by Jane Feather
It had surprised him how much it seemed to matter that he find just the right present. Something that would suit her personality. He'd spent a long time trying to capture the essence of her character in his mind, the two extremes, from the sharp, provocative wit to the sympathetic warmth that set her eyes aglow and brought the lovely curve to her mouth.
He finally found what he'd been looking for in a small milliner's shop in a side street off Bond Street. A silk scarf, generous enough to do service as an evening shawl, in a wonderful mélange of colors—greens and honey golds, amber and russet. A perfect match for her eyes and hair. And then his eye had been caught by a strand of amber beads and he knew that they were perfect too. So he bought them as well and only now as he wrapped the beads in the scarf did it occur to him that such personal gifts would stand out among the other more prosaic and impersonal offerings for her sisters.
But he owed her an apology and gratitude too for her empathetic reception of his confidences. They had agreed to be friends and he thought it likely that Viscount Brigham, a close friend, would go to similar trouble to pick out a Christmas present for her. Douglas felt that his relationship with Chastity had moved on to a similar footing. And just to redress the balance he had also gone to some care to find a suitable gift for Laura. He had found an illuminated copy of Dante's Divina Commedia, bound in ivory calfskin, so perhaps the present for Chastity wouldn't stand out too dramatically.
He tied silk ribbon around the soft parcel and laid it with the others in his valise. Whistling softly to himself he finished packing. Evening dress . . . riding dress . . . morning dress . . . That seemed to cover all eventualities. He locked up his flat and hailed a hackney to Waterloo.
The station was thronged with harried Christmas travelers, children were underfoot everywhere, porters racing with baggage carts towards the platforms where trains steamed noisily. Douglas made his way to Platform 2, wondering if he was ahead of the Duncan party. Chastity hadn't specifically suggested that they share a compartment but he assumed that was the intention. He had just reached the platform when a familiar voice trilled, “Dottore . . . Dottore.” He turned, his face automatically assuming the fixed smile that that trill always produced.
“Good afternoon, Dr. Farrell.” The contessa greeted him with extended hand. “How nice that we can share a compartment.”
He shook hands, murmuring his agreement, and bowed over Laura's hand. “Let me help you with your luggage.” He looked around and saw neither porter nor bags.
“Oh, our maids and the porter have taken our bags to the luggage compartment,” Laura said.
“Yes, I'm afraid one could never say we travel light, Doctor,” the contessa said with a slight laugh. “We have far too much to stow away in the traveling carriage.”
“Then let me find us a compartment. I haven't seen our hosts as yet.” He turned to the first-class section of the train. He was about to walk along the platform in search of an empty carriage when a piercing whistle arrested him. He looked up and saw Chastity leaning out of a carriage window a little farther along. She stuck two fingers in her mouth and produced that startling whistle again, all the while waving frantically at him as if he possibly could have missed her.
He strode over to the carriage, laughing. “Where did you learn to do that?”
“From you,” she said. “I've watched you do it to call cabs so I've been practicing myself.” She waved past him to the contessa and Laura. “We have seats here, Contessa, for you and Laura.”
“Can you squeeze me in too?” Douglas inquired.
“Yes, of course. We'll take up the whole compartment and then no one will be able to intrude upon our private party,” Chastity said, stepping away from the window so that Douglas could open the door.
The contessa stepped up into the train, Laura on her heels. Douglas tossed his valise up and then climbed in himself, slamming the door shut behind him. “Good afternoon, ladies.” He greeted the sisters with a smile and a half bow. “How was the wedding?”
“Delicious,” Chastity said. “I wept all the way through the service.”
She was looking particularly radiant, Douglas thought, not in the least tearful. Her heart-shaped face was framed in the wide brim of a wonderful turquoise hat with a rather impudent wisp of a veil and a huge lavender bow. “I like the hat,” he said.
“Why, thank you, sir.” She gave him a nodding bow from her seat in the corner of the carriage. “It's a wedding hat.”
“So I see.” He put his valise up on the rack, intending to take the seat beside her but when he turned again he saw that Constance had squeezed up beside Chastity and the only available place was next to Laura. Resigned, he took the seat just as the train blew a shrill whistle of steam and began to pull out of the station.
“We've reserved a table for tea in the dining car,” Chastity informed the new arrivals. “Apart from the fact that it's always sumptuous it helps to pass the time.”
“Dottore, I wanted to discuss with you the fabric for the curtains in your office,” Laura said, ignoring Chastity's remark. She had dropped her voice as if she were discussing secrets. “I had mentioned a heavy tapestry if you recall.”
“Are you helping Douglas redecorate his surgery, Laura?” Prudence asked, exchanging a quick glance with her sisters, sitting opposite.
“Yes, that is so,” Laura declared. “Decoration is a special talent . . . not one men have in general. Isn't that so, Dottore?”
“Possibly,” Douglas said, trying to sound repressive. Somehow he had to nip the signorina's wilder ideas in the bud. “I haven't made up my mind as yet how I wish to redecorate.”
“Oh, you mustn't worry about a thing, Dottore.” She patted his knee. “Just leave it to me. I guarantee you will love—absolutely adore—the results.”
