Rakes and Radishes

by Susanna Ives

  Kesseley swirled the port in his glass. “I’ve never seen Lady Sara.”

  A dangerous sparkle entered Buckweathers’s eye, the look of a betting man. “If my uncle wouldn’t find out and stop my allowance, I would lay down a wager in White’s betting book right now that you will be changing your tune after tonight.”

  Chapter Nine

  Kesseley believed that Lady Huntly had managed to squeeze the entirety of fashionable London into their ballroom. Golden fires roared in four fireplaces and hundreds of candles hung in three expansive chandeliers. Their light caught in the mirrors running along the walls, reflected back, multiplied. The place was brighter than heaven and hotter than hell. Beneath his coat, sticky sweat soaked his shirt.

  He watched the delicate, fairylike ladies spinning on the dance floor. All around him conversation buzzed. How elegant Miss So-and-So looked, did she not have seven thousand pounds? Isn’t Lady So-and-So a graceful dancer, how beautiful she looks in lavender.

  There were so many pretty girls here. He tried to catch their eyes and give them a little would-you-care-to-dance smile, but they always looked away. So he stood, rubbing his nervous, wet palms on his knee britches.

  This was no way to get a wife.

  He wished Henrietta were here.

  You’re supposed to forget about that senseless, cruel, crack-brained girl!

  This thought propelled him forward, pushing through the crowd to an unoccupied sweet little thing with delicate pink flowers in her curly brown hair and a spray of freckles across her face. Her eyes widened as he approached, smiling. She quickly turned and disappeared down a rabbit hole of arms and elbows. He felt stupid. What the hell was wrong with him?

  Kesseley spotted his mama across the room, by a mantel under a portrait of the Duke of Wellington’s horse. She was conversing with a trim man with a rugged face and sandy hair streaked with silver. The gentleman gazed at her lips as she spoke, and an appreciative glow burned in his hooded eyes. Then, in plain view of the ballroom, he brushed her cheek with the back of his fingers. The edge of his mouth hiked into a smirking smile. It was going to be terrible to have to scatter the blackguard’s brains all over the nice floor, Kesseley thought, feeling his hands ball into fists. Then his mother shook her head, turned and walked out of the room, leaving the fool standing awkwardly alone.

  “Kesseley, my boy! I found you!”

  He turned on his heel.

  Houghton’s rotund body pushed through the crowd, parting guests like the seas. He pulled a female by the wrist behind him. Kesseley could just see the daisies entwined about her white-blond curls. “May I introduce my daughter, Lady Sara.” The duke’s voice was breathless from exertion.

  The blonde lifted her doll-like face and gazed at Kesseley with eyes the color of blue swallowtail butterflies. A soft giggle escaped her pale pink lips, revealing even white teeth that glinted in the candlelight.

  “Kesseley knows all about pigs, my dear.” Couldn’t Houghton have said something else?

  “Do you?” she said, her eyes widening. “How good for us, Papa!” She touched her papa’s coat. Not immune to his own daughter’s charm, he blushed to the top of his bald head. She took a timid step toward Kesseley. “I think pigs are so adorable with their little curly tails. I just adore animals. Don’t you? When I was young, I was forever being pulled from the stables.”

  Dear God.

  He knew this little beauty could save his life. Finally release Henrietta’s hold over him. The hopelessness that had been dragging on his heart suddenly lightened. He could imagine Lady Sara’s sweet face in his rose garden, their children at her feet, all curly blond angels like their mama.

  The music ended, and the dancers began to leave the floor, making way for new couples. The conductor called down from his platform, “The waltz!”

  “Well, well.” Houghton jerked his head toward his daughter, a subtle hint to Kesseley.

  “L-Lady Sara, would you like to dance w-with me?” Kesseley stammered.

  Her face lit with alarm and she pressed her hand to her trembling mouth. For a moment he thought she would swoon or burst into tears. “Oh no! I’ve already promised this dance.” In a small movement, she reached into the crowd and plucked out a freckled brunette by the sleeve of her pink gown. “Perhaps Miss Barten can dance with you, my lord.”

  Lady Sara kissed her friend’s cheek. “Oh the worst thing, dearest. I can’t dance with Lord Kesseley, for I am already taken.”

