Angel in Scarlet

by Jennifer Wilde

  The musicians arrived at four-thirty and began to set up their stands and tune their instruments in the ballroom. In three hours our first guests would begin to arrive. Holding back the panic that threatened to grip me, I ordered a bath and luxuriated in the hot, perfumed water and washed my hair, drying it with a fluffy towel. Wearing only my thin pale violet silk petticoat, I spent almost an hour with my hair, brushing it until it gleamed like glossy chestnut silk, pulling it away from my face, arranging it in an elaborate roll in back, a simple, elegant style that, I fancied, made me look older and more dignified. I used cosmetics sparingly, applying a pale pink to my lips, a mere suggestion of lighter pink blush to my high cheekbones, rubbing a subtle mauve shadow onto my lids. The effect was natural, not at all theatrical. If they expected to meet a gaudy, painted actress, they were due a surprise.

  Polly, my personal maid, came in to help me with the gown. A shy lass of seventeen with long flaxen hair and blue-gray eyes, she exclaimed in wonder at the gown and said she’d never seen anything so beautiful. It had arrived from London a week ago, one of Dottie’s loveliest creations designed especially for the ball. It was a deep violet-blue velvet, the cloth rich and sumptuous, making a soft rustling sound as I put it on. Polly fastened it up in back, deftly hooking the tiny, invisible hooks, and I stood before the mirror, examining myself with a critical eye. The short, narrow sleeves were worn off the shoulder, and the form-fitting bodice was cut low, though not as extreme as fashion decreed. The waist was snug, the deep violet-blue skirt parting in draped panels to display an underskirt of watered gray silk with narrow violet stripes. It was a gorgeous gown, tasteful and demure yet absolutely spectacular.

  “You look a vision, Milady,” Polly said in an awed voice.

  “Thank you, Polly. You may go now.”

  Polly bobbed a curtsy and left. I fetched my jewel box and took out the necklace Clinton had given me in London. The diamonds and sapphires seemed to vibrate with shimmering life as I fastened the necklace around my neck. Dottie had selected a velvet only a few shades deeper than the sapphires, and the necklace beautifully complemented the gown. I vividly remembered that evening Lord Clinton Meredith had come back into my life, remembered the gorgeous pink roses and my reluctance to accept this gift. Only eight months ago, that was, and now I was Lady Meredith and waiting in terror to meet his friends and aristocratic neighbors. Gazing into the mirror, I took a deep breath and squared my shoulders. You’re an actress, Angela, I reminded myself, and you’re going to carry it off with perfect aplomb. You’re going to hold your head high and be gracious and charming and every inch a lady and if they don’t like you they can all go sod themselves.

  “Thinking of me?” Clinton inquired.

  He walked into the room, looking positively dazzling in black velvet knee breeches and frock coat and a white satin vest with narrow black stripes, delicate lace cascading from his throat and spilling over his wrists. His stockings were of fine white silk, and diamond buckles gleamed on his black leather pumps. His pale blond hair gleamed in the candlelight, and his gray eyes were full of fond amusement. It was hard to believe that he had been working most of the day.

  “Actually, I wasn’t,” I said. “I was thinking of our guests.”

  “Still nervous?”

  “Terrified,” I confessed.

  “They’re going to love you,” he told me.

  “I’ll probably make a dozen dreadful faux pas. I’ll probably stumble and fall flat on my face. This is worse than any opening night I’ve ever had. I think I may just run away.”

  “No, you won’t. You’ll charm them one and all. Before the night is over you’ll have the haughtiest duchess eating out of your hand.”

  “Will there be haughty duchesses?”

  “At least a brace of ’em. Frightful old dragons, breathing real fire. I forgot to warn you about ’em.”

  “You’re teasing,” I said sulkily.

  “And you’re being a perfect ninny, my darling.”

  “How—how do I look?” I asked.

  Clinton tilted his head to one side, studying me with narrowed eyes. “I suppose you’ll do,” he said, frowning. “There—uh—there seems to be something missing, though.”

  “Something missing?” I was puzzled.