“I'm sure you have impeccable taste, Laura,” Chastity said. “Judging by your house on Park Lane.” She couldn't help catching Douglas's eye and bit hard on her lip to keep from laughing aloud, he was looking so utterly at a loss. “How fortunate that you and Laura should have met at this juncture, Douglas. Her very special talents will be so helpful for you.”
Douglas knew that she was teasing him and quietly contemplated exacting revenge at a more private moment. The prospect gave him some satisfaction. He folded his arms and gave her a sardonic smile that she returned with a distinctly impish grin.
Oh, Lord, Chastity thought. What was she doing? Flirting came so naturally to her, she just caught herself doing it without even thinking. And she certainly couldn't flirt with Douglas Farrell. Not after that “friendly” kiss. She opened her handbag and took out a book, opening it decisively.
“Anyway, Dottore, to continue,” Laura said. “I found a particular tapestry design that I am determined you shall have. And I think some oriental objets d'art. Urns and suchlike.”
“Oh, dragons, how about dragons?” Prudence asked. “Two dragons to guard the door.”
A muffled sound came from behind Chastity's book and she rummaged in her handbag for her handkerchief, making an elaborate play of catching a sneeze. Douglas regarded the sisters in fulminating silence. All three returned his look with utterly innocent expressions.
“I don't think dragons would be at all suitable,” Laura declared earnestly. “I don't think they would give quite the right impression. But perhaps a Buddha,” she mused.
“A . . . a reclining one,” Chastity suggested from behind her book, a suspicious tremor in her voice. “Or do you think a sitting one would be best, Laura?”
“What are you reading, Chastity?” Douglas demanded severely.
“Pride and Prejudice,” she said. “It's so wickedly funny.”
“But it doesn't seem to hold your attention,” he observed aridly. “Not very flattering for Miss Austen.”
“Oh, I've read it so many times, I almost know it by heart,” Chastity said, closing the book over her finger. She began, “‘It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man—'”
“‘In possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife,'” her sisters chimed in unison. They all three laughed as if at an old and familiar joke and Douglas was not to know the relevance of the quote to their lives. But he found their amusement infectious despite his exasperation at Chastity's teasing.
“Do you agree, Douglas?” Chastity asked, seeing his reluctant smile.
He shook his head. “I have no opinion on the subject.”
“Oh,” Chastity said, disappointed. “What about you, Laura? Do you agree with the universally acknowledged truth?”
Laura frowned. The sisters' amusement had completely escaped her and she considered the question with all due gravity. “I believe,” she pronounced finally, “that wealthy men and women have an obligation to marry. It is a social duty.”
“And what about poor men and women?” Prudence asked. “Do they have the same social duty?”
“Indeed not.” Laura shook her head vigorously. “Poverty breeds poverty. The social duty of the poor is to avoid propagating their species.”
“Species?” Chastity queried, unable to conceal her shock. “They're the same species as we are.”
“No, there you are quite mistaken, Chastity,” Laura said firmly. “They lack something essential in their makeup. It's not their fault, poor souls, but it is unfortunately true.”
Chastity looked at Douglas and saw the curled lip, the contemptuous flicker in the charcoal eyes. But his lips were set in a thin line and he looked totally disinclined to enter the conversation. Which didn't surprise her, knowing what she did about his prejudice concerning women's preconceptions. It was dismaying, though, if Laura, by justifying his prejudice, had put him off.
“Ah, you must have read ‘A Modest Proposal,'” Chastity said swiftly, hoping to make light of Laura's opinion. “How does it go?” She frowned. “Something about a child well nursed is a most delicious and wholesome food.” She turned to her sisters, clicking her fingers. “Help me out here.”
“A Modest Proposal for Preventing the Children of Ireland from Being a Burden to Their Parents or Country,” Constance supplied. “It was one of mother's favorite Swift essays.”
“I don't know it,” Laura said with a slight sniff of her long nose.
“‘Stewed, roasted, baked, or boiled,'” Prudence said. “I think that's how it goes.”
“Something about serving equally well in a fricassee, or a ragout,” Chastity said. The three of them laughed, but they were the only ones who seemed to find Jonathan Swift amusing.
“Tea,” Chastity announced into the suddenly awkward silence. She set her book aside. “Let us go for tea. I'm ravenous.” She jumped up, shaking out the full skirts of her lavender gown.
“I don't take tea, my dear,” the contessa said.
“No, it's a strange habit, this English afternoon tea,” Laura announced. “Such an uncivilized time of day to eat, don't you agree, Dottore . . . Douglas?” She smiled.
Douglas decided he'd had enough conversation with Laura for the moment. The carriage was beginning to feel somewhat stifling. “On the contrary,” he said. “I am an avid eater and drinker of tea. May I join you ladies?”
“Yes, please do,” Constance said. She and Prudence had stood up with Chastity. “We should warn you, though, that Chastity will eat all the cakes if you give her half a chance.”
“That is such a calumny,” Chastity complained, pulling back the sliding door that opened onto the corridor. “Take no notice of them, Douglas.”