  “I—” the girl began to protest.

  “Lord Kesseley, I assure you that my dearest friend, Miss Barten, is an excellent dancing partner.”

  Kesseley bowed to Miss Barten. “May I have the pleasure of this dance?”

  Lady Sara nudged her freckled friend while continuing to smile at Kesseley, a beautiful, enchanting, hypnotic thing. “Yes, thank you, I would be honored,” the friend said flatly, shooting Lady Sara an angry look, thus proving herself to be inferior to Lady Sara in disposition, as well as beauty.

  Lady Sara let out a deep sigh, causing her breasts to rub together. Stop staring at her breasts!

  “Lord Kesseley! You’ve finally come to this den of vice.”

  Kesseley knew that voice. It grated at his very soul. Edward! The fop swept in, looking ridiculous as ever, his silly curls dancing about his face. He gave Kesseley a breezy smile that Kesseley had seen him practice in the mirror as he repaired his cravat at the Spring Assembly. “I heard you were here, but wouldn’t believe it until I saw it myself. I never thought you could pull yourself from your muddy fields long enough to enjoy the finer pleasures of London.” He let out an expansive laugh, the kind meant to encourage others to join in. Only Lady Sara did.

  “Mr. Watson, Lord Kesseley has asked me to dance, but I have already promised this dance to you.”

  “Lord Kesseley, you must be faster, for these London ladies are light-footed.” He laughed at his witticism and whisked Lady Sara away.

  Killing Edward would never achieve his purposes. It would only cause Edward a few minutes of distress. Kesseley marveled that Edward could even be a poet. His soul had no substance, knew no hardship. And the world showed no inclination to give him any.

  Lord Kesseley led his freckled dancing partner onto the floor. They both stood, hands clasped, waiting on the orchestra. He looked over Edward’s back at Lady Sara. A shy, expectant smile waited on her lips. Edward inclined his head, whispering into her ear She giggled, flashing a quick peek at Kesseley as the music started.

  Kesseley stepped forward, crunching down on Miss Barten’s instep. She shrieked in pain, reaching for her poor foot.

  “Are you well?” he cried. He bent to assist her, but instead slammed his head into hers. She wailed again.

  Everyone was staring. Other twirling dancers bumped into them, sending them tumbling together. He tried pulling her to safety, but she pushed him away and limped back to the wall, sobbing. He followed, repeating his apologies and inquiring if he could carry her, take her arm, get a refreshment, find a physician. Several young ladies came forward, taking their wounded sister into their arms and circling her like a protective herd against a predator.

  Kesseley felt the sweat pouring under his cravat amid the whispers and discreetly pointing fingers.

  Again he inquired if he could help Miss Barten.

  “Haven’t you done enough?” called an anonymous female voice from the crowd lining the wall.

  Kesseley bowed, then bowed again and again before slinking out of the ballroom. Stupid, big, stupid Ajax. No wonder Edward gets all your women.

  He poked his head into different parlors, not seeing his mother anywhere. Finally, he found a large, spreading fern near a refreshment table by the servant passage and hid himself behind its long palms.

  He remained there, coming out only to look for his mother in the open parlors, packed with perspiring people fleeing the ballroom in search of cool air and audible conversation. He could see their elbows nudging each other, as if to say look,
look, that’s him. So he retreated back to his palm tree, feeling like a dolt as he watched the clock hands tick around the numbers.

  To hell with this! He was going home.

  Tinkling female laughter trickled in from beyond the opened door. Instinctively, Kesseley withdrew to his palm and hid.

  Leaning on Lady Sara, Miss Barten limped into the room. Pain crumpled her freckled features. Around her moved the crowd of young ladies, murmuring comfort.

  Shame burned his ears as he watched poor Miss Barten struggle. He wanted to run from the hideout behind his plant, get down on his knees and apologize again. But somehow he felt he wasn’t wanted as the ladies’ eyes surveyed the room, making sure they were alone. When satisfied that no one was within earshot, their shoulders lowered and slumped, their sweet uplifted mouths relaxing to their normal, flat states.

  Kesseley was trapped. He crouched lower under the leaves.