  He studied me for a moment longer, the frown still creasing his brow, and then, light dawning, he snapped his fingers and told me he’d be right back. I frowned myself as he darted out of the room. He returned a few moments later, a merry grin on his lips and a large white leather box in his hand. Making an exaggerated bow, he handed the box to me, and I opened it to discover a gleaming pair of diamond and sapphire earrings and a magnificent silver wire spray, each curving wire studded with diamonds and sapphires. The diamonds had a violet-white shimmer, and the sapphires were identical to those in the necklace, deep violet fires flashing within the indigo.

  “Damn you,” I said. “Now I’m going to cry.”

  “You don’t like them?”

  “I don’t deserve them. I—I’ve never done anything to deserve a husband like you.”

  Clinton smiled, pleased with my reaction. “I think I should be the judge of that,” he said.

  “I am crying. It’s going to spoil my face.”

  I stepped to the mirror and blotted the silvery tear from my cheek with a white cloth. I wanted to sob, so moved was I, but I managed to control myself and face him with some semblance of composure. The smile was still curving on his beautifully chiseled pink lips. I went over to him and placed my hands on his shoulders and stood up on tiptoe and brushed those lips with my own. His arms curled around me, drawing me nearer, and my right hand rested on the back of his neck. After a few moments, most reluctantly, he drew back and eased me away.

  “Let’s not start anything we can’t finish in five minutes,” he said amiably. “We have to go downstairs and greet our guests.”

  “Damn the guests,” I murmured.

  He smiled again, delighted. “Why don’t you put on your new things,” he suggested. “The spray, I believe, goes on the side of your head. I was going to buy a tiara but tiaras are for plump dowagers. The jeweler assured me this hair piece would be quite the thing.”

  Lifting the shimmering spray from its nest of white satin, I carefully secured it to the side of my head, just behind the temple, the silver wires curving up and around in a half circle, each wire studded with exquisite diamonds and sapphires blazing with fiery life. It went perfectly with my new coiffure, as did the pendant earrings I put on next. Clinton nodded his approval, and I felt another tear trailing down my cheek. He brushed it away and took my hand and led me out of the room.

  “I feel something fluttering in my stomach,” I said.

  “Nonsense.”

  “I know now exactly how the early Christians felt as they were waiting to face the lions.”

  Clinton chuckled quietly and led me down the curving white staircase Adam had recently installed. My velvet skirt rustled. A footman in gold and white livery and powdered wig stood at the foot of the staircase. Clinton asked him to fetch us some champagne, and he obliged, returning a few moments later with two slender crystal flutes on a tray. Clinton took them, nodded his thanks to the footman and handed me a flute. I sipped it gratefully, still feeling tremulous inside. It was seven twenty-five. Our first guests would be arriving at any moment.

  “Ready?” Clinton inquired.

  “I’d prefer to be shot.”

  “I’m looking forward to showing you off,” he said. “I want everyone to see what a beautiful, charming, enchanting wife I have.”

  I didn’t reply. Clinton sipped his champagne, looking at me over the rim of the glass with fond smoky gray eyes. I straightened my shoulders, and suddenly the tremors were gone and I was filled with a steely resolve. I was going to carry it off. I was going to win over each and every one of them, for Clinton’s sake. Although he pretended not to care that his peers had shunned him since our marriage, that there had been no calls, no
invitations, I sensed that he was deeply disappointed, even hurt.

  We chatted about inconsequential things, waiting. The delicate porcelain and gilt clock on the table across the hall chimed seven-thirty. Clinton finished his champagne and motioned to the footman who came and took our glasses. How proud I was to be standing beside him, so handsome in his elegant clothes, so dignified and self possessed, and, as I had reason to know, so very virile. I linked my arm in his. He looked down at me and smiled. We waited. Several more minutes passed. I listened for the sound of carriage wheels on the drive outside, composed now, ready for the onslaught.

