Blessed Offense (Sixteen Seasons)

by Christensen, V. R.

  by

  V.R. Christensen

  Author of

  Of Moths & Butterflies and Cry of the Peacock

  Captive Press Publishing

  Copyright 2011 by V.R. Christensen

  Kindle Edition

  This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to persons living or dead are purely coincidental.

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  Blessed Offence

  WHEN I WAS thirteen, Lynford Townsend pushed me into the duck pond. I have never forgiven him.

  Perhaps that is why, at the age of three and twenty, I am less than thrilled at the announcement that he and my sister, Celia, are engaged to marry. I should be happy. Why am I not happy? It isn’t jealousy that keeps me from congratulating them wholeheartedly. Truly it isn’t. I could never think of marrying myself to a man who would purposefully push me into a body, however small, of stale and brackish water.

  The announcement has just been made, and well received. My smile is taught. I can feel it pulling at the corners of my eyes, willing them to cooperate in the gesture. A toast is offered. My sister blushes charmingly. Mr. Townsend is all pride and masculine conquest. Of course they have my blessing. I try harder to appear as sincerely happy for them as I know I ought to feel.

  In the drawing room, Mama embraces Celia and sheds tears upon her fair head.

  “Oh, Mama,” my sister chides. “You make too much of it. You always knew it would happen. Admit it.”

  Mama, for some reason I cannot comprehend, gives me a surreptitious, and rather pointed, look before turning back to my dear sister. “Of course we did, my darling. Though we had begun to wonder... But now it is at last decided upon, you must allow me to be happy. It is my right, after all.”

  Celia shakes her head, sending the curls that frame her face bouncing. She kisses Mama again and rises to sit next to me. She takes my hand in hers. “You are not disappointed?”

  “Don’t be silly. Mr. Townsend is one of the best men I know. You could not do better.”

  “That was my thinking,” she says and looks a trifle uncertain. If she is afraid I resent the fact that my little sister is to be married before me, I intend to put her at ease on the matter. “You know you’ve been in love with him since anyone can remember. Why shouldn’t you have your heart’s desire? You deserve to be happy.”

  “Yes,” she says, “but to own the truth, I had always thought he liked you better.”

  “Don’t be absurd. We can’t get on for five minutes together. And you know me. Being liked isn’t enough. I must be adored. And he adores you—it is quite plain to see.”

  “Do you really think so?” she asks and takes my hand.

  “Did you not see how proud of himself he is for catching you? You’ll make him very happy. And he you, I’m quite certain.”

  “I do hope so,” Celia answers, and looks, for just a moment, as if she might cry.

  “At least I doubt very much he will ever be tempted to throw you into the pond.”

  “What can you mean?” Celia says in apparent confusion. “Surely you can’t mean to say you are still angry about—”

  But before she can finish the question, which I’m not sure I would have answered in any event, the men enter.

  WHEN I WAS fifteen, Lynford Townsend killed my beloved terrier. I’ve never forgiven him. I don’t know that I ever shall.

  It is father who enters the drawing room first, Lynn following close behind. Papa is no doubt anxious to congratulate his soon-to-be-wed (and off-his-hands) daughter. He kisses both of her blushing cheeks. “My darling,” he says. “I am so proud.”

  “And I am so happy, Papa,” she says and glances at Mr. Townsend. But I am no longer certain she is. And to think I had convinced myself that the hesitation was all on his side. But why should she be reluctant? He has never once threatened her, or her cherished cat Tilly, any harm that I know of.

  Mama summons Celia to her side once more, anxious to have her near now she is so soon to leave home. Mr. Townsend takes a seat opposite me. Juniper II begs at his knee, and soon finds himself lifted onto the gentleman’s lap.

  “Put my dog down, if you please.”

  “Why should I? He wants me. And I gave him to you, if you recall.”

  “In replacement of the one you destroyed.”

  “Destroyed? That is strong language. You know very well how troublesome that beast was.”

  “That didn’t give you the right to kill him.”

  “It was an accident.”

  “So you say.”

  “I am sorry, Caro,” he says, and appears quite sincere. But I do not want him to relent. I do not regret his marrying my sister, and I want him to know it. I take the dog from him and return to my seat opposite, holding dear Juniper II very close, as if protecting its dear little life. Which I admit may perhaps be taking it a bit far.

  “We are soon to be brother and sister,” he says now. “I would like it if we could be friends.”

  “We have had these past twenty years to learn to be friends. I’m afraid if we have not learned yet, we never shall.”

  “But it hasn’t always—”

  He stops as Celia lays her hand upon his shoulder, a worried expression on her brow. “You are not arguing again?” she asks.

  “We have formed our habits,” I answer. “I should think them quite impossible to break at this point.”

  Celia sits down between us, taking each of our hands in hers. “It is my sincerest wish,” she says, “that you will love each other as I love you both. Will you try, for me?”

  “You know you have my word,” Mr. Townsend says and squeezes her hand.

  “And you?” Celia says now as she turns to me. “Will you promise? Promise me you will at least try?”

