by Joan Smith
“Maggie and I figured out what must have happened,” Lady Lucker replied. “It was fortunate I got back in time myself to oversee the mixing of it. It was a great success. Between Georgiana and Gertrude, they have drunk up nearly the whole of it, but at least it kept them out of the good wine.” The affair was proceeding so well that she had no more serious complaint than this.
“I see the saucy baggage is back,” she continued. “It would serve her well to be stuck with a runaway match. We have been putting about that she is ill, and you were upstairs with her. Everyone has been asking for you, Clara. Just like Nel Muldoon to come landing in in fine fettle, but I did not actually say what was wrong with her, so we can say it was bad food, or something that passes quickly. Make sure you say the bad food was taken at the inn, not here. Where did you catch her?”
Clara told the story, omitting only the stew over Mr. Moore’s head, not to spare Nel, but to spare the gentleman.
Lady Lucker nodded. “Maggie suspected it was so when the three of you vanished, and suggested the illness story. But do tell me, have you any notion what happened to Mr. Ormond? He is gone, too? Four great gaping holes at the table, but none of them at the head table, fortunately. I don’t believe it caused much talk.”
“He went north looking for Nel. Is he not back yet?”
“No, the gudgeon is probably halfway to Gretna Green, but I shall keep an eye peeled for him and tell him what we are saying if he comes. You must be starved, Clara. I’ll have cook take you a bite into the morning parlor. I daresay Ben and Miss Muldoon will want something, too.”
Ben, when apprised of the plan, certainly did, but Nel was too happy describing her mysterious illness to succumb to mere starvation. She had collected a large circle of sympathizers, comprised of every eligible male at the party and a few ineligible ones as well. Maximilian put an arm around her shoulder and told her he knew what would cure her: a glass of champagne, that was the thing. She also got a good sharp pinch and called him summarily to account for it in a loud voice.
Max thought it a marvelous joke to be called an old libertine and said if he were forty years younger, by gad, he’d show the young fellows the way. “You are a pretty little kitten, miss. A bit thin, but not flat-chested in the least. A woman without a bosom is like a bed without a pillow. Nowhere to lay your head.”
In the morning parlor, Ben said, “I managed to get a seat beside you after all. Major Standby will have his nose out of joint. Do you want some of this jellied salad?”
“Yes, I must try Mrs. Hinton’s famous jellied crab.”
“Who is Mrs. Hinton?”
“The lady who contributed the jellied crab. That is all I know of her. And I’ll have some of the Nesbitt’s Westphalian ham, too, if you please. I could eat a horse.”
He placed a slice of ham on her plate. “Did no one think to contribute some Tewksbury mustard to the party?” he asked, looking around the table.
“We are using our own mustard. Would you like some of these prawns? Lady Gloria’s cook is said to have a special way with them.”
He tried one, but found nothing special in it, unless it was its coming to the party without expense. “Here, have one of Mrs. Smith’s buns, and some of Mrs. Jones’s butter,” he went on, passing along every item he could reach. “I see a wedding feast is not the expensive affair I feared. There is almost enough left over here to toss another small do, don’t you think?”
“Almost, but Prissie is the last girl to go, and when Charles takes a wife, it will be his bride’s mama who has to supply dinner.”
He directed a meaningful smile at Clara. “Only if his bride has a mama.” She was allowed by the job of eating to disregard any significance in this leading remark.
While they were still at the table, Mr. Ormond came in. “Lady Lucker told me you were here. I am vastly relieved to see you have got that poor child back safe. I met with no word of Moore’s carriage and turned back before I got to Maidenhead. I trust you gave Moore a taste of the home-brewed, Allingcote?”
“Speak to Clara. She forbade it.”
“Clara!” Ormond turned a shocked face to her. “This is not like you, to countenance such wanton behavior. The wretched creature must be made to pay the price for his villainy.”
“He has paid for it,” she said coolly.
“If he still draws breath, he has not paid in full,” Ormond declared, high on his dignity.
