“That—that’s different!”
“In what way?”
“I didn’t introduce myself as Mrs. Pickett to anyone who might care who I was, or be hurt by it.”
“You didn’t think I would care, or be hurt, to discover that you were masquerading as my wife?”
His teasing tone had subtly altered, and Mr. Colquhoun’s stern visage suddenly swam before her.
“I did not say I was your wife, precisely, I only said my name was Mrs. Pickett,” she insisted. “As for your being in any way disturbed, I didn’t think you ever need know anything about it. For all I knew to the contrary, you were still in London.”
“Perhaps, given the fragile state of the old man’s health, Mrs. Church never thought Mr. Kirkbride need know the truth, either,” suggested Pickett, steering the conversation back to the matter at hand. “Perhaps she thought she was doing the old man a kindness. Then again, perhaps she was playing a cruel and elaborate prank. Neither is illegal, but I can’t know her motives until I confront her directly.”
Lady Fieldhurst looked back into the ballroom, where the fiddler struck up the opening measures of “The Wind That Shakes the Barley” as the dancers took their places. “Oh, but must you do so tonight? Poor Mr. Kirkbride looks so happy, and he’ll be so crushed to learn the truth. It will be like losing his daughter all over again.”
“I suppose it can wait until tomorrow. God knows it will be awkward enough without the added burden of embarrassing Mr. Kirkbride in front of his guests.”
“And everyone seems to be having such a good time. Surely it would be a pity to spoil it.”
He watched her for a long moment in silence. Her silhouette was limned in gold from the warm candlelight spilling through the French windows, and her head nodded in time to the music.
“You miss it, don’t you?” It was a statement, not a question. “Dancing, I mean.”
Her sad little smile was just discernible in the candlelight. “Sometimes. It can be very dull, you know, being a widow and unable to participate in pastimes that once brought pleasure.” She sighed. “I suppose if I had truly loved Frederick or sincerely mourned his loss, I would not think of such frivolous things as dancing. But it is hard to be sober and staid when I feel like a bird released from a cage. And yet I am still not truly free, for there are the proprieties which must be observed.”
Obeying a sudden impulse, he set his plate and champagne flute down on the paving stones. “What is to prevent you from dancing now?”
Turning away from the gaily lit windows, she said in some exasperation, “You think I should march back into the ballroom and solicit some poor gentleman to dance with me? It would certainly distract everyone’s attention from Miss Kirkbride, I’ll grant you that.”
“No, not in there; out here. Who is to see you?”
“No one, I suppose. But in case you haven’t noticed, there is the small matter of a partner.”
“Will I do?”
Lady Fieldhurst was annoyed to find her heart pounding in her chest as if she had run all the way up the cliff path. “You, Mr. Pickett? Can you dance?”
“Probably not the way you are accustomed to, but I am willing to be taught.”
The idea was too absurd to contemplate; the temptation was too great to resist. She hesitated only a moment before shoving Mr. Colquhoun and his warning to the back of her mind. “Very well, then, Mr. Pickett. Stand facing me, and take two steps to your right.” She picked up the train of her dress to allow for more freedom of movement. “Now we each take four steps forward, circle each other, and back—no, don’t turn around, keep facing forward. Of course, we should change partners at this juncture, but we shall have to make do with each other. Now turn to your left—no, Mr. Pickett, your other left—”
Between her giving instructions and the time it took for him to put them into practice, they were of necessity a full beat behind the music. Still, she had never enjoyed a dance more. Here there was no aristocratic suitor to impress, no Bertram family honor to uphold. In fact, she thought as they laughed over a misstep that left Mr. Pickett half standing in the hedge, Frederick would no doubt be spinning in his grave at the thought of his viscountess in her widow’s weeds, dancing in reckless abandon with a man as far beneath him socially as the earth beneath the heavens. The very thought of such a thing made her want to throw back her head and laugh out loud at the sheer absurdity of it all.
And then he took a wrong step—or was it she?—and they found themselves breast to chest. She looked up at him to make some clever rejoinder, and her smile died aborning. Their eyes met and held, their noses almost touching and their lips scant inches apart, lips that had been joined, however briefly, only months ago in the darkened study of a Yorkshire country house . . .
