Christmas in the Country

by Carola Dunn

  “I can’t possibly,” she moaned.

  “You cannot stay here. The ice will begin to melt beneath you. I shall have to drag you.”

  Picturing Lady Anne sliding on her bottom across the ice, Prudence suppressed a giggle. Perhaps the girl envisioned the same undignified posture, for she said ungraciously, “Oh, very well, then, I shall try to hop.”

  Fortunately Prudence was beginning to get the knack of walking on ice. Somehow they made it to the bench without worse than a few wobbles. Lady Anne touched down with her supposedly bad foot two or three times, each time letting out a gasp a trifle too late to be quite convincing. She plumped down on the bench with a martyred sigh.

  “Here, this will keep you warm.” Rusholme took his greatcoat from the back of the bench and spread it over her, then turned to Prudence. “Thank you, Miss Savage. Would it be too great an imposition to ask you to keep Lady Anne company while I go for help?” Please, his tone begged.

  “Of course not.” Prudence hoped her amusement was hidden by the darkness, now near complete but for a glimmer of starlight reflected off the ice.

  “You stay with me, Lord Rusholme,” said Lady Anne. “She can go for help.”

  “I shall go much faster,” he pointed out, “and as it is my home I know what orders to give and to whom to give them.”

  Not, Prudence noted gratefully, “no one will take any notice of an actress’s orders.” What a dear he was!

  Before Lady Anne could think up some credible reason to keep him at his side, he strode off up the path. Lady Anne sat there in a silence from which sulkiness emanated in waves. Prudence pulled her cloak about her and strolled up and down, unwilling to risk a rebuff if she dared venture to share the bench.

  After a few minutes, Lady Anne said petulantly, “I daresay I may as well go after him.”

  “What of your ankle, my lady?”

  “I only twisted it, after all. It is quite better now.”

  “Shall I walk beside you in case it fails again?”

  “No!” Without further ado, she flung off Rusholme’s coat and stalked away.

  Prudence watched her go. No one could have said there was a spring in her step, but she walked without any sign of a hobble, not even pretending to favour her supposedly twisted ankle. Grinning, Prudence shook her head.

  About to follow, she realized it was growing lighter instead of darker, as a nearly full moon edged above the woods to the east. Sitting down, she strapped on the skates.

  Two tottering steps and she was on the ice. She sat down again, hard.

  Perseverance, she told herself sternly, struggling to her feet. In her effort not to go over backwards again, she overcorrected and landed on hands and knees. “Ouch!”

  “Miss Savage?” Rusholme’s voice, at once followed by Rusholme’s roar of laughter. “Methinks you need my arm.”

  Cautiously she knelt up and turned her head. “What are you doing here?” she asked crossly.

  Coming over to set her on her feet and help her back to the bench, he explained. “I’d scarce reached the house when I met Lord and Lady Winkworth setting out after their daughter. I told them what had happened. Lady Winkworth turned back to organize a rescue party, which she seemed oddly reluctant to do. Lord Winkworth and I set out down the path and met a miraculously recovered Lady Anne. He turned back with her. I came on.”

  “They must have thought it odd.”

  “I insisted on fetching the two pairs of skates we’d left in the middle of the lake, in case they are needed tomorrow.”

  “Either they would still be here tomorrow,” Prudence pointed out dryly, “or it will thaw, in which case they’ll sink but you won’t need them.”

  “True,” he said, sounding crestfallen. “I hadn’t thought of that. Still, I don’t expect they will, either.”

  She smiled. “You should have said you came for your coat.”

  “She left it here?” He turned his head and saw it, where Prudence had laid it over the back of the bench. “The little... ahem! Of course, I really came back to see that you were all right. Were you going to try to skate in the dark?”

  “It’s not dark. There’s a beautiful moon. I shall go on trying a little longer but it’s more difficult than I thought,” she confessed.

  “May I help you? Let me, Prudence.”

  Her prosaic name sounded almost romantic on his lips. The moonlight was romantic; the vast starry vault above was romantic; his dark eyes gazed down at her, filled with mystery and romance. She dared not. “No.”

  He took her hand. “I promise—I swear by the honour of a gentleman, I shan’t force my attentions on you.”

