by Megan Daniel
He recognized her with a start, like an electric jolt. Her hair is darker, he mused as he approached the two
ladies. More like burnished gold than it was then. I wonder what she is doing here at Hockleigh. I wonder if she is here alone. I wonder...
“Look, Sarah!” the Duke’s deep voice rolled out again. “It’s Dev! I’ve told you about Dev, haven’t I?”
The two pairs joined, and the Duchess reached out to shake the hand of the gentleman no longer a stranger. “Of course you have, dear. We are honored, Mr. Devlin. Welcome to Hockleigh.”
“But it ain’t Mr. Devlin, Sarah,” corrected the Duke. “Been Lord Devlin for nearly a year now. That’s why he’s come home. To take up the inheritance, you know.”
“Well, that is one reason, at least,” said Lord Devlin.
Francesca started at the sound of his voice. She had forgotten how smooth, how musical it was.
“Then it is an even greater honor to welcome you, my lord,” said Sarah. “And this is our dear friend Lady Francesca Waringham.”
Devlin’s eyes twinkled as they slid back to Francesca; a lopsided grin creased his face, a grin of both pleasure and acute embarrassment. “Lady Francesca and I have met.” He noticed her blush and found it oddly pleasing.
“Devlin,” she said as though to herself. She had all but forgotten his name. Belatedly remembering her manners, she held out her hand to him. “My lord,” she said. She felt deeply embarrassed at the memories he stirred, vaguely angry at him still for running off and leaving her, and undeniably happy to see him again.
Their eyes locked. Each began a slow grin. By the time the foursome headed toward the drawing room for a cup of tea, they were able to speak normally, explaining to the Duke and Duchess—though not in its totality—their previous acquaintance.
3
By early afternoon, all the guests had arrived at Hock- leigh—no one was likely to turn down an invitation to the greatest ducal mansion in all the north—and had begun to settle in, Introductions had been performed for those few unknown to each other; rooms had been inspected and accepted; tea had been drunk. An army of servants began the unpacking.
Though she would never admit the fact, especially to herself, Lady Francesca had been shocked to her soul at sight of this seeming specter from her past. Memories of a feeling she had not experienced since last seeing Lord Devlin, a lovely, confusing, delicious and very uncomfortable feeling, flooded into her mind and, caused that unwonted blush that had claimed her face at sight of him.
For himself, Lord Devlin had been nearly as surprised as was the young lady, and nearly as confused, at their unexpected meeting. His memories of her were a strange mixture which he had not the leisure, nor the inclination, to examine too closely. He was aware of a tinge of amusement at his inexpert fumblings in that garden house so long ago. She had not responded as though he were inexpert, but he had bungled it all the same, he knew. He’d learned a good deal about women since that day; he had had many opportunities to do so.
He wondered idly if she would run away from him now in such disgust as she had done then if he tried to kiss her again. She was certainly grown beautiful enough for the question to warrant some wondering. She had pricked his pride then. Why, it had been the very next morning that he had left for Southampton and his ship to India. He did not even speak to her again. He could not bear to. He had counted himself lucky to have gotten off so easily. With such a girl as Lady Francesca War- ingham he might well have done something unpardonably foolish, like give up his travels. He may as well have given up his life. He was no longer the least bit foolish.
Odd, then, that he felt so like a schoolboy now in her presence. She had turned into such a calm, cool beauty, so obviously sure of herself, in need of nothing from anyone. And running lightly over all his other emotions in her presence was that same rustle of fear that had caused him to run five years ago. He recognized in her still the only woman he had ever known who might have the power to tame his restless spirit.
He had come near to climbing back into his shiny new curricle and beating a retreat south when informed that a large house party was in the offing. True, he was glad to be back in England. Also true that he had plans to settle in, at least for a while, and take up his place in society. But he did not feel quite ready to be put on display and ogled like a monkey in a menagerie. He remembered quite well the tastes of the ton.