Afterwards, neither one could have said who made the first move, but suddenly they were in each other’s arms. As he was quite tall, she had to stand on tiptoe to raise her face to his, a circumstance that caused her to sway unsteadily on her feet and lean against Pickett for support, to that young man’s evident satisfaction. They kissed eagerly, hungrily, a man and a woman who had kissed as a matter of expedience some three months earlier and who now realized that their lives since then had merely been marking time until they could find (or make) an opportunity to kiss again. At last they drew apart, breathing heavily and staring deeply into one another’s eyes in awe and wonder for a long moment before collapsing into another embrace and taking up where they had left off.
This process might have gone on indefinitely, had a slight sound from the darkness beyond the terrace not compelled Pickett to pull Lady Fieldhurst deeper into the concealing shadow of the boxwood, from which vantage point they could see the terrace without themselves being observed.
A moment later a man emerged into the light. At first Lady Fieldhurst thought it must be Duncan, and wondered at his sudden appearance on the terrace from the direction of the cliff when he had been in the house dancing with his aunt only a few moments ago. Then he moved closer to the French windows, and the light from the ballroom fell full on his face. Although there was something of Duncan’s appearance about him, and the two men were of a similar size and build, this was not Duncan Kirkbride, but a man she had seen only yesterday, a man clad in the rough homespun garments of the common labourer.
Lady Fieldhurst looked up at Pickett, his attention now fully engaged by the newcomer. “Neil, the stable hand,” she started to whisper, but he laid a finger on her lips to silence her. It seemed to her that there was nothing personal, nothing of intimacy, in the gesture; whatever madness had seized him a few minutes earlier had now passed, and his thoughts were fully fixed on the scene being played out before them.
The stable hand stared intently into the ballroom, but made no move to enter the house as he had done the previous day. A moment later the French window was opened from within, and Miss Kirkbride—or rather, Mrs. Church—stepped out onto the terrace.
“I got your message,” she said in an undervoice that carried in the still night air to the hedge where Pickett and Lady Fieldhurst hid in the shadows. “What are you doing here?”
“I hae to speak wi’ ye.” He gripped her shoulders. “E’er since I heard ye’d come back, I’ve waited for ye. Why dinna ye come to me, Elspeth?”
“For God’s sake, Neil, will you leave me alone?” said the actress playing Miss Kirkbride. “I haven’t come this far only to have you spoil it for me! It’s been fifteen years! Did you think nothing had changed in all that time? How could you be such a fool?”
He gave her a little shake. “Ye said ye were goin’ to marry me!”
“I would have said anything to hurt my father and Duncan. You knew that.” She shrugged out of his rough embrace. “Have you waited for me all these years? I’m afraid you’ve wasted your time.”
“Ye dinna care for me at all! Ye were only usin’ me!”
“Yes, I was. God knows I’m not proud of it, but I was little more than a child myself. What ot
her weapons did I have at my disposal?”
He shook his finger in her face. “Ye owe me, Elspeth. I’ll nae leave it be until ye’ve paid the debt.”
“We’ll speak of this later, Neil, but this is not the time. I must go back inside before Father begins to wonder at my absence.”
“When, then?” Neil demanded. “If nae now, when?”
“Tomorrow,” she said in some exasperation. “Don’t come to the house. I’ll meet you in the stables.”
“Aye, I’ll come in the morn. What time?”
“I don’t know—make it ten o’clock.” She gestured toward the cliff path. “Now go, quickly, before someone sees you here!”
He took a backward step in the direction she indicated, his expression filled with loathing. “Aye, I’ll go for now, Elspeth, but I’ll be back tomorrow at ten. Dinna forget!”
And then he was gone, swallowed up by the darkness beyond the terrace. Mrs. Church waited until the sounds of his departure faded, then schooled her features into an expression of serenity just as the door opened once more and Duncan Kirkbride stepped out onto the terrace.
“Still indulging a taste for stable hands, Elspeth?” he observed sardonically. “Some things never change.”