  The clock chimed again. It was seven forty-five. My legs were beginning to feel a bit stiff. No one wanted to be the first to arrive, of course, but surely by this time … I gave Clinton a reassuring smile. He told me I was going to dazzle them. Five minutes passed, ten, and then it was eight o’clock and I had a terrible premonition. No, I prayed. Please, no. It doesn’t matter for my sake, but please, please don’t let him be hurt. The clock struck eight-fifteen, and no carriages circled the drive, and finally it struck eight-thirty and Clinton turned to me, beautifully composed.

  “It seems our guests have been detained, my darling,” he said quietly.

  “So—so it seems.” My throat was tight.

  “I believe Henri has prepared quite a spread. Shall we dine?”

  I nodded, afraid to speak again.

  Taking my hand, he led me into the grand dining room where liveried footmen stood behind the long buffet tables covered with snowy linen cloths, laden with a gorgeous array of food. There were glazed hams and golden-brown roasted turkeys and two sides of beef, pink and juicy. There were mounds of shrimp and pails of oysters and fillets of sole cooked in white wine sauce and a porcelain tureen of turtle soup. There were vegetables of every variety, wonderfully cooked, tempting salads and one table devoted exclusively to a seductive display of desserts, glorious cakes and tortes, miniature fruit pies, individual dishes of pudding topped with swirls of whipped cream.

  “Henri has done himself proud,” Clinton remarked.

  “He certainly has,” I agreed.

  He handed me one of the magnificent pink and white Sevres plates delicately patterned in gold, and we moved slowly down the line with the footmen serving us. I wasn’t hungry. I couldn’t possibly eat. I smiled at Clinton and said the prawns looked delicious, said I must try some of that aspic. When we had made our selections, we took our plates over to the immense table with its banks of roses and gleaming silver candelabra. Clinton set his plate down at the head of the table and helped me into the seat at his left. A footman came to fill our glasses with fine white wine. Clinton lifted his in a toast.

  “To you, my darling,” he said.

  I smiled and sipped my wine. I wasn’t going to cry. I wasn’t. I was going to be as calm, as composed as he. I took a bite of aspic and said that it was marvelous. Clinton said that the ham was tasty indeed. We ate and sipped our wine and chatted as though nothing at all was amiss. Clinton said that he was very pleased with the renovations Adam had made and complimented me on the colors I had chosen, the furniture I had selected. He said that his wife had exquisite taste. The footman removed our plates and we selected our desserts. Coffee was poured into our delicate Sevres cups.

  “You should taste this cake,” Clinton said.

  “My torte is divine,” I told him.

  When we were finished, when we had drunk our coffee, Clinton helped me to my feet. He spoke briefly to one of the footmen, telling him to see that the food was removed to the servants’ hall downstairs where they were having their own party, and then he took my hand and led me out into the foyer and down the corridors to the ballroom. The chandeliers hanging from the pale salmon-pink, lightly gilded ceiling blazed, crystal pendants glittering brightly. Enormous white wicker baskets full of pink and white roses stood around the cream walls with their pale pink-orange marble panels, scenting the air with a lovely fragrance. The huge expanse of golden oak floor gleamed, the musicians stationed at one end in front of a spectacular bank of roses and white fern.

  “May I have this dance, Milady?” Clinton inquired.

  “You may, Sir,” I said.

  He signaled to the musicians, and they began to play, sweet, sublime music tinkling, rising, swelling, filling the room with a beauty as touching, as intangible as the fragrance of the roses. Clinton took my hand and led me onto the floor and looked into my eyes and smiled and we began to dance. He was a marvelous dancer, executing each step with graceful perfection, and we moved to the music and my skirts swayed, rustled, and somehow the sadness and disappointment vanished and there was only beauty and joy, this man, the music, the movement, crystals shimmering above, roses blurred bits of pink and white velvet as we danced around the great, empty floor.

  That first dance was followed by a second, a third, a fourth, and Clinton maintained eye contact, smiling, silently informing me of his love, his pride, his passion. The room seemed to swirl, the pale salmon ceiling with its delicate gilt patterns seemed to blur, chandeliers swaying as I threw my head back and gave myself entirely to the magic of the moment. The music stopped and my husband drew me to him and kissed me tenderly there in the middle of the floor and led me over to one of the gilt chairs as the music began again. A footman brought us champagne and I sat and sipped mine and Clinton stood behind me and rested one hand on my shoulder and I tilted my head back to look up at him and he smiled again and leaned down to brush my lips with his, banks of roses surrounding us, music floating on the air.