The Duke and his pretty young wife had implored him to stay. They told him several of his old Oxford friends would soon be arriving. They promised him excellent hunting. They declared that they would feel themselves sorely used if he refused. Still Lord Devlin hedged. Lady Francesca added her quiet entreaties to theirs. Lord Devlin gave in and agreed to stay.
A calm had fallen over the great house, that warm calm that, though refreshing, is pregnant with excitement to come. It was the hour before dinner. The dressing
gong had sounded some little while ago, and the entire company had dispersed each to his or her own elegant chamber, there to compose themselves and undertake the serious business of dressing for dinner. The sun had gone down, after all, and one did not appear below stairs of an evening in merino and cambric. Upstairs the starched linen and glossy silk was rustling with abandon.
It, the silk that is, was especially active in Lady Francesca’s room. The pink-cheeked maid, a look of speculation in her intelligent eyes, was even now carrying away the third silken creation to grace her mistress’s long limbs in the past quarter of an hour. This indecision on the young woman’s part was far from normal and might portend important events. Then again, as the maid well knew, it might mean nothing more important than that her mistress was blue-deviled.
Francesca stood before the long cheval glass, an analytical frown on her oval of a face, studying the moss- green lustring gown she had tentatively decided upon. Its low, rounded neck showed off a lovely expanse of creamy bosom, the soft ruchings at the shoulder echoed the amber of her eyes and made them glow.
Had she given the matter much thought, which she had not, she could not have said why she felt so dissatisfied with her appearance this evening. Though far from vain, she knew herself to be a handsome woman. She was confident of her taste in dress, her beautiful posture, and her especially nice hands. But for some reason the total picture could not please her tonight.
As she allowed her frown of concentration to relax, she noticed that the trace of a wrinkle remained behind on her otherwise smooth brow. She stared at it, not in horror really, but in some wonder. Good God! How had she gotten so old?
The first bloom and freshness of youth was not the only thing missing from the lovely face staring back at her. For the first time she realized that the eagerness for life, the reaching out for whatever would come next,
that had characterized the young Lady Francesca had been missing for some time now.
She sat and allowed the maid’s nimble fingers to work on the heavy golden hair while she stared into the mirror, now with unseeing eyes. How had she looked to Lord Devlin this afternoon? she wondered. She was not the same person she had been five years ago, a green girl full of hopeless plans and silly dreams. She had been restless, enthusiastic, ready for anything then.
And nothing had happened. Or, more rightly, she had failed to make anything happen. Here she was with fully three-and-twenty years in her dish and nothing whatsoever to show for them. Her generosity and loyalty, her powerful intellect and many selfless deeds, were all overlooked at the present moment Lady Francesca was in a mood to be hard on herself.
She discarded a pair of necklaces before clasping a set of jade and baroque pearls around her neck. She mulled over a drawer full of scarves and shawls before settling on an ocher gauze shot with gold. And she snapped at her maid in a singularly unusual manner.
Well, she was ready, she thought, old maid that she was. Picking up a pierced ivory fan, she turned to her maid. “You must not heed me, Rose,” she begged, placing a hand lightly on the girl’s ar
m. “I am being unaccountably grumpy tonight, I know, but it does not signify. You know I should be a complete wreck without you.”
“I should hope not, milady,” sniffed Rose. No one condemned her mistress in her hearing and got away with it, not even the mistress herself. “You’ll take the shine out of the lot of them, you will. You do look a treat.”
Francesca gave a rueful smile. “I must find a suitable reward for such blind loyalty,” she said lightly. “Go and enjoy your dinner and forget my grumps.”
As the maid curtsied her out of the room, the look of speculation came back into the sharp dark eyes. Lady Francesca might say what she liked about her low spirits, but Rose Steele knew that look of excitement that hovered in her mistress’s amber eyes just below the surface of her “grumps.” It looked like being an interesting visit after all.