“And what does it matter to you, Duncan? You lost any right to dictate to me fifteen years ago.”
Under the cover of her answering retort, Pickett whispered against Lady Fieldhurst’s hair. “This place is busier than Bow Street on a Saturday night.”
His breath was warm against her ear, and Lady Fieldhurst felt a brief stab of resentment toward the Kirkbrides for making such frequent use of their own terrace. With an effort, she pushed aside her more amorous inclinations and focused her attention on the quarreling pair.
“If you will excuse me,” Elspeth was saying, “I must be getting back to the ballroom. Father will be wondering where I have gone.”
She would have brushed past Duncan and returned to the ballroom, but he seized her arm.
“Why did you have to come back, Elspeth?” he demanded. “Why couldn’t you have stayed dead, where you belonged?”
Without waiting for an answer, he pulled her roughly into his arms and covered her mouth with his own. Lady Fieldhurst, watching from her hiding place in the shadows, felt her face grow warm as she recalled her own part just moments earlier in a similar scene. Then again, she was forced to own, perhaps it was not so similar. For while Elspeth neither resisted nor returned Duncan’s embrace, the viscountess recalled her own rôle as a far more active participant.
“So cold, Elspeth?” Duncan challenged, releasing her at last. “I can remember a time when you weren’t so—”
“Duncan, there are things you don’t know,” Mrs. Church interrupted him. “I can’t tell you—”
Whatever she might have revealed was lost as the French window opened yet again. Lady Fieldhurst felt rather than heard Pickett’s huff of annoyance as Lady Malcolm swooped down on the quarreling lovers. She recalled that Pickett was not yet acquainted with Angus Kirkbride’s gossipy sister, but dared not identify the woman to him until they were alone; it would not do to be discovered at this juncture, even less so by this particular person.
“So this is where you’ve been hiding!” exclaimed Lady Malcolm, regarding Mrs. Church with an arch smile. “What can you have been doing out here, my dear? Your poor father is beside himself!”
“I beg your pardon, Aunt. Like you, Duncan had just come outside to fetch me. I confess, so much has happened over the last few days, I sometimes find it overwhelming. I am sorry Father was distressed by my absence; I had merely stepped outside for a moment to collect my thoughts.”
“Well, collect them inside, before Angus worries himself into an apoplexy!”
Without giving the younger woman an opportunity to protest, she steered her nephew and her supposed niece toward the French window. As Duncan and Elspeth returned to the ballroom, Lady Fieldhurst relaxed and breathed a sigh of relief at their having so narrowly escaped discovery. Alas, her relief was premature, for her black satin train brushed against Pickett’s empty champagne flute and knocked it over. The crystal did not shatter, but it did roll, tracing a long, shallow arc as it moved slowly across the paved terrace to rest at last against Lady Malcolm’s skirts.
“Why, what have we here?” Lady Malcolm asked of no one in particular, bending low to pick up the glass. “Who is there? Come out at once!”
Thus caught out, the fugitives had no alternative but to step forward.
“Good evening, Lady Malcolm,” the viscountess said, painfully aware of the lock of hair brushing her cheek, pulled loose, no doubt, by Mr. Pickett’s exploring fingers. “I trust you are enjoying the ball?”
“Very much, Mrs. Pickett, but apparently not nearly so much as you are,” said that too-astute lady, her attention fixed on some point beyond the viscountess’s shoulder. “It seems that all the real festivities are taking place on the terrace tonight! I gather this must be Mr. Pickett? But of course it is! Newly wedded couples always look just alike.”
Mr. Pickett, unaccustomed to moving in polite society, nevertheless stepped forward and made a very credible bow. “How do you do, ma’am?”
Lady Malcolm dipped a curtsy. “Pleased to meet you, I’m sure, Mr. Pickett. But I confess, when I saw our lovely Mrs. Pickett dressed all in black, and no husband in sight, I assumed she must be a widow. So many of our young women are, these days, what with that Bonaparte wreaking havoc all over the Continent! But tell me,” she continued, her curious gaze darting from one to the other and back again, “if not for her husband, then for whom is Mrs. Pickett in mourning?”
“My mother.”