“You’re ranting like the hero in a bad melodrama, Herbert,” she said dampingly. “Mr. Moore was left in such circumstances that any further punishment would constitute cruelty. Nel dumped her dinner over his head in a public restaurant. Sit down. We are putting our dinner to better use. You must be hungry, too.”
“Good for Miss Muldoon! I never saw such a spirited girl. She is as merry as may be, showing no signs of the dreadful ordeal she has been through,” Herbert continued, taking a seat.
“She was not kidnapped, you know,” Clara pointed out. “A couple of hours in the company of the man she planned to marry until a few hours ago is not likely to induce a bout of melancholia. I think it is Mr. Moore who must be pitied.”
“Pitied!” Ormond howled. “The man is a libertine and a rake.”
“He is a poor dupe,” she replied, and ate on, unperturbed.
She was loudly talked down by both gentlemen, till Maggie slipped in to support her view. Herbert, whatever of Allingcote, was too deep in the throes of infatuation to see their view. When he left the room without even touching the vast variety of splendid desserts collected, Clara assumed his passion had still a day or two to run its course.
“If Nel Muldoon lures Ormond into offering for her, Allingcote, I shall hold you entirely responsible,” Clara warned him.
“He could do worse” was his unsatisfactory reply.
“No, he couldn’t,” Maggie said.
“With his pending title and her blunt, they’d make a good match,” he insisted mulishly. “Nel is to be pitied in spite of all. She knows she hasn’t been wanted for two years. By Anglin, by me, certainly by you and Mama, Maggie. She must know by now that even Moore was not after her beaux yeux, but her beau blunt. If she could feel someone liked her for herself, I think she might settle down.”
“But would she be happy with a cretin?” Maggie asked.
Clara smiled, and Ben gave them a derisive look. “Jealous pair of witches. Leave me my illusions.”
“She’s young,” Clara said. “In that our hope for her salvation must rest.”
“You just want to get her off your hands without leaving her on your conscience,” Maggie teased, knowing her brother pretty well.
“I’ll have her off my hands tomorrow, and my conscience is clear. I’ve done my best for her for two years. I can’t help it if I don’t love her. The Bertrams have the reputation of being sensible people, and as they will be made aware of her history, I leave her in their hands. There is no reason she should not be presented next spring. She’d like that. In the interim, perhaps some respectable gent like Herbert will show her around town.”
“Nel Muldoon will have gents wherever she goes,” Maggie prophesied. “With her debut to look forward to, she may toe the line.”
“She does care a little for her reputation,” Clara said. “She didn’t want people here to know what she’d been up to. With a larger audience to play to, she may even sink into propriety.”
“I take credit for saving her fair name this time around,” Maggie said. “I said Clara was tending her in her illness, but I couldn’t think of any excuse for your absence, Ben.”
“You lack Nel’s power of invention. I have been running around the countryside looking for a doctor wonderful enough to save her life. We forgot to tell Herbert that, Clara.”
“I’ll do it,” Maggie said, hopping up. “I daresay you were just looking for an excuse to be rid of me, Ben. I don’t mind in the least. I am contemplating falling in love with Mr. Ormond myself.”
“You’re taking your time ab
out it,” Ben smiled.
“Unlike some people, I haven’t the knack of falling head over ears in love in three days,” she said saucily, and left.
“One day, Maggie. One day,” he called after her, and laughing, turned to Clara. “Do you believe in love at first sight, Clara?”
“Certainly. It is the only kind I do believe in. It is the vogue in all the best gothic novels. The eyes meet, an electric charge runs across the room, shattering the heart into smithereens.”
He turned a lazy smile on her. “Something like that. But our eyes didn’t meet, actually. You were looking at Boo Withers, standing close to the grate, holding your hands out to be warmed. The whelp grabbed hold of your hand and pulled you back. Do you know, that is when I first experienced the onset of these fits of violence that never go beyond the impulse. I wanted to push him right into the fire to be incinerated and soon figured out it was his grabbing you that caused it.”
“You would have preferred to see my gown catch fire?”
“That would have been interesting, but I only wanted to grab you myself. I settled for detaching you from Withers instead. Then our eyes met, but my heart was already smashed to bits. No electric shock either, but a feeling of peace. I must not be reading the right novels.”