  With a sigh for her own weakness, she acquiesced. After all, it was far too cold for serious misbehaviour. What harm could there be in taking a couple of turns about the lake?

  He fetched the abandoned skates, put his on, and led her onto the ice. Concentrating on her feet and his instructions, at first she was to busy to pay much heed to his closeness. Then she found the rhythm and her balance. Exhilaration swept through her.

  As if Rusholme sensed it, he speeded up. Gently, irresistibly, he drew her with him in a soaring, swooping flight that seemed to last forever—or no time at all before, both hands at her waist, he swung them to a halt in the middle of the lake.

  Laughing with delight, she gazed up at his smiling face. His smiled faded. In the magical moonlight his face was intent, eager. He pulled her closer, into his arms, and the fragrance of sandalwood filled her nostrils. Her heart thudded in her breast as his head bent towards her.

  The crunch of feet on gravel sounded loud in the stillness. “Seraphina? Aimée sent me to see.... Oh, beg pardon, I’m sure. I didn’t mean to interrupt anything.”

  “No! Wait! I’m coming.”

  Lord Rusholme gave her his arm to the bench. He crouched to take off her skates and, gentlemanly to the last, when she shivered he draped his greatcoat about her shoulders. Then all three, in silence, walked back up to the house together.

  Chapter 8

  Act III: Tony Lumpkin promises to help Constance flee with Hastings and even steals her jewels for her from his mother’s bureau.

  “‘My dear cousin!’“ Constance cries fervently.

  To quell the blush that threatened when Rusholme grinned at her, Prudence had to imagine falling through the ice into the frigid water below. He knew how nearly she had succumbed to moonlight and his kiss. If Hastings had not arrived at precisely the wrong moment.... The right moment, she corrected herself.

  But right or wrong, he had arrived. She was on her guard now, aware of her own susceptibility. Unfortunately, that was not going to help her tackle him about the stage direction which had been preying on her mind ever since he had taken Ben’s part.

  She was happier now about the coquetting business. Copying Lady Anne rather than Aimée, she need not fear she would do anything to make him think her unspeakably vulgar.

  Though if he thought her unspeakably vulgar, perhaps he’d lose interest in her, a consummation devoutly to be wished. Was it not?

  Determinedly she turned her attention back to the stage, where Marlow flirted with Kate Hardcastle under the impression that she was a servant. All coy encouragement, Aimée actually remembered most of her lines. On stage she seemed playful, not vulgar, whereas Lady Anne’s attempt to entrap Rusholme into marriage was highly improper. Once more perplexed, Prudence sighed.

  Beside her, Ben Dandridge echoed her sigh. His broken leg stretched before him, he had watched the rehearsal lost in gloom, especially when Tony plagued Mrs. Hardcastle. Impudence came naturally to him and Rusholme’s attempt to counterfeit it pained him more than his broken bones.

  “Tell his lordship I’d like a word with him after,” he said in an undertone to Prudence when she joined him.

  “You will give him some advice?”

  “Gad no! Me advise an earl? That’s a laugh.”

  Rusholme saw them whispering and wondered if Dandridge was pointing out to he
r how badly his substitute acted. More likely he considered that too obvious to mention and was simply venting his bile. The poor fellow had a right to chagrin, though not to blame Rusholme for his plight. He might well wish for a more adequate replacement.

  The rehearsal ended and Prudence approached Rusholme. Her gazed fixed on his middle waistcoat button, she said, “Can you spare a moment to speak to Ben, my lord?”

  Her return to strict formality surprised him. After the way she had responded to him last night, even though she had drawn back at the last moment, he had expected at least acknowledgement of the attraction between them. Instead, she behaved like a modest, respectable woman afraid of her own impulses.

  She was an actress, he reminded himself. The rôle of a proper young lady came easily to her, witness her Constance Neville. Maybe she was lost in the part, so involved she reacted like Constance on stage and off.

  In which case he wished his father had chosen The Beggars’ Opera, with Prudence as the promiscuous Polly Peachum!