“Her father,” said Pickett at the very same time.
The “newlyweds” exchanged a brief, panicked glance before Lady Fieldhurst plunged ahead. “Both, actually,” she told Lady Malcolm, with a silent apology to her parents, both of whom were still very much alive and living in Somersetshire. “My mother succumbed to a consumptive disease six months ago, and my father followed soon after. The doctor said he died of a broken heart.”
Lady Malcolm made suitably sympathetic noises, then brightened perceptibly. “But there is nothing to be gained in dwelling on your loss when this evening’s entertainment is meant to be a celebration! Will you not come inside and join the festivities, Mr. Pickett?”
“I—I’m not dressed for evening,” Pickett protested, painfully aware of the shabbiness of even his best black serge coat against this glittering company.
“Nonsense!” Her ladyship dismissed this argument with a wave of one plump beringed hand. “What are such things as clothing among friends?”
“Nor am I a friend,” insisted Mr. Pickett. “In fact, I have never met any of the Kirkbride family before in my life.”
“My husband arrived in Scotland some time after me,” Lady Fieldhurst explained, coming to his rescue. “He has not had the pleasure of making Mr. Kirkbride’s acquaintance.”
“There you are, then! No time like the present, I always say.”
“In fact, I had only come with a message for, er, Mrs. Pickett. As you may have heard, we have our three young nephews in our care, and poor Edward, the youngest, is complaining of a stomachache,” Mr. Pickett explained, rising to new heights of invention. “I am not much of a nurse, so I had hopes of a woman’s advice.”
“Then you came to the right place,” Lady Malcolm declared, not to be denied, “for I have reared four sons of my own. You may depend upon it that children are stronger than most of us give them credit for. I daresay little Edward’s stomach will improve on its own once he sees that his uncle and aunt do not intend to drop everything and fly to his aid. Now, come inside and let me introduce you to my brother.”
Thus adjured, there was nothing Pickett could do but take Lady Fieldhurst’s arm and allow himself and his “wife” to be led inside.
“You have come at a very opportune time, Mr. Pickett,” Lady Malcolm continued placidly, having h
ad her way at last, “for I believe my brother is about to make an interesting announcement.”
“I wonder if I might retire to the ladies’ withdrawing room and tidy up a bit,” put in Lady Fieldhurst, all too painfully aware of her disheveled appearance. She tucked a vagrant strand of hair behind her ear. “The—er, the wind off the sea is very keen tonight, is it not?”
Lady Malcolm eyed her shrewdly. “Aye, and it’s not the only thing that’s keen tonight, I trow. You need not blush, my dear Mrs. Pickett; after all, I was a young bride too, once upon a time.”
“If you will excuse me,” murmured the viscountess, scarlet with mortification. Pickett shot her a look of such agonized appeal that she felt compelled to assure him, “I shan’t be gone a moment longer than necessary, I promise.”
He swallowed hard. “I shall be counting the minutes, my la—dear.”
Alone in the small room set aside for the ladies’ personal needs, Lady Fieldhurst stared aghast at her reflection in the mirror. Her hair, so carefully dressed by the innkeeper’s daughter only a couple of hours earlier, now tumbled over her shoulders, the aigrette of dyed ostrich plumes that had adorned this coif now tilted at a drunken angle. Perhaps worse, her lips were rosy and swollen, and her face was flushed. She looked, in fact, like a woman who had just been thoroughly kissed.
Plucking out the few hairpins that remained undisturbed, she twisted her hair into a loose chignon and anchored it to the back of her head. As for the rest of the evidence, there was little she could do. Finding a bowl and pitcher provided for the ladies’ use, she bathed her face in cool water in the hopes of dispelling the rich color that stained her cheeks. She could only hope the commotion caused by the announcement of Duncan’s engagement would draw so much attention to the unhappy Miss McFarland that her own indiscretion would be overlooked.
She returned to the ballroom to rescue Mr. Pickett and found him in the center of the Kirkbride clan, looking woefully ill at ease. Indeed, she could hardly blame him, for just as he had predicted, his black serge coat, breeches, and top boots looked glaringly out of place.
Family Plot Page 12
