Louisa could hardly refrain from crying out at this unwelcome piece of information, but she suggested as calmly as she could that Betsy ask Winky to meet her in the library for a talk.
As she made her way down the stairs and into the library that had been Papa’s favorite room, Louisa sighed. Being father and mother to Harry and Betsy was a difficult task. If only she had the help of some kind man who had a way with children. A picture of Atherton’s face as he spoke to Harry and that youngster’s cheerful obedience flashed before her eyes. She sighed aloud. It was unfortunate that Harry so idolized the man.
Everyone knew that the beaux were fickle. Atherton might drop them at any moment. She could not, in fact, see why he had taken them up at all. And if Harry lost his idol they would have a hard time of it - all of them.
Well, thought Louisa, settling into a chair to wait for Winky, there was little point in borrowing trouble. Enough time to deal with that if and when it happened.
A sudden constriction in the vicinity of her own heart warned her that her pain, should his lordship decide to drop them, would undoubtedly more than rival Harry’s.
This unpleasant thought was interrupted by a timid knock. Louisa turned to the door. “Come in, Winky. I must talk to you.”
“Yes?” asked Winky.
“Sit down.” Louisa indicated a chair nearby. “Generally you are doing a fine job with the children.”
Winky’s plain face beamed at this gratifying news.
“But I am just a little concerned about Betsy.”
Winky’s lined forehead wrinkled further and she leaned forward in the chair.
“It has recently come to my attention that Betsy has been reading a great many romances - among them those of Lady Incognita.”
Winky nodded. “I suppose she has. She likes them best. Lady Incognita’s. And no wonder. Why the man at the lending library says they have to keep extra copies of hers. They go so.”
Louisa was conscious of a warm glow of pride. It was good to know that people enjoyed her work, that it entertained them. Then she brought herself back to the subject.
“The point is, Winky, that Betsy seems to be reading nothing else.”
Winky’s plain face grew red. “I ... I’ve taught her other things, Miss Louisa. Really I have. All the things you learned. It’s just that she’s such a bright girl. She’s learned all there is for her to learn. And she can sew, knot a fringe, play the piano. I’ve done all I can for her. Miss Louisa.”
Winky’s pale blue eyes dimmed with tears. “You know I wouldn’t do a thing to hurt that lamb - or any of you. You’re like my own flesh and blood.”
Louisa patted the little governess’s hand. “Now, now, Winky. I didn’t mean to upset you. I know you’re doing your very best. And it’s not such a horrible thing - reading romances. I dare say most girls do so.”
Louisa could almost see Atherton nodding his head in approval at this speech. “But Winky, she seems to know so many. How did she discover them?”
Winky sniffled. “She came upon one I was reading. It was Lady Incognita’s first. The Dark Stranger. I had borrowed it to read again because it’s my favorite. I didn’t think she would even notice it, laying there on my table. But one day I found her reading it. And then there wasn’t any stopping her. But I see that she does her lessons first, I really do. I’ll stop borrowing them if you say, but the poor thing will be sadly bored.”
Louisa smiled at Winky. “There’s no need to go that far,” she said. “Just be sure that Betsy does her other lessons. And Winky -you might remind her from time to time that romances do not reflect real life.”
Winky smiled feebly. “She told me what you said about heroes - that they don’t exist. I knew that - at least they never did for the likes of me. But Betsy insists that she will have a hero. And since she met the Viscount she’s surer than ever that such men really exist. And I am too, Miss Louisa.”
And then, conscious perhaps that she had gone too far, Winky fell silent.
Louisa, feeling the red flood her cheeks, strove for composure. “Perhaps they do exist, Winky,” she was finally able to say. “But if they do, they are still quite rare. I do not want Betsy to fill her head with illusions that will shatter when she runs into reality.”
Winky smiled slightly. “I understand that, Miss Louisa. But we have to have dreams, too. Nobody can live without dreams.”
Something in the wistful way Winky said this caused Louisa to wonder what secret dreams the little governess cherished. Did she, too, dream of a hero who would make her life exciting and happy?
Louisa suppressed a sigh. If only she hadn’t gone to the abbey that day. She had been fighting these periodic bouts of hero longing ever since she’d begun writing romances. And she had emerged from each confrontation victorious - for the moment at least. But since Atherton had entered her life nothing was the same. How could she act sanely and sensibly on the knowledge that no heroes existed in real life when one kept persistently thrusting himself into her vision?
“And I must say, too, Miss Louisa,” added Winky, “as I remember, you read such books. Lots of them. And they haven’t done you any harm.”
Louisa was inclined to the opposite belief -certainly something was hurting her at the present. And she rather thought that heroes had a great deal to do with it. But she did not say any more to Winky about it.
