by Jane Ashford
Erland laughed at her disgusted expression. “Perhaps he found Miss Williston charming, after all.”
“Oh, yes, but Gerald would not care for that. He is interested only in Latin and Greek and fusty old poetry. I only hope he is not boring Constance about Virgil. The last time he came for a visit, he went on about him all through dinner.”
Looking at the other couple, Mr. Erland doubted that either party was bored, so he was able to dismiss this worry from his mind without difficulty. “You will be interested to hear, I hope, that I am getting on very well with my plan for a picnic,” he said.
“Yes?”
“Absolutely. ’Tis to be in two weeks’ time. I mean to send out the invitations tomorrow.”
“And Mrs. Smith did not object?” asked Joanna teasingly.
“On the contrary. I have hopes of making her leave my service over the issue. She is outraged.”
Joanna laughed. “And may I tell about your scheme now?”
He nodded. “Have you really kept it secret?”
“Of course I have.” Joanna was indignant.
Erland apologized, and the rest of the set was taken up with talk of his plans—where the tables were to be, what was to be served, whether there should be games. He asked her advice about each detail, and by the end of the dance Joanna felt very superior and knowledgeable.
Mrs. Rowntree had had a cold supper laid out in the dining room, and the young people soon followed some of the older ones there. Joanna was surprised to see Constance and Gerald go in together and sit down, still talking eagerly. She grimaced a little; Constance would get no supper if she relied on Gerald to fetch it. She and Erland joined Jack Townsend and his partner, and supper was a noisy, jolly meal.
After she had eaten, Joanna did an errand for her mother, then returned to the drawing room. Many of the guests were still at table, and the room was half empty when she came in. As she hesitated in the doorway, she heard someone call her name softly, and she whirled to face Peter Finley, who silently had come up behind her.
“Peter!” At once, Joanna’s heart began to beat faster. Though she had astonishingly almost forgotten about Peter during this evening, standing face-to-face brought back a flood of memories and confused emotions.
“How are you, Joanna?”
She stared at him, fascinated by his face, his modish blue coat. This was the man she had thought to marry. It made her feel peculiar. “Well,” she stammered.
“I meant to write you,” he went on quickly. “I know I should have, but it was…”
“Peter,” exclaimed a sweetly venomous voice from the drawing room. “And Miss Rowntree. How fortunate.”
As one, they turned to face Adrienne. Peter looked both annoyed and a little uneasy.
“Peter, I seem to have lost my fan,” continued the woman. “Would you be a darling and look in the dining room? Perhaps I left it there on the table.”
Peter nodded curtly and turned away without a word. His wife looked at Joanna. “So silly of me,” she murmured. “I am always misplacing my things.”
Joanna was silent. Mrs. Finley’s tone made it clear she was not pleased; and though Joanna had done nothing, she felt a little nervous.
“Well, Miss Rowntree, a delightful little party. I simply must compliment your mother.”
“Thank you,” said Joanna, a bit stiffly.
“And you also. You look charming in that sweet little dress.” The smile that accompanied this remark was so patronizing that Joanna could not bring herself to reply. She started to excuse herself, but the older woman stopped her by adding, “You go to London next season, I believe, Miss Rowntree?”
Joanna nodded.
“Ah, your first season! How I envy you. I remember mine with such fondness.”
“It was some years ago?” responded Joanna sweetly.
Mrs. Finley’s eyebrows went up, and she wagged a finger. “Now, now, you mustn’t ask that of an old married woman.” The bunches of light green ribbon on her gown fluttered as she moved. “If you like, I can write a note to one of my friends in town. It is vital to have introductions, you know, and not be completely unknown.” She smiled.
“You are too kind,” said Joanna through gritted teeth. “Fortunately, my mother has several old friends living in town, so we need not trouble you.”
This elicited a flood of questions as to who these friends were, where they lived, and how her mother knew them. Without being insolent, they were prying, and Joanna lacked the social address to turn them all aside. She did have the satisfaction, however, of knowing that Mama’s friends were unexceptionable and probably more fashionable than Adrienne’s. Indeed, the woman appeared to be impressed.
When she had found out what she wished to know, she changed the subject abruptly. “You know Peter’s housekeeper, I suppose?” she asked Joanna.
“Yes.”
“A kindly woman, but dreadfully old-fashioned. I have had to speak sharply to her several times since I arrived.”
Joanna made a noncommittal sound.
“The entire establishment is positively quaint, I vow,” continued Adrienne, oblivious to Joanna’s expression. “But bachelors are such helpless creatures. They never make changes in the house they grew up in, though I think Peter might have; his mother has been dead for years.” She shrugged. “But I should not complain. It leaves me more to do, and I am having a grand time. We mean to do the place over in the latest modes.”
She seemed to expect a reply. “Really?” said Joanna.
“Oh, absolutely. I am particularly interested in the park. I have a positive passion for gardening, and Peter’s garden is so antiquated. All those straight paths and square flower beds! We shall have them all pulled up and a cunning wilderness planted. And the shrubbery must go; it is so close and dark. You know Repton’s plans, of course?”
