by M C Beaton
“No,” replied James. “There has been such noise and crashing and to-ing and fro-ing in there that I have been using the side door to leave the castle.”
“Come and see, now,” urged Lucy.
He followed her out of the morning room and through a long, stone, flagged corridor and eventually into the huge main hall of the castle. He stood blinking in amazement. The floor of the hall was laid with gold and white tiles that gleamed with polish and looked like a huge chess board. Two servants were polishing an enormous chandelier that glinted and shimmered in the faint light streaming through the mullioned windows. High-backed seventeenth-century chairs lined the walls. Mrs. Chadbury was there supervising the draping of gold silk on two of the walls. “Won’t we be grand?” said Lucy. “But let us not stand here too long or Mama will find something for me to do. And I must go to see Isabella about my gown. She is remaking one of her ball gowns for me and sent a note over to say I need a fitting.”
“If I can have the use of a carriage, I will drive you over,” said the captain.
“Oh, just tell someone to bring it round,” said Lucy airily. “The gig will do. I will just change my gown, and then I will meet you outside.”
Soon both were bowling along the dusty roads under a glaring sun. “A storm coming,” said Lucy wisely.
“How can you be so sure?” asked the captain, looking up at the cloudless sky. “We have been enjoying unbroken weather for some time.”
“Too hot and glaring and sultry,” said Lucy, “and I noticed this morning that the sea was not so blue. The sea always changes color just before a storm. At first we were going to have a marquee erected on the lawn and have the dancing there, but we could not risk it for we get really dreadful storms on this part of the coast.”
She unfurled an old parasol and held it over her. James glanced at it in amusement. It was a heavy cumbersome thing with a dangling fringe, probably dating from the days when the parasol replaced the mask as a concealment for ladies.
“I like visiting Isabella,” confided Lucy. “Everything in her home is so well organized. And she has the best lemonade you have ever tasted.”
Isabella was sitting on the terrace, reading her letter in The Times over and over again. She had pretended to be a Colonel Ferguson. She felt guilty and kept telling herself that she had done the right thing.
But when she looked up and saw the castle gig with Lucy and Captain James, her heart sank. Lucy looked so supremely happy.
She rose and thrust the newspaper under the cushion of her chair as the couple approached the terrace. “Will it be too hot for you here, Lucy?” she asked. “We could go indoors.”
“This will do beautifully.” Lucy sank down into a chair. “The terrace is still in the shade. And lemonade, Isabella, if you please. I have been telling Captain James about your lemonade.”
Isabella picked up a little silver bell from the table in front of her and rang it. A correct footman answered its summons promptly, and Isabella ordered a jug of lemonade. This is how it should be, thought Lucy. When I have a home of my own, everything will be just so. No eccentric servants, no horrible old retainers, and I shall have a lady’s maid. Then she looked at Isabella’s beauty and sighed and rubbed her snub nose in distress. Probably, if she married, she would have to settle for someone who might not be able to afford such luxuries as well-trained servants and lady’s maids.
“Tell me, captain,” said Isabella after the lemonade had arrived, “do you not miss your regiment?”
“What you mean,” said the captain with a grin, “is that with the country still at war, why am I lounging here?”
Isabella colored and disclaimed.
“It does look odd to anyone who is not a soldier,” he went on. “But these wars with Napolean could go on for years, and one must take one’s rest from battles when one can. And what better rest is there than sitting drinking lemonade on an English summer’s day with two pretty ladies? I am weary of the dirt and stench of battle. Do not worry, Lord Harry and I will return to finish our work, but let us enjoy our rest.”
Suffering from pangs of guilt, Isabella quickly changed the subject and asked how the preparations for the ball were going ahead, and Lucy prattled on happily about how the castle was being transformed.
“Talking about being transformed,” said Isabella, rising to her feet, “we must leave Captain James for a short time while you try on your gown, Lucy.”
After they had left, Captain James stretched out in his seat and looked out over the manicured lawns and gardens of Appleton House. Then after a time, he decided to have some more lemonade and reached forward to pour himself a glass. It was then that he saw the edge of a newspaper sticking out from under the cushion on the chair on which Isabella had been sitting. He eased the newspaper out. It was the day before’s edition of The Times. The efficient Chadburys must have it sent down from London to Dowlas by mail coach, he thought. It was folded back at the letters page. His eyes flicked over the letters. Three were complaining about the Prince Regent’s extravagance, two about the staggeringly high price of bread, and one….
His own name seemed to leap up at him. He read the letter in growing fury and amazement. Whoever had written it must be someone who knew that he and Harry were on leave. And who on earth was this Colonel Ferguson? But the damage was done. Immediately after the ball, he and Harry would have to ride to Portsmouth and try to get to the bottom of this. And they may as well take their traps as well, for after such a letter as this, it was doubtful if they would be allowed to return. He leaned back and closed his eyes and he was back in Spain, hearing the roar of the cannon, the screams of the wounded and dying. He could feel the hot Spanish sun on his head and hear the monotonous screech of the bullock carts as he and his men wound their way across the high sierras.