  I do not answer right away. I, for one, am happy with matters as they are. Well, not quite happy, but reconciled at least. I see no reason to change them.

  “Caro, my dear,” Celia says, pressing for an answer.

  And when I still have none to give, she places my hand in Mr. Townsend’s. He takes it obediently and looks at me for the merest moment. I cannot endure it. I stand and excuse myself from the room, and do not look back to see what the effect of my abruptness may be on the company. Is my behaviour a little heartless? It may well be. That is, after all, what they say—that I have no heart. Why shouldn’t it be true?

  It would be better if it were true.

  WHEN I WAS eighteen, a very exuberant, and perhaps slightly inebriated Lynford Townsend tore the sleeve of my very best dress. I do not have to tell you I have not forgiven him.

  It was on the night of my debut. My hair was up, my corset laced to within an inch of my life, and Papa had invited some very distinguished guests. I did not mind dancing my first dance with my childhood friend. It was comfortable to dance with him. I knew he would forgive any mistakes I made. And he helped me to feel a little more confident before I was handed off to the up-and-coming and one-day-to-be-titled of my father’s acquaintances.

  Only I never got quite that far.

  I cannot recall how it happened. No doubt it was attributable to his clumsiness. He had worn his grandfather’s tie pin, which he somehow managed to catch on my new gown and rippe
d the shoulder from neckline to sleeve. Only there wasn’t a sleeve, and so . . .Well, let’s just say he, and several others in the room, saw more of my underpinnings that night than I have been wont to show anyone who was not familiar with our nursery and my years in it.

  Suffice it to say, it was a very short night. I quit the ball and refused to return again to it.

  But tonight it is Celia’s turn to be debuted. Her eighteenth birthday and the formal announcement of her engagement. I trust Mr. Townsend will take greater care to keep Celia’s underpinnings properly concealed.

  “You won’t dance?”

  “With you?” I ask Lynn, who has appeared very suddenly beside me. He looks well tonight. His hair droops a little over one eye and makes him look ever so slightly rakish, which he isn’t, but I suspect he likes people to think him the dashing gentleman who is ever at ease in the company of a lady. “I think I learned my lesson.”

  “You still won’t forgive me for that incident with your gown?” He laughs.

  “Not if you’re going to continue to make a joke of it,” I say. “And no. I won’t dance, not with you or anyone without a title or at least something to offer by way of compensation for the trouble.”

  “You’re very proud, aren’t you?”

  “I must think of my future as well as anyone. And I don’t like to be undressed in public view. I doubt you’ll find many who do.”

  “It isn’t likely to happen twice, you know.”

  “That’s what the tyrant Bonaparte said when he was exiled. The first time.”

  Lynn laughs. Silently, almost companionably, which is a rare feeling these past months, and watches the company mingle and dance, and, like me, not dance.

  “Charles Montegue will inherit a mountain of money when his father dies,” he says, nodding in the young man’s direction.

  “Yes, but he spits when he talks, which is all well and good across a table, but when you’re dancing face to face . . .”

  “What about young Lord Ashcroft?”

  “Have you met his mother?”

  “Good point. There’s Henry Oliphant, of course.”

  I simply look at him. Have you seen the way he dances? I might have asked.

  “Yes, yes, all right. But you shouldn’t be so picky, you know. Not at your age.” This he adds with a wicked grin.

  “Well, I’m not dancing with you, so you can just put that thought out of your mind. Where is Celia?”

  “I cannot find her.”

  “You can’t find her?”

  “No. And that’s the second time you’ve refused me this quarter hour. I never asked you, you know. To dance, that is.”

  This sends the heat into my face.

  “Your pride is going to be your downfall,” he says more seriously. “If you want to end up bitter and alone, that’s your lookout, but I don’t think it’s what you really want.”

  “Neither do you, for that matter. Having to support your wife’s spinster sister would quite be the limit of your patience, I’m sure.”

  “I hope I am not too proud to know when I might be of some use,” he says with a strain of defensiveness, and only after a long and tense silence, “even if that help is not particularly wanted or appreciated. I do hope this trait of yours is not shared by your sister as well.”

  “Oh, Celia’s not proud. She may be vain, but she’s never proud.”

  “Is there a difference?”

  “Of course there is. Pride is a feeling of one’s superiority. Vanity is the desire that others should see you so.”

  He looks at me very pointedly.

  “I do not mean to be proud, Mr. Townsend. My feelings are easily hurt, by some more than others, and I do not like to be humiliated or shown my weaknesses. No one does.”

  “But you are mighty slow to forgive, Caro. Dash it if you’re not.” He appears to truly regret it, but I will not be swayed by his speeches. They are no longer mine to hear.

  I fan myself. It is hot in here, but more than that I need something to do while he stares at me so intently. It is as much as to say he means, somehow, to earn my forgiveness. But it’s too late for that. At least he should not want it. He should not!