“I'll try not to.” He followed her out. The train took a corner and the corridor swayed violently. Chastity grabbed at the wall as she nearly lost her footing, but she had no need to do so. Douglas had anticipated the movement and had an arm around her almost before the train took the bend. He held her against him until the track straightened, and she could feel the rigid strength, like an iron bar, of the arm supporting her weight, holding her against the broad expanse of his chest. A little jolt of pure and unmistakable physical desire shot through her lower belly.
She pushed herself away from him, her hands on his chest. “Thank you,” she said hastily, stepping back from him. “You're very gallant.”
“Not gallant enough to catch all three of you, I fear,” he said. “Let me lead the way and then I can open the door for you.” He moved ahead of them down the corridor, opening the door between their carriage and the dining car. They walked through in single file and were shown to a table by a frock-coated waiter.
Chastity sat by the window and Douglas took the seat beside her, leaving the other two to sit side by side opposite them. The space was small and Chastity's skirt brushed against his leg. Their proximity was such that he could smell the light fragrance of her hair and a lingering scent of some flowery perfume on her skin. His reactions to that moment when he'd held her against him in the corridor shocked and surprised him. He had an almost insurmountable urge to hold that small rounded body against him again, to feel the press of her breasts that swelled so charmingly against the bodice of her dress, to span the neat indentation of her waist between his hands. Her presence filled his senses like a luscious sun-drenched fruit, all tactile warmth and sweet perfume.
The waiter took their order for tea, providing him with a welcome distraction from a sensual reverie that was beginning to have some embarrassing side effects. Constance poured tea for them all and the waiter set a toast rack and a plate of cucumber sandwiches on the table.
Douglas took a piece of hot buttered toast and spread Gentlemen's Relish lavishly. Determined to inject a slightly contentious note that would give him some much-needed distance from the natural intimacy of this tea party, he said conversationally, “So, the Duncan sisters find Miss Della Luca amusing?”
“Signorina Della Luca,” Constance corrected with a sly smile.
“That's rather what I mean,” Douglas said with a raised eyebrow.
“No, of course we don't find her amusing,” Chastity jumped in quickly. “She's so very knowledgeable about art—Italian art in particular—and Italy, and she's so well traveled. She's very interesting. And I think it's wonderful that she's going to redecorate your office with Buddhas and Chinese urns and . . .” Her voice trailed off as she struggled to keep a straight face. “And things,” she finished lamely.
“Yes, indeed, Douglas, you must find her very interesting company,” Prudence said. “And she's obviously so talented at interior decorating. Of course, Con and I haven't seen the Park Lane house, but Chastity has described it to us in great detail.”
“I'm sure she has,” he said. He looked at the sisters, at their innocently smiling faces. “You are very wicked women,” he declared.
“Oh, no, of course we're not,” Chastity protested, spreading clotted cream on a scone. “We're very good-hearted, all three of us.”
“I don't believe a word of it.” He bit into his toast, chewed reflectively, then said, “Where is Lord Duncan?”
“Oh, he traveled down yesterday with Jenkins and Mrs. Hudson,” Chastity said, glad that the conversation had moved from dangerous turf. They wanted to encourage his pursuit of Laura Della Luca, not discourage it. “He wanted to supervise the arrangements.”
“Those pertaining to the cellar, at least,” Prudence added.
“And your husbands?” he inquired.
“Motoring down with bags and baggage and Gideon's daughter and governess and a positive treasure trove of presents,” Constance informed him. “There was no room for wives.”
“Anyway, we like to travel together,” Chastity said. “How's your toast?”
“It's toast.” He was relieved to discover that the effects of his sensual reverie were now completely dissipated.
“But there's good toast and bad toast,” Chastity insisted. “Soggy toast and crisp toast, or even burnt toast.”
He turned his head towards her with a look of mild incredulity.
“I was only making conversation,” she said.
“Is that so? Well, perm
it me to tell you that I have had more stimulating conversations.”
Chastity sucked in her cheeks. “Small talk tends to be a little banal.”
“Then perhaps we could avoid it.”
“Laura has no time for small talk,” Prudence said. “I'm sure you'll find her discourse very stimulating.”
“So long as it has nothing to do with toast, I'm sure I shall.” They were playing some game but he didn't know the rules—in fact, he didn't even know its object. Whether it was pure slightly malicious mischief or purposeful mischief. He guessed the latter from what he'd seen of the sisters. They seemed to play off one another, relishing the steps in a familiar private dance, but he doubted that they ever did anything just for the sake of it.
“Tell us about Edinburgh, Douglas,” Constance invited. “We've never been but it's supposed to be a beautiful city.”
It was a safe enough topic and Douglas obliged, describing the city of his birth. To his relief the sisters produced only sensible responses and questions and the conversation carried them through tea and back to their compartment.
It was dark by the time they reached the small station at Romsey. Douglas jumped down to assist the ladies as an elderly porter pushed a trolley towards the baggage compartment, where a pair of rather voluble and excited women awaited him, gesticulating at the baggage conductor on the train as they identified the various pieces of luggage that belonged to their Della Luca mistresses.
“You got any bags, Miss Chas?” a voice rumbled from the shadows of the small station building.