  “Happy?” he asked.

  “Very,” I said.

  “Your cheeks are pink. Your eyes are gleaming. You look radiant.”

  “Because of you.”

  He lifted a brow. “Because of me?”

  “Because you are a wonderful man.”

  “A lucky man,” he amended.

  He took my empty glass and set it aside, leading me onto the floor again. We danced, and the music was soft and lilting, and it seemed to lilt inside of me as well, music and emotion becoming one, filling me with a sweet, warm glow that grew as his hand squeezed mine, as his body gracefully turned, guiding me along, as those glorious gray eyes gazed intently into mine and that full pink mouth curved in a tender smile. Time seemed to melt, meaningless, and Clinton seemed tireless, dancing on and on, smiling, guiding me through the steps, and it was well after one and the glow suffused me when, finally, he signaled to the musicians and the music ceased.

  He held me loosely, looking at me, gray eyes aglow.

  “Want to dance some more?” he asked.

  I shook my head.

  “More champagne?”

  I shook my head again.

  “Want to go upstairs?”

  I nodded. He kissed me lightly and curled an arm around my shoulders and led me out of the magic ballroom and down the dim corridors and up the curving white staircase and into our bedroom. He let go of me and I stood wearily and watched as he blew out all the candles and a haze of moonlight slowly streamed in through the windows. There were roses here, too, vases of them, their perfume heavenly, heady. He came back to me and drew me into his arms and kissed me once again, and I melted against him, my hands moving over the sculpted muscles of his back and shoulders.

  “You know,” he murmured, “I think this was the best ball I’ve ever attended.”

  “It was a beautiful ball,” I whispered.

  “And the evening has just begun.”

  “Oh?”

  “The best is yet to come.”

  “Is it?”

  He smiled. “May I have this dance, Milady?” he asked, and he had another kind of dance in mind, with its own rhythm, its own steps, its own swelling splendor. “You may, Sir,” I said, and he held me closer and covered my mouth with his and we danced until dawn.

  Chapter Twenty

  Although the November sky was a rather forbidding gray, it wasn’t all that cold as Megan and I strolled leisurely over the ground
s. A light wind billowed our cloaks and brushed our cheeks, and the bare limbs swayed slightly. The gardens were bare of the riotous blossoms and greenery of spring, but there were bushes of late-blooming pink and white roses and formal evergreen trees and the lovely white marble benches. I told Megan that we were planning extensive changes in the spring, adding more flower beds, a knot garden, but I could tell from her expression that she found our gardening projects less than fascinating. Wearing a cream and rust striped linen frock and a rust velvet cloak, she had a worried look in her eyes and kept listening for the sound of horse hooves.

  “I do wish they’d come back,” she complained. “They’ve been gone since early morning and I didn’t like the look of that stallion Charles mounted. Men are so careless, such show offs, always trying to top each other—bag the most quail, leap the most fences, take the most risks.”

  “Charles is a superb horseman,” I reminded her.

  “Sure he is. So is Clinton. Don’t you worry about him?”

  “Sometimes,” I admitted. “Hercules is such a powerful stallion and Clinton is rather reckless, charging across the fields like a red Indian and bounding over stone fences.”

  “That’s what I mean, luv. Charles is just as bad. Why did they have to go hunting in the first place? Who needs quail?”

  “Men enjoy these things,” I said. “It’ll do them both good. They’ll return all flushed and triumphant and pleased with themselves. Having the two of you here has been nice for Clinton. He and Charles get along wonderfully well, don’t you think?”

  “Hearty mates from the first day. Charles has enjoyed himself tremendously, and he needed to get away from London for a while after Amelia Mine closed. Such a disappointment that was—everyone expected it to run every bit as long as My Charming Nellie. It was a delightful play, luv.”

  “I know,” I said quietly. “Dottie sent me a copy.”