  But he could afford to wait. In any case, despite being sorely tempted last night, he had no intention of proceeding to the actual seduction scene under his parents’ roof. In the meantime, it might prove amusing to treat her as the virtuous damsel she presently felt herself to be.

  “Certainly, Miss Savage,” he said gravely. “After I have spoken to Dandridge, may I beg for a word with you?”

  “Yes.” She glanced quickly up at his face then down again, looking adorably flustered. “I must talk to you about...about Act IV.”

  Aha, the fondling business. A smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, Rusholme went to see the injured actor.

  Dandridge reached for his crutches.

  “Don’t stand up, man. What can I do for you?”

  “I just want to thank you, my lord,” Dandridge said gruffly.

  “Thank me?”

  “If they’d had to hire another actor, he’d’ve had to be paid, out of my share. I’d not’ve got a penny.”

  “I see! I can’t claim I realized, still less that my motive was to aid you, but I’m glad it has worked out well for you. Are you getting proper care?”

  “Better’n I’d get anywheres else. I’m told these crutches were your lordship’s.”

  “I thought they looked familiar.” Rusholme laughed. “I’d like to be able to say I came off my horse attempting a daring jump, but the fact is I stumbled going down the stairs in a hurry.”

  Dandridge grinned. “It happens to the best of us, my lord,” he said, gesturing ruefully at his splinted leg.

  Waiting a few paces off, Prudence saw Ben smile. Rusholme had cheered him up when he could so easily have condescended, or even sneered at the ex-acrobat for his clumsiness. The earl was considerate and amusing as well as perilously seductive. How was she to fight him?

  He came over to her. “Before we discuss Act IV, Miss Savage,” he said seriously, “may I request your counsel? I’m all too aware I make a sorry botch of Tony’s scenes with his mother, so I asked Dandridge to advise me. He said he couldn’t possibly. Do you know why?”

  She responded to his seriousness with frankness. “In part it is because you are a nobleman. He would not presume to instruct you. But I believe it’s mostly because he is not conscious of how he does what he does. Since he does not analyse his method, he cannot teach it.”

  “Then I am sunk, since Hardcastle merely tells me I am not rude enough, unless you can help me?”

  “I can only suggest you try to think of yourself as Tony Lumpkin, not as Lord Rusholme playing Tony Lumpkin. That is not very helpful, I fear.”

  He smiled wryly. “I’ll try, but I suspect I am too self-conscious, quite the reverse of Dandridge. Now, what is the difficulty with Act IV?”

  “I expect you can guess.”

  “You don’t care to abuse me to my face?” he teased.

  “Constance is perfectly willing to abuse Tony, I assure you.”

  “But, if I’m not mistaken, Constance is not willing to fondle her dear cousin.”

  “The stage direction reads ‘seem to fondle.’“ Prudence reminded him firmly.

  “Did I not promise on my honour not to force my attentions on you? Tony stands by Rusholme’s word. Come, now, let us see what we can work out which will satisfy Hardcastle and our audience without offending your sensibilities.”

  Her heart swelling with gratitude, Prudence agreed. It wasn’t his fault that his hand at her waist made her quiver inside and her hand on his shoulder burned at the feel of the hard muscle beneath the blue Bath cloth. As he pointed out, they were no closer than a thousand couples waltzing in fashionable ballrooms.

  The Easthavens’ New Year’s Ball was tomorrow. Rusholme would be waltzing with Lady Estella, Miss Wallace, even Lady Anne, not with Prudence.

  The wind changed that night, bringing warm, moist air from the southwest. Before breakfast on New Year’s Eve, Prudence walked down to the lake. The ice was rapidly melting. Soon the spot where Rusholme had nearly kissed her by moonlight would be just another patch of rippling water reflecting the grey overcast.

  The rehearsal of Act IV went well enough for Mr. Hardcastle to declare a holiday on New Year’s Day. Rusholme continued to treat Prudence with absolute courtesy, not once hinting at any desire for an improper relationship. Of course she was glad, but she could not help wondering....

  Was he simply fickle? Had her admittedly equivocal behaviour on the lake convinced him of her respectability? Had his parents somehow learned of his gallantries and forbidden them? Or did discretion, honour, and kindness alike dictate an end to his hopes of an illicit liaison because he had made up his mind to offer for Miss Wallace?