“Mrs. Radcliffe would soon set you straight.”
“I didn’t need Mrs. Radcliffe to tell me I had met my doom. Er, make that destiny.”
“I will make it your doom if I receive any more of these compliments, sir.”
He cocked an ear and said, “There! Music to soothe the savage beast, right on cue.” The plangent strains of violins and cellos began wafting through the house. It was only afternoon, but with the nuptial feast over, a dance was about to begin. Prissie and Oglethorpe were to lead off, before preparing for their departure for the Highlands.
Their hunger satisfied, Ben and Clara went to see the new baroness perform her first social duty. She did it with a noticeable lack of verve, but she was a lackluster girl at the best of times and was said to have performed handsomely. With a mama, a dresser, and a sister to get the bride into her traveling suit, Clara did think it a little hard that she must go abovestairs to help, too, but she alone knew the trick of tethering the silk scarf to the neck of the suit so that it didn’t pop up at every step, and Prissie insisted that Clara help her.
When the bride was ready, there was a prolonged leave-taking. Lady Lucker cried real tears of joy to be creditably rid of her daughter at last. Sir James said, “Take care of her,” in a brusque way to Oglethorpe. Prissie’s groom failed to protect her from Maximilian’s parting pinch, but he did bravely intrude his slender body between her and Nel Muldoon when Nel advanced to say her farewells.
There was a general exodus to the front door to see the loaded traveling carriage begin its unenvied haul to Scotland. After the day’s exertions, more food in the form of hot hors d’oeuvres was served. Lady Lucker foresaw no good use for them after her company had gone. Another hour passed before dancing resumed, and Allingcote appeared at Clara’s side to claim her.
“Do we workers have to start collecting plates, or are we free to dance?” he asked, inclining his head to hers in his familiar way.
“I resign,” Clara answered, stifling a yawn. “I haven’t the energy for anything but falling over onto a sofa and going to sleep.” Even as she spoke, a new wave of energy surged within her. She liked dancing, and particularly she looked forward to dancing with Ben.
“Dance with me,” he insisted. “I’m dead on my feet, too. We may keel over in the middle of the floor, but we must have one dance to honor Prissie’s wedding. We’ll rest our weary bones till they play a waltz. I won’t force the rollicking pace of a country-dance on you, but we must waltz.”
Clara opened her mouth to say she was not actually so very tired. Ben misunderstood her intention and interrupted. “Don’t be selfish, woman. Just because you haven’t slept in three nights is no reason to refuse to dance for a couple of hours. You notice how subtly I shift the charge of selfishness on to your shoulders? One dance, then I’ll let you have that sick headache you’ve been preparing since morning.”
“Very well, as you are totally selfish and pigheaded, we’ll have one waltz.”
“Good girl. Wait right here.” Ben went to speak to the musicians. A waltz struck up, but before he got back to her, she was asked to stand up with a different gentleman. She declined, politely at first, but the man was slightly the worse for wine, so that he insisted. Rather than cause a scene, she agreed to a dance.
When Ben returned to the spot where he had left her, he looked around in perplexity, then began scanning the floor till he found her. An expression of bewilderment was his first reaction; it soon firmed to annoyance. She looked at him with a helpless, apologetic gaze as his lips moved in mute profanity. Ben stood, arms akimbo, glaring for a moment, then strode onto the floor, and cut in on her partner. Her escort, pleasantly foxed, gave in with a good grace, and Allingcote swept Clara into his arms at last.
“Another strong compulsion to commit violence has been avoided—barely, and with no thanks to you,” he said gruffly.
“I told him I had promised the dance. He insisted, and as he had been drinking, you know...”
“Never mind your excuses, my girl. I know well enough your custom of never remaining in one spot for ten seconds. It was my own fault. I should have dragged you with me to the orchestra. You would have enjoyed the little trip. This is going to be a very long dance, however, a whole guinea long, and I shouldn’t begrudge the old souse a few seconds of it.”
“Did you bribe them to play a waltz? What a shocking waste of money. They have been instructed to play several, included in their fee.”
