Dancing with Clara

by Mary Balogh

  She looked ahead along the road to see how far she still was from the shortcut across the pasture. As she did so, she became aware of two female figures approaching across the field to her left. The Misses Sinclair were also taking a shortcut from their father’s house a mile away. They were waving to her and smiling.

  “Well met, Miss Shaw,” Ellen, the older girl, called. “We are on our way to the house.”

  “Indeed, it is a lovely day for a walk,” Rebecca called, and stopped to wait for the two girls to catch up to her.

  Primrose climbed the stile first and jumped into the roadway. Dimples showed in both cheeks. Rebecca had always been somewhat aghast at the younger sister’s name. It was the sort of name that might sound very sweet for a tiny baby but quite inappropriate for a sixty-year-old dowager. Fortunately Primrose was a pretty and a happy girl and seemed to suit her name. She even favored, to a noticeable degree, dresses of yellow or lemon color. But she definitely did not suit the shortened name of Prim, which her family used.

  “We are not going just for the walk,” Primrose said now, suppressed excitement in her voice. “We have the most wonderful news to tell.”

  Her sister came hurtling down from the stile. “You shan’t tell, Prim,” she scolded. “It was agreed that I should tell since I am eighteen and the older. Mama and Papa said!”

  “But that is just at the house,” the younger girl complained. “You are to tell Harriet and Lord and Lady Holmes, Ellen. It is only fair that I tell now. It is only Miss Shaw after all.”

  Rebecca smiled at the unintentional slight. “An agreement is binding,” she said. “I shall hear your news at the house.”

  “No,” Ellen said, relenting now that her point had been won, “you can tell, Prim. But only here. Not a word at the house.”

  “Christopher is coming home!” the girl blurted, her extreme youth doubtless responsible for her inability to bolster her sense of importance by telling a story slowly.

  Rebecca turned rather sharply in the direction of the pasture and led the way across the stile. “Indeed?” she said over her shoulder. “That is exciting news for you. It is many years since he was here last, is it not?” Six and a half years, to be exact, she thought.

  “Almost seven,” Primrose said. “I was only nine years old. I hardly remember his being here. He was away much of the time even then, you see, at university.”

  “Yes,” Rebecca said, waiting for the girls to join her in the pasture, “it must be that long. How time does fly!”

  “He never did come home even once when he was married to Angela,” Primrose continued. “It always seemed strange. You would have thought she would have liked to see the place where he grew up, would you not? But they always stayed in London. We had to visit them there.”

  “It was lovely for us, though,” Ellen said. “I hope that Christopher will not move permanently away from London now that he is a widower. It would be most provoking just when we are of an age to take part in the social activities there.”

  “He is coming for a visit,” Primrose explained, “now that his year of mourning is over. He does not say how long he plans to stay. But Mama and Papa are over the moon, and Julian. I think he likes the idea of having a rich and fashionable brother to show off.” She giggled. “And so do we. Christopher is most awfully handsome, Miss Shaw. We shall enjoy walking down the street in the village holding on to his arms. Shall we not, Ellen?”

  “Maybe he will buy us some new bonnets and trinkets,” the older girl said. “It would be a shame if he did not. He is very rich, you know.”

  Primrose, walking—or rather tripping along—beside Rebecca, looked up at her with a bright smile. “You must have known Christopher when he lived here,” she said. “You are almost as old as he is, are you not?”

  “He is three years my senior,” Rebecca replied. “And three years seems quite a wide span to children. I did not know him well when we were very young.” She did not define what very young meant, but Primrose seemed satisfied with her answer.

  “He was handsome even then,” the younger girl said. “I remember that at least. I’ll wager all the girls were in love with him, were they not, Miss Shaw?”

  Rebecca laughed. “I daresay he had his fair share of admirers,” she said. And she added lightly, “It was a black day, indeed, for the female inhabitants of this county when he took himself off to London and decided never to return.”

  “Well, fortunately he has decided to return again,” Ellen said. “The day after tomorrow, Miss Shaw. And he is single again. He surely will want another wife. He must have got used to the married state and will feel lonely without Angela. We think perhaps he will like Harriet. She is certainly lovelier than Angela was.”

  He had said never, Rebecca was thinking. He had said he would never return. And never had turned out to be less than seven years. She supposed it was only natural that he would want to return to his parents’ home at least for a visit when he had recently lost his wife and the child that she was unable to deliver before her death. It was understandable. But very unfair. She had thought that never meant not ever. She could have lived with that.

  Primrose was nudging Ellen, and Ellen was giggling. “Is Mr. Bartlett at home this afternoon, Miss Shaw?” she asked finally. “Or has he gone out?”

  I believe he and Lady Holmes were going driving in the phaeton together after luncheon,” Rebecca replied, “but I think it likely that they have both returned for tea.”

  “Do you not consider him handsome, Miss Shaw?” Primrose asked. “Ellen does, though he is a little too short for my liking. I admire tall men. And I do not like men with red hair. Lady Holmes looks very well with it, but her brother would look better with brown hair, I believe.”

  “It is not red,” Ellen protested. “It is auburn. Is it not, Miss Shaw?”

  Rebecca considered. “Certainly Mr. Bartlett’s hair is not as bright a red as his sister’s,” she said. “But is he not a little old for you, Ellen? I do believe he is at least of an age with me.” She smiled in some amusement at the blushing Miss Sinclair.

  “Well, you are not old, Miss Shaw,” she said. “Besides, I have not said I have a tendre for him. Stop it, Prim,” she said crossly as her sister nudged her again. “I have met him only once, when Lady Holmes brought him to call yesterday. And he had remarkably superior manners. Both Mama and Papa said so. Is he to stay long, Miss Shaw?”

  “I really could not say,” Rebecca replied.

  Mr. Stanley Bartlett, Maude’s older brother, had arrived quite unexpectedly three days before, followed by a valet and a veritable mountain of luggage. Nothing had been said in Rebecca’s hearing about the expected duration of his visit. But no one was anxious to see him leave—thus far, at least. He was a man of considerable charm. He had that rare gift of being able to adapt his manner to all kinds of people so that all the varied members of the baron’s household liked him, including Rebecca. His presence was a welcome addition to their family group and—if these girls were in any way typical—to the neighborhood.

  “We are almost there,” Ellen said, looking to the attractive yellow brick mansion ahead of them, its walls ivy-covered, its base surrounded by pink rhododendrons. “Now, remember, Prim, you are not to say a word. And you are not to jump up and down looking as if you were ready to burst. You are not to drop any hints at all.”

  ***On Sale August 2017***