“Captain James?”
He opened his eyes. Lucy was looking at him anxiously. Behind her was Isabella, her face half averted, for Isabella had seen that he had found the newspaper.
“Read this,” said James, handing the newspaper to Lucy.
She read it quickly, her eyes growing rounder. “Oh,” she said miserably. “Oh, how dreadful. Who is this Colonel Ferguson?”
“I do not know,” said James. He looked sharply at Isabella who was standing there silently. “Did you read this?”
“No, I have not yet seen the newspaper. As a matter of fact I do not read newspapers. Papa must have left it there,” said Isabella, and all at once the captain was sure she was lying.
“I’ll read it to you,” cried Lucy, and did so.
“Well, to be sure, that is very bad,” said Isabella, “but you would have had to return sometime, would you not? Besides, there have been complaints recently in the House about officers spending so much time on leave.”
“For a lady who does not read newspapers, you appear to be remarkably well informed,” snapped the captain.
“You must not be angry with Isabella,” said Lucy, flying to her friend’s defense. “It is not as if she had anything to do with it. Oh, dear, I could kill this Colonel Ferguson.”
“If he exists.”
“What can you mean?”
“Just that. No military man would write such a letter. A real colonel who felt strongly about the matter and knew our names would write to our commanding officer.”
“What will you do?” Isabella’s voice was low.
“Why … return!” said the captain bitterly.
Lucy sat down beside him, her eyes wide and sad. She realized she had been living in a sunny dream where she and the captain would slowly drift together into something warmer than friendship. A tear rolled down her freckled nose and plopped on her lap.
“Do not cry,” said James gently. He took out an impeccable handkerchief, held her face by the chin, and expertly dried her eyes. “Harry and I have survived this long. We lead charmed lives, I assure you. There now, Lady Lucy, your sympathy touches me. We had best return, for Harry must know of this.” There w
as a slight frost in his manner as he bowed to Isabella.
“You are cross with Isabella,” said Lucy as they drove off. “Why?”
“Because, my dear, I have very sharp eyesight. When we drove up, Miss Isabella was seated on the terrace with a newspaper in her hands, and yet she now says she never reads them. She does not want to marry Harry and has been forced into it by her parents and your parents. What better way of delaying the marriage!”
“Isabella would never do such a thing,” said Lucy stoutly. “Granted you saw her with the newspaper, but she could just have picked it up because her father left it lying there.”
“And thrust it under her cushion? In such a well-run household? I believe more normal behavior would have been to ring the bell and hand the paper to a servant.”
“I will not believe it.” Tears started to Lucy’s eyes. “You do not understand. No lady would even know enough about the wars or officers on leave to write such a letter. I know, but then I am not a very good example of a young lady, but some of my acquaintance do not even know where Spain is.”
He slowed the gig and looked at her in consternation. “Now, Lady Lucy, I will not have you cry.”
Lucy dried her eyes fiercely. “I know you are upset, Captain James, but there are other possibilities.”
“Such as?”
“Well, for example, those two attacks on Isabella. Perhaps some beau she spurned is now determined on revenge and wants Harry out of the way.”
“I agree that is a possibility, but I am still very sure that—There now, we will put it out of our minds until after the ball. Will you spare me a dance?”
“As many as you want,” said Lucy, suddenly happy again.
The captain forced himself to talk of other things for the rest of the way, but as soon as they arrived at the castle, he went in search of Lord Harry. He found him in his room, lying on top of the bed, fully dressed and smoking a cheroot.
“When my normally indolent parents throw themselves into some activity,” said Lord Harry, “it is as well to keep clear. You look grim.”
Captain James silently handed him the newspaper that he had taken from Isabella and pointed to the letter.
“Interfering old busybody,” said Lord Harry, tossing the paper aside.
“You are not furious?”
“Not really, my friend. This masquerade and the company of the fair Isabella are beginning to bore me. It will be a relief to go back.”
“But hear this.” The captain described how he had seen Isabella reading the newspaper, of her subsequent denials, and of how sure he was that she was lying.
Lord Harry’s face darkened. He swung his long legs out of bed and strode to the window. “A cold-hearted bitch, by George,” he said bitterly.
“To be fair, your sister has another idea.” James outlined Lucy’s theory about the rejected lover.
“Tsch!” Lord Harry swung round. “And yet how is it that I still feel Isabella is responsible. Well, we may be doing her an injustice. This Colonel Ferguson may exist. The trouble is with so many Scottish regiments, there is probably more than one Colonel Ferguson. No regiment mentioned, I see, no address, no club.”
