The Waltzing Widow

by Gayle Buck

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  Belgrave House

  www.belgravehouse.com

  Copyright ©1991 by Gayle Buck

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

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  THE WALTZING WIDOW

  Gayle Buck

  Chapter 1

  Outside the frosted windowpanes the day was gray, lending steel-blue color to the low clouds and snow-covered grounds. Set against the January cold, a cheerful fire snapped on the hearth of the sitting room. It was a tasteful room, with nothing of the flamboyant to mar its quiet elegance, and it admirably reflected the personality of its mistress.

  Lady Mary Spence was sitting at her cherrywood writing desk, reading a letter. She was attired in a long-sleeved merino day dress of a becoming shade of mauve, a shawl was draped about her shoulders, and a beribboned lace cap crowned her gleaming chestnut curls. Pinned to her breast was a cameo brooch bearing inside it the likeness of her beloved husband. She was to all appearances the respectable widow in half-mourning, unless the casual observer chanced to glance at her face and discovered a countenance that should never belong to one of mourning status.

  Lady Mary's face was unlined, excepting the tiny laugh lines at the corners of her eyes. Her large gray eyes were set wide, giving her a pleasant openness of expression that was inviting. But at the moment her usual air of serenity was marred by the tiny frown between her feathery brows. She reread the particular lines of the letter that had perturbed her.

  The sitting-room door burst open and a young lady of dazzling beauty rushed in. “Mama, here you are! I have looked positively everywhere for you. I have just returned from visiting Betsy, and you shall never guess what she says,” the young lady exclaimed, pulling off her velvet bonnet and shedding her cloak, muff, and gloves in quick succession.

  As always, Lady Mary was gladdened at sight of her daughter's lively, cheerful face, and the slight frown of the moment before disappeared. She laid down the letter she had been reading and said with a smile, “I await with bated breath, Abigail. What does Betsy say?"

  Abigail was too excited to acknowledge her mother's gentle teasing. “Why, Betsy has gotten herself engaged, and to a parson, no less!” she exclaimed. She watched eagerly for the effect of her announcement, and when she saw the flash of surprise that crossed her mother's face, she chortled. “I knew that the news must astonish you, Mama. I am certain that I never expected such a thing to happen. Betsy to be married, and to a stick of a parson! I should not want such a match for myself, I can tell you!"

  "I am surprised, certainly. I had thought the engagement was to be formally announced in the spring,” Lady Mary said.

  Abigail regarded her mother with astonishment. “Mama, you knew all along. And you never breathed a word of it to me! How abominable of you to keep such a secret."

  "It was not my secret to freely bestow, Abigail. Mrs. Evesleigh confided in me a few months past that she and Mr. Evesleigh had agreed to the Reverend Coates making his addresses to Betsy, who I understand has shown a decided partiality for the gentleman for some months. I can only be glad for Betsy. She is a delightful girl and deserves every happiness,” Lady Mary said.

  Abigail recovered from her astonishment. “But a parson, Mama! Why, Betsy has never been to London, and the only society she is used to is that of our own county,” she said, obviously marveling at the inexplicability of her friend's actions.

  The slight frown returned to Lady Mary's face. For several weeks she had been disturbed by the emerging tack of her daughter's conversation, but never more than at that moment. Unlike her good friend Betsy Evesleigh, Abigail had been up to London on numerous occasions to visit with her grandparents. Abigail had been shown much about society and had been exposed to polite circles enough to have given her a bit of polish. Unfortunately, thought Lady Mary, Abigail had also acquired the knowledge that there was more to the world than the quieter society that she had been formerly used to and that Lady Mary Spence herself preferred.

  Lady Mary regarded her daughter. She had known what a heady experience those last visits to London had been for Abigail, but she had hoped that important considerations would not be lost to sight in the excitement and glamour. She herself had renounced that grandeur and social ambition when at the age of sixteen she had fallen in love with a gentleman some fifteen years her elder who was of merely respectable birth. Her parents did not object to the difference in their ages, but rather to the gentleman's lack of social status. Viscount and Viscountess Catlin looked higher for their only daughter than a mere baronet. No amount of persuasion had been enough to sway Lady Mary's parents in the gentleman's favor, and the lovers had reluctantly resorted to a runaway marriage.

  Lady Mary's parents had wholly disowned her during the period of her brief but happy marriage. After Sir Roger's untimely death, they had become willing again to countenance her existence. After all, Sir Roger Spence had had the good taste to die early and leave his spouse a wealthy widow. However, her parents had cause to regret Sir Roger's astute business sense and investments because Lady Mary was thus enabled to steadfastly refuse all their invitations and their suggestions for her remarriage.

  But Lady Mary had not imposed her voluntary exile from interaction with her parents to her children. She had allowed William and Abigail to accept various invitations for extended visits in London so that they would come to know their grandparents and grow up familiar with the ways of polite society. Now, as Lady Mary listened to her daughter's prattle, she wished that she had not been so acquiescent.

