curtsied to Her Ladyship as the introduction was made, and then, as much to please her aunt as to provide herself with a modicum of relaxing obscurity, she perched with ladylike stiffness upon a chair as far from the others and the fire as decorum would allow. She could see past the red draperies and admire the dull brownness of the gardens while listening to the tales of woe that Vivian divulged—with more detail than was needed—as well as overhear Lady Pyebald and Aunt Phyllis discuss the upcoming particulars of the London journey.
The call would last longer than the requisite quarter hour as the matriarchs had so much to resolve of major importance. They had just dealt with the delicate matter of the coach seating arrangements when the drawing room doors were thrown open and a tall, slender man in his early twenties entered with a flourish. His presence filled the room with an energy and awareness that had hitherto been missing, and Juliana noted the look of interest in Aunt Phyllis’s eyes.
“Oh yes, Maxwell, do come in and greet the ladies.” Lady Pyebald recalled to his memory her great friend and neighbor and her charming daughter—who would no doubt break many a heart in the near future—and to theirs her son and delightful rascal Maxwell Pyebald, who seldom graced this part of the county with his presence. Vivian’s nod toward the window had to be repeated three times before Lady Pyebald remembered Juliana’s existence.
“Oh yes, and this is Miss Tetley.”
“Telford.”
“Just so, Miss Tetley.”
No sooner had the imperfect introductions been conducted than Juliana was summarily excluded with a flick of Lady Pyebald’s thick wrist. Juliana returned to her obscurity by the window. However, her attention was no longer directed out of doors.
While she had easily taken the measure of the ladies of the house, she found she could not do so with the heir. In looks, there could be no doubt of his association; Mr. Pyebald had his family’s golden locks, blue eyes, and oval face. But there was an undefinable quality in his conversation, as though saying one thing while he meant something entirely different, or perhaps deeper. It was almost as if he was toying with his obsequious listeners.
Juliana caught an occasional glance in her direction from various members of the group, but she was not included in any of the
ir conversations. She felt secure in her insignificance. It was only after having flattered Carrie into blushes and whispers, and steering the older ladies’ discussion back to the practicalities of their London excursion, that Mr. Pyebald approached Juliana with a nonchalant air. He exuded the aura of a gentleman offering the wallflower a token, something to sigh about in the darkest part of the night. It would have been a kindness had Juliana been affected by such sentiments. But she was not.
“So, Miss Telford, are you agog with anticipation at your upcoming Season? Planning to set the town afire?”
Juliana appreciated the accurate use of her name, so she allowed him the haughty lift of his chin without demerit. “Yes, Mr. Pyebald, I am looking forward to London, with all its sights and grandeur. But agog might not be the term best suited to my emotional state.”
Mr. Pyebald took the seat across from Juliana, sweeping his tails out from under him—their knees almost touched. Juliana noticed the glance cast in her direction by his sister. The questioning look was more than enough to inspire Juliana to sparkle before her company. It was petty, perhaps, but there was something about Vivian that rankled.
“Oh come now, your excitement does not put you to shame. See my sister over there.” He turned his head slightly and winked when he saw Vivian’s eyes upon him. “My sister makes no pains to cover her excitement, or her intention to ensnare any and every gentleman who might stray into her path. You cannot possibly be as nonchalant about your prospects as you suggest. That is, unless you already have an admirer and require no other.”
Juliana smiled. She saw the tightening of Vivian’s lips and almost opened her mouth to imply that she had, but then rethought the matter. The small victory would not be enough to offset the discovery that there was no smitten gentleman waiting in the background—not to mention the impropriety of it all. Juliana decided to prevaricate.
“I do not possess the same youthful advantages of your sister or of my cousin. Therefore, my expectations are tempered.” After all, seventeen was so much better suited to a Season than eighteen.
There was a slight pause in their discourse as Mr. Pyebald looked—no, stared—into her eyes. It was as if he were trying to take her measure, and, for some reason, Juliana found herself wishing that she had worn her cerulean-blue gown. She opened her eyes wider, lest he see the discomfort he had initiated, and smiled. Best change the subject.
“Are you to join us on our journey, Mr. Pyebald? Take in the sights, or balls and assemblies yourself?”
“I am, indeed, although that had not been my intent originally.”
“How so?”
“I was prevailed upon by Lord Pyebald, who feels two months of conversation pertaining solely to matching gloves and ribbons might be too difficult for his constitution. While escorting my sister is to be my primary function, I am, as well, obligated to talk in great quantities of hounds and horses.”
Juliana laughed. “I can well understand his discomfort, for I believe my uncle would claim the same. However, I believe Mr. Reeves is to accompany us, thereby providing said conversation.”
“I believe you to be right. It was likely the gender imbalance of our small party that my lady mother found intolerable.”
“Do you not tremble in fear, Mr. Pyebald? For, if I am not mistaken, there is still an almost two-to-one ratio.”
“Petrified, Miss Telford. Absolutely petrified.”
Juliana smiled, feeling much more comfortable with her circumstances than she had for some time. It did not even nettle when Vivian gestured her brother to the fire on a pretext of needing his opinion.
When all was said and done, the visit had served its purpose. The travel plans were set for Thursday next, Carrie was pleased to see her friend hale and hearty, and Juliana had gone unnoticed by Lady Pyebald.