  “Well,” I say, at last finding it necessary to break the silence, “if you won’t find Celia, then I will.” And I leave him standing there. I would very much like to know he is watching me walk away, but I think he is not. I look. No, he is not. I cannot help it; I am disappointed.

  WHEN I WAS nineteen, Lynford Townsend kissed me. It was my birthday. It was his gift, he had said. It was the only one he had to give. I have never forgiven him. I certainly have never forgotten it.

  How a young woman of eighteen can disappear from her own coming out party, I do not know, but Celia is in none of the receiving rooms, and I’ve just made up my mind to go upstairs and check her own room when I see her coming out of the curtained off cloakroom that has been set up in the back stairwell. She is looking curiously flushed and dishevelled.

  Celia!” I say. “What is the matter with you?”

  She looks at me, apparently ashamed, but for what I cannot quite imagine. Her cheeks are very red. Her lips redder, as if they’d just received some hard use. Worse still, she has not answered me. “Celia?”

  “I– I was just discussing something,” she stammers. “Something rather personal. With a friend.”

  “Who is this friend?” I demand and approach to see for myself.

  The cloakroom curtains part once more and another figure stands before me. This is no confidante of the common—and commonly female—persuasion. The implication is quite shocking. All the more so as I see a similar pattern of blushing and redness and general dishevelment about the young gentleman’s person.

  “Lord Avery . . . Whatever were you doing in the cloakroom?” I’ve asked the question, but do I truly want an answer?

  His face grows redder as he replies. “I was merely looking for my coat. I thought I’d left something in the pocket.”

  “And you were required to help him, were you, Celia? I’d hate to think what kind of confidences you were sharing with a gentleman in a cloakroom.”

  Celia is suddenly before me, grasping my hand in hers. “Oh, Caro. You won’t say anything, will you? You won’t—”

  But she stops quite suddenly. I turn to see what has arrested her attention and find, to my utter chagrin, Mr. Townsend standing in the open doorway. A thousand emotions rush over me. Mostly I am very, very sorry for the poor man. And I am very cross with my sister.

  I take Celia by the arm and lead her upstairs, to my room, where she instantly bursts into a flood of tears.

  “Now, now, dear. It’s all right,” I say, though I am certain things are most definitely not all right. “Tell me, will you,” I ask her when she has calmed enough to speak, “what it is you were doing in the cloakroom with Lord Avery?”

  “Oh, Caro! I have done something very wrong. I don’t know how you can forgive me.”

  “Me? I know I can be very hard, Celia darling, but I’m not the one to ask for forgiveness. Mr. Townsend is a good man. Perhaps the best I know. He’ll forgive you, I’m sure of it, but you must explain what happened. Can you?”

  “I never should have told him I’d marry him.”

  “Lord Avery! Good heaven, Celia, what have you done?”

  “No, not Lord Avery. It’s Lynn, I mean. I never should have done it. It was wrong of me.”

  “How can it be wrong to promise yourself to the man who loves you, to the man whom you love and have loved your whole life?”

  Celia only shakes her head.

  “Celia. I don’t understand you. You love him. You always have. Tell me I am not wrong.” There is an air of desperation to my voice. I regret it, but it is too late.

  “I loved him because he loved you. And I was jealous.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “He never said, but I know. I can see it. Have always seen it. Everyone loves you.”

  This is a
bsurd, and most assuredly not true. “People are drawn to you,” I counter, and quite sincerely. “Can you not see what a prize your company is to those who would seek it? And everyone does. Quite naturally.”

  Celia sniffs and dabs at her eyes. “At first, perhaps. But when they realise I’m not much more than a pretty face, that you have all the wit and conversational skill between us...”

  “This is nonsense, Celia. And what of Lord Avery? How does he figure into this?”

  “I’ve been corresponding with him for these past six months.”

  “What?”

  “It’s true. I met him while I was staying with Granny last winter.”

  “And you’ve been writing all the while Lynn has been courting you?”

  “But he wasn’t. Not at first. He was a friend whose attention I coveted. But it wasn’t me he wanted. And then... Well, then he came to me as a friend, I think. He was seeking consolation, and I was happy to give it. But it was never my intention to take him from you. Why would you not have him, Caro? Why did you refuse him?”

  “It doesn’t matter at the moment, Celia. What matters is that you have broken the heart of a very good and honourable man. And what of Lord Avery? Is he good? Is he honourable? I hardly see how he can be! What are his intentions? Has he even made them clear?”

  “He has never offered to me. He has only before said he was unable to speak. I believe his parents have someone in mind for him. Or did. I don’t know.”

  “And now?”

  “Now? Well ... he has certainly spoken, but not... not of—” She breaks off with a sob and the tears start afresh.

  This, of course, is what I feared most to hear. “And if he should? Do you love Lord Avery, Celia? Do you care for him more than you care for Mr. Townsend? Do you mean to throw poor Lynn over?”

  “Don’t say that, Caro.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “What can I do? Was anyone else witness to my degradation? Or am I safe in supposing the secret is between us four?”

  “What society knows and does not know is irrelevant to the matter of personal honour. Surely you realise that?”