  "I shall make a splendid match to a gentleman as rich as Croesus, who shall grant me a positively enormous allowance and make me mistress of a large establishment. I shall be touted as the most popular hostess in town and everyone will vie for invitations to my lavish parties,” Abigail said, sinking down on the settee with a grand air. She pretended to ply a fan and accept accolades with a gracious nod. She abandoned her play for a moment. “Do you know, Mama, when I asked Betsy whether she meant to put off her wedding so that she could be presented at court, she snapped her fingers at me in the most offhand fashion! Why, I would die rather than miss my court presentation, and so I told her. She and the parson are to be wedded in February, of all dreary months. Can you believe it? Not even a fine June wedding, but a hurried affair in the middle of winter."

  "I imagine that Betsy is so enamored that such considerations as a court presentation pale beside planning for her wedding,” Lady Mary said quietly.

  "So she says, but I cannot credit it. I know that I could not relinq
uish it so easily,” Abigail said.

  Lady Mary sighed, but she did not press the issue. “I am surprised the wedding has been moved up so early in the year. Are you certain it is to be in a month's time, Abigail?"

  "Oh, yes, I am positive that is what Betsy said. Her parson has accepted a living in the next parish and he is to begin immediately,” Abigail said.

  "How delightful! I imagine that must be a relief to Mrs. Evesleigh, who was naturally dreading Betsy's leaving. They will be able to visit often, I expect,” Lady Mary said.

  Abigail was not listening, instead pursuing thoughts of her own. “Mama, I am expected to be Betsy's maid of honor, of course. But if the wedding should interfere with our removal to London, I would rather not do so. I do not wish to miss even one day of the Season. Grandmama has promised me such a high time, you see,” Abigail said.

  Lady Mary was stunned. She wondered when her sweet, sensible daughter had changed so completely. Certainly Abigail had acted differently after the last visit to her grandparents, but Lady Mary had been able to shrug off her daughter's flashes of selfishness as temporary and harmless. Perhaps the news she had read earlier in the letter was come at a fortunate time after all, she thought. She said slowly, “I fear that I must rethink your come-out this Season, Abigail."

  "Mama! How can you say so? Why, you promised that when I turned seventeen I was to come out!” Abigail exclaimed, abandoning her languid attitude and bolting upright on the settee. Horrified dismay enlivened her blue eyes. “Grandmama has told me of all the parties she has planned for me and the gentlemen I am to meet, and Grandpapa has promised me a carriage of my own with a tiny tiger dressed in livery of my own design and ... Mama, you cannot turn back on your word now, you simply cannot!"

  Lady Mary picked up the letter that was lying on her desktop. “I am sorry, Abigail, but—"

  Abigail leapt to her feet. Bright anger sparkled in her cornflower-blue eyes and indignation charmingly pinkened her cheeks. “It is because I said that I did not wish to be Betsy's maid of honor, isn't it? Well, I don't. I want to go to London. I don't care about Betsy's idiotic wedding or her stick of a parson or—"

  "Abigail, sit down!"

  Abigail had seldom in her life heard her mother use that particular tone of voice, and she instinctively quailed. She slowly sank down on the settee, her fearful eyes held by her mother's awful gaze. She said haltingly, “I ... I am sorry, Mama. I should not have ripped up at you so. It is just that I have pinned all my hopes on a Season, and it is so unfair that—"

  Lady Mary flung up her hand. “That will be enough, Abigail. I am quite aware of your hopes. You have aired them frequently and far too publicly for my taste,” she said. Her haughty expression softened with regret. “But that is not what has disappointed me so in you, Abigail. You have been fast friends with Betsy Evesleigh since the cradle; but now, on the eve of Betsy's most important decision, you are willing to abandon all that you have meant to her for the sake of a few paltry parties. I am deeply ashamed of you, Abigail, and also I am saddened. I had not quite realized what a selfish and self-centered creature you had become. I had believed that you had grown up enough to be allowed to establish yourself in polite society, but now I must confess to grave doubts."

  "Mama, no,” breathed Abigail. She folded her hands in her lap and sat up in the most demure posture of which she was capable. “Mama, I promise you that I am grown-up, truly I am. I did not mean to slight Betsy even by words, and I will be delighted to act as her maid of honor. Of course I shall be. Mama, pray do not look at me like that. Truly, truly, I never meant to distress you.'’ She leapt up and ran over to fling herself against her mother's knees and burst into tears.

  Lady Mary sighed. She laid her hand gently on her daughter's bowed head and caressed her soft hair. “Oh, my dear girl. What trials we must all go through,” she murmured. She let Abigail cry for a little while before raising the girl's face and offering her own fine handkerchief. “Come, Abigail, blow your nose and take hold of yourself. There is something that I wish to discuss with you."

  Abigail took the handkerchief and did as she was bidden. She dried her eyes and blew her nose delicately. “What ... what is it, Mama?” she asked.

  Lady Mary again picked up the letter that she had dropped a few moments before. “I have received this letter from my dear friend Emily Downing."

  Abigail nodded, not very interested. “Oh, your London friend."