Joanna, thinking that she had spent countless happy hours in that shrubbery and that garden as a child, and never found the least fault, shook her head.
Adrienne raised her eyebrows. “No? But everyone talks of them.” She shrugged again. “I think them too perfect. And I am determined to get a hermit. They are all the crack, you know.”
“A hermit?” echoed Joanna, mystified.
“Oh, yes, my dear Miss Rowntree. Have you not heard of that, either? So fashionable. We mean to construct a grotto with a cave, and there is nothing more engaging than having a hermit to live in such a place. One’s guests just catch glimpses of him, you know, as he goes about his business. It is terribly affecting. The Duke of Devonshire has one.”
“But a—a hermit, that is, where does one find a hermit?”
Adrienne gave a long silvery laugh. “Oh, my dear, you are too amusing. He is not really a hermit, of course. One hires some local to put it on. I daresay there may be any number of old men in the neighborhood who will be delighted to have the place.”
Joanna was astonished by the idea. “D-do you?” she said weakly.
Adrienne made an airy gesture. “Naturally. What have they to do, after all? It is not as if it were difficult work. The man need only wear suitable clothing and wander about the grounds.” She frowned. “He will have to grow a beard, of course, and let his hair hang long, but he can be compensated for that.” She looked down at Joanna. “Do you know anyone who might want the place?”
“I? Oh, no, I don’t think so.”
“Well, no matter. Peter will find someone.”
Joanna tried to imagine Peter asking one of the neighborhood workmen, say old Mr. Jenkins, to take on such a role. She could not.
“And in the house,” Adrienne was going on, “I shall have new carpets and hangings, of course, and I think I shall pull out the wall between those two cramped front parlors and make them into a billiard room. So much more fashionable. It will mean that we cannot entertain on any scale for some time, but I
don’t care for that. Our neighbors will understand, I daresay, and when we are finished, we shall have a gala day to show the new additions. How delightful it will be!” She paused to savor this idea, then carried on in the same manner for nearly a quarter of an hour, detailing all of her plans for Joanna.
The younger girl was both bored and rather overwhelmed at the extent and nature of these, and she said little in reply. She was heartily grateful when they were interrupted by her mother, who came in to start the dancing once more. Mrs. Finley gushed over her, no doubt remembering her creditable London connections.
Joanna took this opportunity to escape. Seeing Constance opposite, she went to her, eager to vent some of the outrage she was feeling. “What an appalling woman,” she said softly when she reached Constance’s side, “I came within an inch of telling her so, too.”
“What?” said Constance dreamily.
Joanna looked at her. Clearly, Constance was not listening. Her eyes seemed to be on some faraway object, yet when Joanna looked in that direction, there was nothing unusual to be seen. “Is anything wrong, Constance?” she asked.
“Wrong? Oh, no,” replied the other, with such emphasis that Joanna did not know what to make of it.
“Well, but you seem abstracted.”
Constance turned toward her, but did not really look at her. “Thank you, yes,” she said, and then drifted away across the floor.
Joanna frowned as she looked after her, but at that moment, Jack Townsend came up to beg her to start the dancing again as his partner, and she forgot Constance in the organization of a set.
There were several more dances before midnight, when the guests began to depart. Joanna had the last dance with Jonathan Erland again, and he was most enthusiastic about the evening. “I have never had such fun in England,” he told her. “Your mother is the best of hostesses.”
“Ah, but you must try to outdo her,” teased Joanna.
“No thought is further from my mind. I hope merely to repay her, and perhaps amuse her a bit.”
Joanna nodded absently.
“Will you go riding with me another day, Miss Joanna?” said her partner somewhat abruptly. “I very much enjoyed our outing last week.”
“If you like,” said Joanna.
“Perhaps Miss, ah, Williston would like to come also? We might make up a party.”
Joanna began to look more interested. “I don’t know if Constance rides. I suppose she does.”
“We shall ask her.”
The set ended on this note, and Joanna was called away by her mother, to say good-bye to the Grants. As they were talking, the Finley party came up to take their leave as well. Sir Rollin had reappeared from wherever he had spent the latter part of the evening; he looked bitterly sardonic. As Adrienne was bidding her mother farewell, Joanna looked at Peter. They had not danced and had hardly spoken to each other. How strange that seemed. Since their childhood, they had been inseparable at every neighborhood gathering they attended. And now, she had had a perfectly pleasant evening without him.
Peter looked down at her. “I am sorry we could not talk more,” he blurted. “I meant to.”
Joanna was surprised at his awkwardness. She had always thought of Peter as an immensely polished gentleman. But beside Sir Rollin Denby, he seemed a boy. “Yes,” she replied easily. On impulse, she held out a hand. “Another time, perhaps.”
Peter nodded, but his eyes slid nervously toward his wife. Joanna stared. How could she have thought herself in love with him?
Adrienne finished her good-byes quickly, gathered Peter, and went out, with a sharp glance at Joanna. Sir Rollin bowed over Mrs. Rowntree’s hand, to her evident amazement, and then turned to Joanna. “What have you done to set Adrienne’s back up?” he asked softly.
“I?”