“Very likely, but what they were about to strike up was a cotillion. I wanted to have our waltz now. Well worth a guinea, too,” he said warmly, pulling her more tightly against him.
“One would never take you for Lady Lucker’s nephew. You have no economy.”
“I fancy you have enough for both of us.”
“Only when necessary—which is most of the time. What I would really like to do is get my hands on a fortune and buy every stupid thing I have always wanted. Gowns and bonnets and slippers...” She sighed in contemplation.
“A bit of a Nel Muldoon, in fact. Another of my little compliments for you.”
Clara was too happy to revile him. She smiled and said in her usual calm way, “I expect it is fatigue making you so clumsy-tongued.”
His arm, already holding her a shade tighter than was the custom, tightened with a jerk and his head loomed close above hers. His eyes glowed strangely bright. “I think I’m going to kiss you, Clara,” he said in a husky voice. “Don’t you think we should go somewhere more private?”
“What, and waste your guinea? No, no, like your primitive urges, it will soon pass away.”
His feet stopped moving. He stood stock still in the middle of the floor, arousing some curiosity as waltz-ers jostled around them. “I don’t think so. It seems to be getting stronger. If you don’t want to scandalize Auntie’s party still further, you had best come with me.”
Before she had time to reply, Clara was waltzed out the door and into the hallway. Ben opened the first door he came to. It led into a chamber that was surprisingly dark for afternoon. Lady Lucker never burned a lamp unless it was necessary, and the windows were heavily shrouded against the winter winds. When he closed the door behind them, it was black as a cave at midnight.
Ben drew her against him, tightened his arms around her till she was reminded of his threat of forged steel chains, and kissed her long and passionately, in total silence. The darkness and silence added to the dreamlike quality of the moment. Obviously this was not happening. She had had too much wine and had dozed off into a delightful dream.
Then he raised his head. She felt his breaths against her cheek when he spoke. “I have been dreaming of this for two years. It is even better than I dreamed,” he said, and ki
ssed her again, with hungry, devouring kisses, while his arms crushed her to him. Clara thought she had been harboring some such dream all her grown-up life.
Their embrace was interrupted by a stertorous snort from the corner. “Oh!” Clara jumped in guilty surprise and pulled away.
Ben reached for her in the darkness, but his attempt to ignore the interruption was in vain. The snort changed to a querulous voice. “Who is there? Light the demmed lamps. Why are we plunged into darkness? Dashed skint.”
Allingcote opened the door to let some weak light from the hall penetrate the room. It revealed Maximilian, sprawled on a sofa, just sitting up, and rubbing his head.
“Oh, it’s you, Allingcote,” he said. “Who are you cuddling there? Clara—you!” he exclaimed in shock. No amorous dealings surprised him for long, however, and he soon regained his composure. “Sly puss, letting on you didn’t like it when I—Heh heh. I made sure it was the Muldoon. There is a girl I wouldn’t mind— Well, well. I daresay you two would like to be alone. Try the next room, and be sure you close the door behind you when you leave,” he said, and lay down again.
“An excellent idea. Sorry we disturbed you,” Allingcote replied very civilly, and led Clara out, closing the door behind them. “Was that a feather pillow he was using, or his preferred kind? I didn’t see a lady with him, did you?”
“We’re disgraced!” Clara gasped. Her voice was pitched low, and her face was scarlet.
“He’s drunk as a wheelbarrow; he won’t remember a thing. You didn’t tell me he has been at you with his pinches. Another victim for my violence list. I asked you to come in my carriage. Let it be a lesson to you. Now what did he say about another room...” He began looking down the hall.
“No! Have you no shame? I’m going back to the dance.”
“As well hang for a sheep as a lamb.” With a tight hold on her hand, he headed to another room, but Clara was adamant.
“I am not going in there with you, Ben.”
“Clara, we’re two years overdue for this.” His voice trembled with emotion. She clenched her lips and shook her head. “Oh very well. We might catch a few shillings of that guinea I wasted.” He allowed himself to be dragged back to the dance floor, to finish the long waltz, and then lay plans for the morrow.