Juliana had discerned no impediment that might quash the sandy-haired stranger’s hopes to secure Vivian’s affections, aside from the fact that she was a perfect ninny. But it was none of Juliana’s concern.
The young ladies had included many a gentleman’s name in their discourse, but none more than once. Alas, that also meant that if her cliff-side rescuer had been mentioned, he, too, did not rate more than a passing comment. But Juliana was not about to point that out. Although it was likely that it would have been noticed … if he had been in the room. He did not seem to be overly obtuse.
It was a strange thing that, as Juliana thought of the sandy-haired stranger intermingled with thoughts of Mr. Pyebald, it was a lopsided smile that came to mind. She wondered if that particular fellow ever visited London.
* * *
THREE UNEVENTFUL DAYS LATER, Juliana stared through the window of the glove-maker’s shop onto the bustling main thoroughfare of Lambhurst, lost in thought. She barely attended the discussion behind her between her aunt and cousin. Her attention was not required; the sale had been made. All that remained of their business was for the proprietor to congratulate Aunt Phyllis on her exquisite taste while gathering the merchandise together.
Juliana was startled out of her ennui when she watched two familiar strangers stop across the street—one of whom had meandered in and out of her thoughts far too often of late. An animated discussion ensued, after which the sandy-haired gentleman waved and disappeared from sight. The blue-eyed stranger stood in place, rocking on his heels, waiting. For what, Juliana could not know … though he did keep glancing in the direction that his friend had taken.
Puzzled and a tiny bit enthralled, Juliana continued to observe her specimen. The blue-eyed stranger rocked several minutes, until some inner thought brought him to an abrupt halt, and then he, too, marched up Balcombe Street.
Juliana felt an immediate need of fresh air. She glanced behind her and called to the young man still boxing up their parcels.
“I will show you the carriage,” she said quickly. Juliana ignored his startled look, as well as those of Aunt Phyllis and Carrie. She quickly grabbed the polished brass door handle, pulled the door open, and stepped out onto the sidewalk. She slammed the door and stomped down the steps, making as much noise as possible.
Despite her boisterous efforts, the blue-eyed stranger disappeared into the crowd without a glance back; he was oblivious to her presence. Juliana shook her head. She wished she could call after him—but that would scandalize her aunt even more than exiting a store with undue haste.
Juliana chewed at the side of her lip and turned back toward the shop. She looked up, and seeing the shadowed figures of her nearest and dearest hovering on the other side of the glass, she decided to remain out of doors. She ambled over to the carriage, a mere three paces from the store, and nodded to Mr. White, the coachman. He was a chubby-cheeked man with a large red nose and a silent, sour expression. There was something about his squinty, judging eyes that put Juliana in mind of her aunt. Yes, Aunt Phyllis would be out all too soon with a similar expression and more than a few words. Unpleasant words.
Juliana glanced heavenward at the overcast sky. If only it had been this fine yesterday or the day before. But, no, the early mornings had been filled with rain and fog, followed by drizzly days in which even Paul would not allow her to venture beyond the gardens.
For some reason, the groom believed that she would be lost in the fogs. Had she been at home, Juliana would have overridden his objections. But at Grays Hill? She wasn’t at all confident, especially in her sense of direction. She had very firm memories of the cliff-side—her bruised upper leg showed just how firm. As her destination would have been a mere thirty paces from that offending abyss, she allowed Paul his obstinacy.
Still, Juliana couldn’t help but wonder if her blue-eyed rescuer had gone to St. Ives Head despite the weather. She wondered if he had anticipated a meeting as much as—
The sage-green door of the shop was pulled open from the inside. The soft tinkle of a bell echoing in the interior announced Aunt Phyllis’s departure. She marched down the steps, layered in ruffles and indignation. “Whatever possessed you, N
iece?”
Carrie trailed behind her mother in a simple ivory gown; her bland expression was an approximation of a demure countenance. The parcel boy followed her onto the landing and then waited for direction.
Aunt Phyllis did not pause long enough for Juliana’s excuse—which was just as well since she was still working on it.
“Can you never comport yourself properly? I swear you are becoming a veritable hoyden, what with your sudden fits of temper, unruly behavior, and sullen moods!”
“Sullen moods?”
“Mama, that is me,” Carrie owned.
“Be that as it may, if you cannot behave in a decorous fashion, I will set you off to Compton Green on the next mail coach.”
It was an idle threat made at least five times a day. While Juliana knew there would be repercussions for a scrape, it would have to be something that Aunt Phyllis could cite as being completely beyond the pale. This was not dire enough, not by any means.
Juliana laughed—enjoying her aunt’s startled look. “A premature exit from a stuffy shop does not qualify as indecorous behavior, Aunt Phyllis. I merely needed a breath of air, and by leaving when I felt an oncoming fit of the coughs, I actually prevented you from being subjected to the commotion it would have caused.”
Aunt Phyllis harrumphed and wordlessly pointed the boy with the packages to the back of the carriage. Mr. White stowed them away.
“Fine. Enjoy your air, but stay by the carriage. We have more shopping to do.” Aunt Phyllis pulled at the corner of her glove as though the item should not have dared slip down her wrist.
She harrumphed again, with as much dignity as one can while breathing that deeply, turned, and stormed down the street. She almost bumped into an adorable, grubby-faced urchin, but, fortunately, he saw her coming and quickly jumped out of the way.