  Lady Sara spoke first, her sweet voice noticeably sharper, harder than Kesseley remembered. “Do you think your foot shall heal in time for your ball?”

  Miss Barten glowered at her friend. “It will swell and turn purple, and I won’t be able to dance with Sir Charles. And it’s all your fault! You made me dance with him!”

  “It’s not my fault. I would never step on your toe, dearest,” Lady Sara assured her friend.

  “It was that horrid, overgrown country bumpkin!” She looked at the other ladies to make sure they were all in accord with her assessment of Kesseley. They obligingly stated their solidarity. Horrid. Clumsy Ajax. Clabberfooted. Unhandsome.

  “He will ruin my entire Season! My life!” Miss Barten wailed, burying her head in Lady Sara’s shoulder.

  “Hardly, dear. Sir Charles must come and comfort your poor swollen foot,” Lady Sara said tartly, smiling in appreciation of her own naughtiness as the others giggled into their hands, their faces pink with pleasure, even as they admonished their friend for saying something so fast.

  “Tell her what Mr. Watson compared your ankles to,” one young lady begged Lady Sara.

  Kesseley could hear Lady Sara whisper, and the ladies let out squeals of delight.

  “Mr. Watson is so romantic. He is just like Lord Blackraven!” one lady said, jumping on her toes and clasping her hands at her heart.

  “If Mr. Watson is Lord Blackraven, Lord Kesseley is more like—like Lord Blackraven’s steward or groom,” Miss Barten spat.

  “Certainly not his valet,” Lady Sara quipped.

  “We shouldn’t speak that way,” said a lone cautious female voice.

  “You’re right, of course, for my father says he is England’s authority on pigs,” Lady Sara said.

  Wasn’t she the clever girl?

  “I have Mr. Watson to save me,” she continued, “but you all must take care to avoid Lord Kesseley, or you may end up a pig farmer’s wife.”

  “We can’t avoid him forever. He is an earl. One of us will have to marry him,” the cautious one speculated.

  “Let us hope for some witless merchant’s daughter to think he is a prize and save us,” Lady Sara said.

  The conversation ended abruptly as the music resumed, and the young men came looking for their partners. The ladies straightened their posture and met their gentlemen with angelic smiles.

  Kesseley remained hidden, quiet. All his life, he’d tried to be kind to others, to listen to their lives, their complaints, their pains. He rebuilt their homes, paved their roads, redesigned their canals, dug wells, fed their families. The plundered estate he inherited prospered as it never had before. His tenants were better off than most of England. All he wanted was for someone to love him as he could love her. So he wasn’t the best dresser, perhaps he hadn’t the finest manners and, yes, he did think pigs were a very intelligent, gentle species. Did this hold no value to a lady? He felt like a squashed spider, stepped on merely for the sin of being ugly and humble.

  “Tommie, are you in here?” his mother called. He stepped out from behind his palm and let his mama come and wrap him in her arms.

  “Let’s leave,” she whispered. He gently kissed her head. The musky scent of another man filled his nose.

  Chapter Ten

  On her last night in London, Henrietta lay on the sofa in the parlor, her hand dangling down, scratching Samuel’s stomach. Quiet. Just the clomp and rattle of carriages passing on the street and the occasional strings of music drifting from a nearby party. She felt numb, as if her heart had closed up shop.

  If only her mind would do the same. It churned and churned. Edward, Lady Sara, Mr. Van Heerlen, Kesseley. Finally, she picked a spiral in the cornice and mentally divided and counted the arcs with the Fibonacci number sequence, anything to occupy her mind.

  1, 1…

  She wished Kesseley wasn’t mad at her. That, for once, she could please him.

  2, 3…

  Edward must think she was chasing him about like some mad chit.

  5, 8…

  What would she say to Mr. Van Heerlen? She could hardly deny him now.

  13, 21…

  Maybe love could grow over time? Like a slow leaking spring, dripping little by little until the emptiness filled. So slow as to be imperceptible. Then one day she would look across the table as her husband was putting strawberry preserves on his toast and think, how could I have ever loved Edward?