  Lady Mary sighed in exasperation. “Abigail, she writes that London is unusually thin of company for this time of year and daily becomes more deserted. The abdication of Bonaparte last April set off a marked exodus of the ton to Europe that has not abated. London has been deserted while the peace negotiations are pounded out in Vienna; and in the Low Countries, where the Army of Occupation has been stationed and the festivities have begun upon the installment of William of Orange as the King of the Netherlands, Brussels has become one of the gayest capitals in all of Europe.'’ She had briefly referred to the sheets of paper, and now she looked up to catch her daughter's puzzled gaze. “Abigail, do you quite understand what I am attempting to convey to you?"

  Abigail frowned, knowing that there was something important in all her mother's talk of politics. It came to her in a sudden flash of understanding, and her eyes widened. “Oh! You mean that the ton have all left London. But that means ... why, there won't even be a proper Season in town this year."

  "I am afraid so, my dear,” Lady Mary said. “Your grandmama's plans for a dizzying round of parties will hardly live up to your expectations, I fear. And according to Emily, who may be depended upon for her good sense and information, the situation is not likely to change for some months, at least until the Congress of Vienna is concluded and our statesmen and our army return home."

  "But what am I to do? I will be on the shelf before I am much older,” Abigail wailed. Lady Mary went into a peal of laughter. Her daughter regarded her with a mixture of astonishment and resentment. “Mama, it is not at all amusing,” Abigail said with injured dignity.

  Choking back her laughter, Lady Mary shook her head. “No, I can see that it is not,” she said with an attempt at sobriety, quite ruined by the gurgle that escaped her. “I am sorry, poppet. I am a perfect beast for laughing at you, but you are such a baby, and hardly in any danger of becoming an old maid, believe me."

  "But you were married at sixteen. Mama, a year younger than I am now, while I haven't yet been presented or come out or met a single eligible gentleman,” Abigail said.

  Lady Mary was reduced to silence. As she looked at her daughter, she recalled herself at the same age, deeply and irrevocably in love with her kind, good husband, and already a mother. She had lived life with such passion as long as Sir Roger had lived.

  Her grief at his death had tempered her and had served to mature the undisciplined person. Overnight she had changed from a protected, well-loved, and cosseted wife to a young widow and mother of two, very much aware of her responsibilities and determined to carry out her duty as best she could.

  Despite the openly expressed doubts of family and friends who considered her too young to raise a young son and baby daughter, or to handle her own financial affairs, she had succeeded. She had succeeded without assistance, gently but firmly turning aside the several attempts made by her parents to draw her back into their orbit. Only once did she accept her parents’ aid, and that was to allow her father to buy a commission in the army for her son, William. It was a difficult decision that had cost her many sleepless nights, but in the end she had capitulated to her son's entreaties to be allowed to make a career of the army.

  Now, gazing upon Abigail, who was so very like her younger self, and thinking of her son, William, whom she had not seen in several months. Lady Mary came to an abrupt decision. “Very well, Abigail. You shall have your Season. We shall go to Brussels for the spring and summer, and though you won't be presented at court until next year, you may at least make your formal entrance into society,”
she said quietly.

  "Brussels, Mama!” Abigail squeaked, completely bowled out. Recovering in an instant, she threw her arms about her parent. "Thank you. Mama! You are so good to me. You can have no notion how happy you have made me."

  Lady Mary emerged from the fervent embrace somewhat breathless and with her lace cap knocked askew. “Have I not, indeed!” she retorted, laughing as she straightened her beribboned cap. “Now, do go away, Abigail. I should like to pen a congratulatory note to Mrs. Evesleigh regarding Betsy's upcoming nuptials."

  "Of course, Mama,” Abigail said. She crossed gracefully to the door. With her hand on the knob, she was struck by a sudden thought. “Mama! Wasn't William's last letter from Brussels?"

  Lady Mary smiled at her daughter. There was a twinkle in her gray eyes. “Why, I do believe that it was, Abigail. A fine coincidence, certainly."

  Abigail giggled. “You are the most complete hand, Mama.'’ She sighed. “I shall enjoy seeing William again, I confess. I have sorely missed him these last months."

  "As have I,” Lady Mary said.

  Abigail sent a saucy glance at her mother. “Besides, what is the use of having an older brother if he is not available to introduce one to his rakish friends?"

  "Abigail,” Lady Mary said in a warning tone; but she smiled even as she spoke, aware that she was being teased. Abigail laughed again. She skipped out the door, humming happily. Lady Mary shook her head in affectionate exasperation before turning her attention to her correspondence.

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  Chapter 2

  The letter to her friend Emily Downing went swiftly and crossed several pages. She sanded the sheets and folded them into an envelope that she addressed in her firm clear hand, sealing the missive with hot wax. Lady Mary sighed as she pulled a fresh sheet of vellum to her. The letter to her parents, Viscount and Viscountess Catlin, would be more difficult to compose. She sat chewing the nib of her quill pen, forming and discarding a dozen openings. Finally, when she had decided on the best approach, she discovered to her irritation that she had completely frayed the tip of her pen, and she had to sharpen it with a small penknife before she could begin writing.