They sat down a full two dozen revelers to dinner that night, and the sounds emanating from the formal dining room were the clearest evidence of the high spirits and good breeding of the elite who were invited to Hockleigh. Laughter bubbled as softly and gently as the champagne. Witticisms accompanied the soft chink of silver on bone china. Clever bon-mots were passed around with the buttered lobsters.
It was an impressive company. Even the difficulty of finding one’s way to the wilds of Yorkshire was unlikely to dissuade many from accepting an invitation to Hockleigh, most especially this year. Not only was there lavish hospitality and excellent hunting to look forward to—the Hockleigh pack was known as the finest north of the Belvoir—but this year held the added fillip of a new young duchess to be scrutinized and judged on the performance of her awesome new duties.
Lord and Lady Jersey had condescended to make the trip, he for the hunting, she for the society. She was the uncrowned queen of the ton, and their presence alone guaranteed that the party would be long talked about. Old Lady Braethon had brought her granddaughter, and the Duke’s lovely sister Augusta, Marchioness of Aurelm, had brought her even livelier children. Also, her husband. A sprinkling of older people accompanying their nearly grown children, an assortment of young lords and ladies, Honorable Misters and Misses, and the odd relation completed the guest list.
Most of the young people were old school friends of either the Duke or the Duchess. It was a fun-loving, lively group and augured well for the success Sarah so badly wanted. Still, she was nervous.
She needn’t have been. Everyone had settled smoothly into the assigned rooms. Everything was going beautifully. Even the Dowager Lady Braethon had expressed pleasure in her overheated room and was even now attacking with gusto a roasted pigeon in caper sauce and a large dish of stewed mushrooms. And this after commenting that she was certain she could manage nothing more than a little thin gruel and some heated wine in her room after the rigors of her travels. Across the table sat her granddaughter, Miss Jane Magness, pretty as a flower, picking daintily at a matelote of rabbit.
With the unexpected addition of Lord Devlin to the group, the success of Sarah’s party was assured. It was clear from the moment that introductions were begun that the dashing traveler and adventurer was destined to be the new pet of the ton. It was to Lord Devlin’s credit that he had no desire for the position about to be bestowed.
Conversation flitted around the table, touching lightly on many subjects, but by far the bulk of it centered on the surprising return of the wayfarer and his many adventures. He was unknown to most of the company, excepting Francesca and his Oxford friends who were present. His travels of the past five years, most particularly in America, made him a natural subject of curiosity.
Questions both thoughtful and ridiculous came his way in droves, revealing an amazing breadth of imagination and an even greater depth of ignorance among the haut ton about the great world and most especially their former colonies.
“I understand all the black slaves believe in voodoo and witchcraft and such,” said Lady Jersey. “I shouldn’t think I would like having my servants putting hexes on me or sticking pins into some wax doll in my image,” she concluded with her famous laugh.
“I’ve a cousin in Boston,” said Graham Symington.
“Name of John Whitney. Or is it Whitby? No matter. Ever meet him?”
“How could you bear it?” put in a distinctively middle-aged Lady Poole, shaking her chins in indignation. “Everyone of every class whatever all jumbled up together like that. Shocking!”
“New Orleans!” breathed Miss Magness. “I have always fancied it such a romantic-sounding place. Pirates and riverboat gamblers and such.”
Lady Francesca, like everyone else, sat with her eyes most often on Lord Devlin and listened to his calm, sensible answers to these and other insensible questions. He looked up once and surprised her gaze upon him. He grinned at her in a strangely intimate way. Unthinkingly, she grinned back, and they shared a moment of perfect understanding.
“The United States! Humph!” grumbled Lady Brae- thon, spooning up a large dish of custard between words. “They may call themselves what they like. I shall always refer to them as the colonies, and very ill-behaved colonies at that”
“Hear there’s some decent horseflesh coming out of Virginia,” bellowed Lord Jersey, horses never far from his mind or his conversation, “and some other outlandish place name of, uh, what was it? Kentuck or some such thing.”