  The last possibility so cast down Prudence’s spirits that Aimée remarked upon it. “Cheer up, Sera,” she said. “Maybe we aren’t invited to the nobs’ ball but you wouldn’t enjoy it anyways with all them high-and-mighty ladies looking down their noses at you.”

  “I know. I don’t want to attend, but I should like to see it.”

  “Then go and peek through the windows,” Aimée suggested.

  So that night Prudence crept downstairs and slipped out through a side door. She made her way around to the terrace outside the ballroom. The weather was so much warmer than it had been that though December was about to become January she was quite comfortable in her woollen gown and green cloak.

  Up the steps, between the stone gryphons standing guard on pedestals at the top. The strains of a country dance floated out into the night air. Silently Prudence flitted from one window to the next until she found one where the crimson velvet curtains did not quite meet. Through the narrow slit she glimpsed a gentleman’s black-clad shoulder, the pretty face of an unknown lady with pearls entwined in her blond hair, and several bobbing heads beyond.

  She wanted to see Lord Rusholme, she confessed to herself. She wanted to know who was his partner, whether he was lavishing attention on Miss Wallace, galloping around the floor with Lady Estella, or under attack again by Lady Anne. The servants said Lady Anne had taken up with Mr. Ffoliot since her mishap on the lake, but he was ineligible. Beautiful as she was, she might hope in her ballroom finery to dazzle Rusholme.

  Prudence moved on to one of the french-window bays. No one would venture out to the terrace at this time of year, she thought. Expecting to find the door locked, she turned the handle.

  The door opened. The noise was suddenly loud: music of strings, spinet, and flute; voices and laughter; the thump of feet on polished parquet. Closing the door behind her, Prudence stole over to the curtains. Here she was, skulking behind the arras again!

  This time she could bolt if anyone approached. Parting the curtains the merest trifle she put her eye to the gap.

  A swirl of colour met her wondering gaze. Beneath chandeliers ablaze with hundreds of wax candles, jewels sparkled, gold gleamed, spangles shimmered. Lady Easthaven crossed just in front of the curtains, glittering with a king’s ransom in diamonds and amethysts—which clashed abom
inably with her claret-red gown. She stopped no more than a yard off to exchange a word with a gentleman. As he turned his head, Prudence recognized the marquis, his red face beaming.

  “I’m good and ready for my supper, my dear,” he said.

  “Just as soon as this set is finished,” she assured him. “You really must speak to Garth. He keeps dancing with his sisters and his friends’ wives.”

  Lord Easthaven merely chuckled. Prudence at once decided she liked him.

  She could not see Rusholme, peer as she might. Miss Wallace was nearby, partnered by her brother-in-law, Mr. Denham. Lady Anne tripped across Prudence’s field of vision, arm linked with Mr. Ffoliot’s. She was indeed dazzling in a rose silk gown with a white lace overskirt, cut quite as low at the neck as Prudence’s captive-princess dress. But she was not with Rusholme and to judge from Lady Easthaven’s words, he had not danced with her.

  The music came to an end. People began to stream towards the pillared exit to the anteroom, presumably on their way to supper. Prudence sighed—she had seen all she was going to see.

  She was turning away when she heard Lady Anne’s voice, close by. “No, I am not hungry. La! It is too horridly hot in here.”

  A man spoke. “Perhaps a breath of fresh air? The weather is amazingly warm for the season.”

  “Well, just for a moment, if the doors are not locked. I feel quite faint. I am sure Mama could not object to my stepping out just for a moment.”

  Prudence leapt for the door. Closing it behind her with a distinct click, she ducked to her right. As the curtains parted and light flooded forth, she crouched down in the angle where the bay met the wall.

  A moment later, Lady Anne and Mr. Ffoliot stepped out onto the terrace. She was fanning herself vigorously, as if to lend colour to her words. He pulled the door shut, offered his arm, and led her away from the stream of light.

  “It is colder than I thought,” Lady Anne complained. “I believe I shall go in.”

  “Never fear, my dear, I shall keep you warm.” Mr. Ffoliot swept her into his arms.