  21, 34…

  She hated Lady Sara. And hated herself for hating her. How kind Lady Sara had been to her in the park. It would have been easier if Lady Sara had just one flaw, one thing Henrietta could hold against her.

  55, 89…

  She wished she could talk to Kesseley. He made everything right with his low, calming voice. But she had ruined their friendship.

  144, 233…

  Like she ruined everything.

  377, 600, 977…

  The door knocker banged. Both Henrietta and Samuel sat up, ears pricked, listening as Boxly opened the door.

  “Boxly, darling,” a lady’s luxurious, breathless voice echoed from the hall. Curious, Henrietta and the hound followed the voice, finding Lady Winslow and the princess shucking off their pelisses and furs, tossing them into Boxly’s outstretched arms. Their sweet lily perfume filled the room.

  The ladies were stunning in their evening attire. Lady Winslow wore a gold silk dress with red trimmings, very oriental and very revealing. Princess Wilhelmina’s blond hair fell in bouncy ringlets about a tiara. Her gown of soft pink tulle over satin accented her fair complexion.

  The ladies looked about, as if they were expecting someone or something.

  “Lord and Lady Kesseley are attending a ball this evening,” Boxly informed them.

  Lady Winslow’s eyes shot up in alarm and then fell as some understanding crossed her features. “Wilhelmina, hand me the invitation!”

  The princess dug around in her beaded reticule, producing a badly mangled invitation, smeared with black soot and pink beeswax. Lady Winslow swiped it from her fingers and read it. “This is an invitation to Lady Beasley’s! Willie, you’ve done it again! I told you Ellie would have said something.”

  The princess took the invitation and held it to the tip of her nose, scrunching her eyes. “It looks like Kesseley.”

  “Well it ain’t! How embarrassing.” Lady Winslow swept past Henrietta into the parlor and called over her shoulder, “Boxly, make that drink, the plum thing. I need to concentrate.”

  As the princess sauntered after her friend, her hips swung in natural sensual circles. “Nous allons a Lady Beasley?”

  Lady Winslow took Henrietta’s place on the sofa. “Good Lord, no! She has the worst art collection in London! It would be an assault to my delicate artistic sensibilities to suffer through an evening at her home.”

  “Lady Bertram’s party, then?”

  “At this early hour? No one goes there until at least midnight. We must content ourselves here.” Lady Winslow’s eyes scanned the room for something to while away the time. Finding nothing, she lit on Henrietta wh
o sat on a rosewood chair with her hands clasped, feet touching, as if in church. Samuel curled under her feet.

  “You are a quiet thing,” Lady Winslow said. “And not homely. Have you no husband? Why are you Ellie’s companion?”

  Henrietta tilted her head, pausing to think of a gracious reply to an ungracious remark. “I live near Lady Kesseley in Norfolk. She thought I could be of some assistance here in London.”

  A sly smile spread across Lady Winslow’s face. “Hoping to catch a London husband on her hem, eh? Well, I suggest the shops. You would make a nice mousy wife to a draper or such.”

  Henrietta swallowed her anger before it rose out of her throat and formed regretful words. “Thank you,” she choked out.

  What vile star or planet had drifted into her astrological chart, setting everything asunder?

  Boxly returned with a tray holding a decanter of deep amber liquid, three glasses and an open tin of bonbons. He poured each lady a glass, then retreated to the hall. Waiting.

  Henrietta took a tentative sip, then another and another. It flowed through her like the heated waters of a Roman bath, slowing those spinning gears in her head. Relief. She tilted the glass back and drained it. Lady Winslow looked at her disapprovingly from under her raised thin eyebrows. What did Henrietta care? Today couldn’t get any worse, and she was leaving tomorrow.

  Princess Wilhelmina popped a bonbon in her mouth.

  “I certainly hope the modiste’s measuring string is long enough to go around your waist,” Lady Winslow warned.

  Princess Wilhelmina smiled, bonbon still pouched in her cheek. “It makes my bosom grands. My waist petite.” She cupped heavy breasts, then glanced at Lady Winslow’s smaller charms. “Perhaps tu manges du bonbons.”

  Henrietta giggled. She couldn’t help it.

  “Well, I certainly don’t think Ellie chose you for your enlightening conversation,” Lady Winslow said.