“Very decent indeed,” confirmed Lord Devlin. “I’ve brought a few back for my stable. But even finer are some of the wild horses from the Western Territories. They’re not always so beautiful as our English stock, but they’re all heart and can run most English horses into the ground. Why, I’ve seen them go at a full gallop for upwards of twenty-five miles and scarcely be winded. But you shall see for yourself. I am having a few of my mustangs sent up from Hull.”
“Surely you will not hunt some shaggy wild pony, Devlin!” gasped the Honorable Mr. Dudley Dalton in
outraged tones. “Got to keep up the image of the field, y’know.”
“Oh, I fancy they won’t put me quite to shame,” answered Devlin with a twinkle of anticipation. “But you must judge for yourself. In the meantime, George has kindly consented to mount me.”
“Haven’t forgotten how to hunt, have you, Dev?” asked Sir Algernon Pett. “Used to ride the lot of us into the ground back at Oxford, but daresay you’re out of practice.”
“Oh, I hope I shall contrive to keep up, Algy. There’s some pretty hunting in Virginia and some very hard riding in the West, so I have not been totally deprived.”
“Did you spend much time in the Western Territories, my lord?” asked Lady Francesca. “Is it not an extremely wild country?”
“Extremely. But very beautiful, unmatched by anything I have seen anywhere else. I arrived on the Western Coast, you know, from Australia, and then worked my way eastward. It was an awesome experience, I can tell you. Deserts the size of Kent and rock canyons larger than London. And then one comes to the central section of the continent, where one can ride alone for days at a time without seeing anything but an endless stretch of prairie covered with grass high as a man.”
Mr. Maltby looked up from his raspberry trifle. “Euchlaena mexicana, I imagine. Sometimes grows to ten feet, I have heard. A very hardy perennial,” And so saying, he returned to his trifle.
“It sounds like heaven to me,” said Francesca, her eyes sparkling with the imagined wonder of it all. “So much space! Such freedom!”
“Yes. The freedom was absolute,” agreed Devlin. Then, looking directly into her eyes, he added, “but such freedom has its price, Lady Francesca. It can be very lonely.”
She could not hold his gaze, and soon looked down to the Chantilly basket she had been nibbling. Mr. Dalton broke in in astonishment. “But were you quite alone, Devlin?”
“Why, yes, most of the time,” he answered.
“Well! Myself, I shouldn’t like to be without my valet. So uncomfortable wearing scuffed boots. But then, I daresay there was no one about to notice.”
“No one at al
l!” replied Devlin in amusement. “Except, of course, my occasional Indian guides. But they didn’t seem to mind, or even notice, that I was less than perfectly dressed. I thought they rather admired me in my fur and leathers.” Mr. Dalton could not even bring himself to reply to such an astonishing remark, as he could in no wise conjure up an image of a gentleman dressed in furs and running around with redskins.
“Indians!” exclaimed Lady Poole. “You actually allowed them to guide you? But was that quite safe, my lord? Were you not afraid for your scalp?”
“On the contrary. Not only was it safe, it was very necessary. You can have no notion, ma’am, of the wildness of the country through which I was passing.”
“No, I am pleased to say that I cannot,” she readily agreed.
He ignored this statement with a wry smile and went on. “You may know that Misters Lewis and Clark, on their crossing of the continent a few years back, would have been utterly lost without Sacajewea, their Indian- maiden guide. I found myself in much the same position.” He turned his smile back to Francesca. “It is only common sense to be guided through uncharted territory by someone who knows the way.”
“Well, I for one should not feel safe in my bed anywhere in America!” exclaimed Mrs. Pennington. “What with Red Savages running about loose and all. I cannot think why it is allowed. Do they not hate all white men?”
“Some do, of course, and with good reason, you must admit. They have been very badly treated, robbed of their lands, pushed aside, slaughtered as though they were just one more exotic American beast. I have spent considerable time with the various tribes. On more than one occasion I owed them my life. Certainly they are different from us, but I have found that, by and large, they are no better or worse than anyone else. Some are foolish. Some are wise. Most are just very human.”