He smiled. “So innocent. I wager we both know. Young Peter is not worth the battle, you know.” He looked at her. “Yes, I think you do.”
Cheeks flaming, Joanna blurted, “Where did you go?” Then berated herself for sounding like a ninny.
Denby raised one eyebrow, then smiled again. “Alas, I have not been a model guest, have I? I confess I went out to the garden.”
“The garden?”
“Yes. To brood on my wrongs.”
The girl smiled back uncertainly. “Not really?”
“Really. Brooding is good for the soul, you know.”
“I thought it was just the opposite.”
“I suppose it depends upon the soul in question.”
Joanna looked up at his tall, elegant figure, not knowing whether to laugh. Before she could decide, he took his leave and followed his sister out the door.
“How strange he is,” said Joanna to herself.
She did not realize she had spoken aloud until a voice replied, “He strives to give that impression, certainly, the Byronic agony.”
Joanna turned to see Jonathan Erland’s ironic smile.
“It is irresistibly attractive to some females, I understand,” he added.
Joanna did not quite like the way he looked at her when he said this, so she answered only, “You are going, Mr. Erland?”
He nodded. “Yes, but I…” He paused. “Yes. Good night.”
“Good night.”
Bidding her mother farewell also, he went out.
Only the group around Mr. Rowntree remained now, and Joanna’s mother gestured toward them with a smile. “They will be talking for hours yet. We may as well go to bed, Joanna.”
The girl nodded.
“Are you tired?”
Joanna considered. “No,” she said, “not at all.”
Her mother laughed. “Well, I am. Come let us go.” And arm in arm, they walked up the stairs and toward the bedrooms.
Eight
The next morning after breakfast, Joanna returned to her room and sat down at the window, gazing thoughtfully out over the fields. She had been wondering at herself since last night, puzzled by her own reactions. It had always seemed to Joanna that she understood her feelings very well. But now, she was not so sure. Could her mother have been right after all? Had she never really loved Peter? Last night, when she had spoken to him for the first time in weeks, she had been amazed at her relative indifference. After a moment of tumult and embarrassment, she had felt almost nothing. She pitied Peter and wished him well, but that was all.
This realization led her to another less welcome one. If she had so misunderstood herself over this very serious matter, could she trust her own evaluation of any of her feelings? The possibility that she had no very clear knowledge of herself made Joanna distinctly uneasy.
She tried to talk this over with Selina when she came for a visit that afternoon, but the younger girl wanted instead to hear the details of the party she had missed. “Tell me everything,” she insisted as they sat together in the rose arbor. “My mother noticed nothing important, I declare. She spent the whole evening talking with Mrs. Townsend.”
Joanna obligingly told her what had occurred and with whom she had danced.
“Sir Rollin first,” sighed Selina. “And was he very elegant?”
Joanna nodded. “The most modish man at the party.”
The other girl clasped her hands. “To lead off with the most modish man present,” she sighed. “Did Jack Townsend wear his spotted neckerchief?” When Joanna shook her head, Selina smiled. “I knew his father would forbid it. Jack insisted it was the latest thing, but his father says the kerchief makes him look like a groom. I knew he wouldn’t wear it, whatever he said.”
Joanna shrugged.
“Did she dance?” added Selina portentously.
The other girl nodded, not having to ask whom she meant. “Several times. First with Mr. Townsend and later with Mr. Erland and Jack.”
Selina’s eyes bulged. “Was she very splendid? I daresay she
overdressed and could not dance nearly so well as you, Joanna.”
Joanna considered. “She wore emerald silk and ribbons, a bit too much trimming, perhaps. But she danced very well, I must say.”
Selina shrugged. “I’m certain you were much prettier in yellow. What a fine gown that is. I should like one just like it.”
Privately thinking that yellow might not become her sandy-haired friend, Joanna nodded. “Yes, it is pretty. Poor Constance chose green, and she was put out that Mrs. Finley wore it also. Though her dress showed more taste, I thought,” she added generously.
Selina tittered. “Poor Constance, I daresay,” she added.
Joanna did not notice the venom in her tone. “You know,” she continued, “Constance is really quite nice. I’m beginning to like her very much. I am to go to tea at the vicarage today. It is nearly four; I must think of getting ready.”
Selina bridled. “Tea at the vicarage? But I thought we would take tea together. Perhaps here in the arbor, as we used to.”
“Well, that would be delightful, but I cannot today,” replied Joanna, still unheeding.
Selina stood. “Well, I do not mean to keep you, to be sure. Do not concern yourself with me. I shall go immediately.”
Joanna looked up at her, astonished. “Why, what is the matter, Selina?”
“Pray think nothing about it,” retorted the other dramatically. “I’m sure my feelings do not matter in the least.”
Nonplussed, Joanna stood also. “Of course they do. But whatever is the matter?”
“If my friendship means so little to you that you cannot see it,” declared Selina, “then there is no more to be said.” She made as if to turn away. “I shall go.”
“You will do nothing of the kind,” answered Joanna, getting a little angry at her friend. “You will sit down and tell me what is wrong.”
“You are occupied. You must go out.”
“Not for half an hour yet. Come, sit down.”