“It is very terrible if she did do it,” said James slowly, “but have you considered that you might be wrong in your estimation of Isabella?”
“How so?”
“She is remote with us, but with Lady Lucy she is all warmth and friendship. And she cannot be such a very prim young lady to wear that carriage dress or to go running with your sister.”
“Oh, I feel that is as much part of an act as my behavior. She is trying to look slovenly to give me a disgust of her but does not know how. She wears unembellished hats and gowns but still manages to look like a fashion plate. There may be depths to her, but they are depths I do not wish to plumb, for I feel I would find nothing but low cunning. I shall ride over to Appleton House and study her behavior and see if I think her guilty of that letter. But first I will go to Dowlas. Do you remember when she slipped away from us and then was attacked. But why did she slip away? I shall go to the mail office and simply ask if Miss Isabella Chadbury sent a letter and to whom did she send it. They know me there, and so they will tell me.”
“And should that address prove to be The Times?”
Lord Harry suddenly laughed. “Then be damned to her! My parents will need to struggle on. I have some prize money for them, and then before the wars are over, I may have more.”
“Wait! You have forgot to paint.”
“I am not going to die of lead poisoning because of Isabella Chadbury. I shall retain my foppish manner to the last—the last being the announcement at the ball. Instead of the engagement, I shall publicly announce I have changed my mind.”
“Cruel!”
“Not half so cruel as bundling two weary warriors back to the battle front.”
Isabella was supervising the finishing touches to Lucy’s ball gown. “I think that will do famously,” she told her lady’s maid. “White jaconet with silver thread, vastly pretty.”
A footman entered. “Viscount Tregar has called, miss,” he said, “and wishes to speak to you privately.”
Isabella bit her lip in consternation. Her parents were both at the castle, still helping the earl and countess with advice about the arrangements. “Very well,” she said reluctantly. “Where is he?”
“On the terrace, miss.”
Isabella gave instructions for Lucy’s dress to be folded in tissue paper and taken to the castle and then made her way slowly downstairs. She paused at the French windows leading to the terrace.
Lord Harry was sprawled at his ease. His hair, worn longer than was fashionable, was combed into a simple style, and his face was lightly tanned and free of paint. He did not look at all foppish. He looked very strong and masculine. She moved forward onto the terrace. He saw her and immediately jumped to his feet and swept her a low and elaborate bow.
“My lord, what can I do for you?” asked Isabella. “Pray be seated.”
She sat down herself, and he drew up a chair beside her.
Lord Harry had found out at Dowlas that Isabella had posted a letter to The Times. All the anger he felt against her did not show on his face. Instead he said lightly, “Because of some criminal fool writing to the newspapers, it appears that James and I must report back to our regiment immediately after the ball.”
“How sad,” said Isabella in a colorless voice.
“Sadder for James than I,” remarked Lord Harry.
“Why?”
“Well, I have been very lucky in the wars, but poor James has had so many escapes from death that I fear this time his luck will run out.”
Isabella’s hand, holding a fan, tightened on the sticks. “I am sure you jest, my lord.”
In a voice she had not heard him use before, he said harshly, “Death is not a jest.” Then his voice resumed its usual mincing tone. “Faith, what sort of man can this Colonel Ferguson be? James has parents and sisters and brothers who would grieve sorely over his death. My erratic parents are very fond of me and Lucy—Lucy would break her heart.”
In a trembling voice, Isabella whispered, “Monstrous.”
“Yes, monstrous, indeed. But why am I plaguing you with such dark thoughts? Young ladies never think of such things. In fact, in my experience, you ladies never think at all. Your function in life is to look pretty.” He glanced at her maliciously, waiting for an outburst, but Isabella was white and silent. “Then I must take my leave. I really called to urge you to look your best at the ball, Miss Isabella. I have noted your dress to be a trifle provincial of late.” With that, he strode off in the direction of the stables.
Isabella watched him go, watched him mount his horse and ride off, and then she covered her face with her hands and burst into tears.
On the day of the ball, Lucy felt strung up and nervous. In her dreams, she had been dancing with Captain James. But her dreams had a way of turning into nightmares, and in her latest one, th
e captain had left her side to pay court to a beautiful lady who was not cursed with either freckles or frizzy hair.
Servants seemed to be running hither and thither in a frenzy, and the countess and Mrs. Chadbury were ordering them this way and that.
The day was very hot and still, and then, to Lucy’s dismay, black thunderclouds began to pile up in the west. What if a deluge should fall before the guests arrived, turning the roads into muddy rivers, making any journey impossible?
Isabella arrived in midafternoon to find Lucy walking up and down and wringing her hands.
“Whatever is the matter?” cried Isabella. She received an incoherent tirade about the coming storm, about how the ball would never take place, ending with, “And poor Captain James going back to war where he will be killed.”