“That’s all for now, Winky.” Louisa dismissed the little governess. “Just keep doing the good you have been.”
“Oh, I will, Miss Louisa. I surely will.” And Winky hurried from the room.
For a moment Louisa sat silent, staring at the marble fireplace and the carved panel over it. Dreams. So even Winky had dreams. But of what use were dreams if they were doomed never to come true? asked Louisa of herself. No use at all, answered one part of her. But another replied defiantly that sometimes, though perhaps it was rare, dreams did indeed come true.
Louisa sighed wearily. Such an argument with herself could go on indefinitely and she could not spare the time. To-day’s quota of pages for Love in the Ruins was not yet finished.
As she made her way up the stairs to her room, the lines that had been forming in her head during the carriage ride returned. In moments she had them down on paper. Then she continued.
Reginald faced the devil’s spawn. Behind the evil one, in the flickering light of that single torch, loomed the crumb-ling ruins of the abbey. And beyond those dark walls he could glimpse intermittently the distorted branches of the gnarled and twisted tree under whose shelter the patient horses waited.
He must, he thought, he must reach those horses and carry his beloved Bernice to safety. Another vivid streak of lightning lit Columbo’s swart figure, revealing the pistol that he held in his other hand.
“I should kill you now,” Columbo leered, “but I wish to enjoy it at my leisure. And let the fair Bernice watch.”
“You will never have her while the breath of life still inhabits this body of mine,” Reginald retorted.
Columbo chuckled evilly. “That will be taken care of. Now move. We’ll go back to the cell from which you just took Bernice. Did you really believe I should let you escape so easily?”
Reginald considered the distance between them. Could he reach Columbo and wrest the pistol from his grasp? But such a course appeared foolhardy. He was all that stood between Bernice and a fate worse than death. No, he would not at this moment risk the monk’s pulling that trigger. He would bide his time and wait for something to happen.
He put his arm around Bernice and prepared to guide her back toward the gloomy cell.
Louisa put the pen down. This was the last chapter she was writing and, as usual, the longing for a hero in her own life was growing stronger and stronger. And this time there was no antidote for the poisonous longing that seeped through her veins.
How was she to convince herself that heroes were only illusions, built on the flimsy foundation of girlhood dreams, when her every moment, waking and sleepin
g, was haunted by the dark features of Atherton, a living, breathing hero?
Reality could tell her that there was no hope of such a man seeking an alliance with her. And reality did. But it could not convince her that such a man did not exist.
She straightened her shoulders. This was the day to finish Love in the Ruins and finish it she would. Mr. Grimstead had never been forced to inquire about a late manuscript and he would not have to this time either. She picked up a fresh pen.
As Reginald’s arm encircled her waist, Bernice felt strength flooding into her weakened limbs. She had put her hope and faith in this one man. And he had proved himself worthy of her trust.
She gave him a long and loving glance before the two of them faced the demonic monk together.
It was not death that she feared, Bernice told herself, as the ominous thunder rumbled above them. It was dishonor at the hands of the evil creature that stood leering, obviously enjoying their distress.
It was then that the idea entered Bernice’s head, almost as though placed there by a benevolent Providence. With-out another thought she stepped in front of Reginald and faced the evil one. “Kill us now,” she cried. “Kill us together.”
Reginald, who had moved to thrust her behind him, stopped. She was right, he thought. A quick death for the both of them was infinitely preferable to the pain and humiliation that Columbo so delighted in.
As Bernice moved toward the amazed monk, Reginald followed closely.
“Kill us now,” urged Bernice. “One pistol ball through both our bodies. And we will be united in death as we have not yet been united in life.”
“Stop!” The distraught monk waved the pistol but Bernice paid it no notice.
“Kill us,” she repeated. “Kill us now.”
She was only inches from the monk, who was still brandishing the pistol but unable to fire without destroying the prize he sought, when Reginald pushed her to the ground and jumped.
Bernice, gazing up in terror, could see very little of the battle that followed. The torch had been extinguished as it hit the ground and the moon was covered by dark clouds. Through the darkness came the sound of hoarse panting and imprecations to the devil.
Bernice sent her own fervent prayers heavenward. Reginald must prevail, he must.
The darkness was split by the thunderous roar of a pistol shot and then all was silent. Bernice, unable, for the trembling of her limbs, to rise from the damp stones, held her breath. Which of them had survived? Was her future to be one of joy and love? Or utter desolation?
Every nerve in her body strained to the utmost as she listened for the sound that would free or doom her. And then through the darkness came the accents of a beloved voice. “Bernice?”
At that precise moment the clouds parted and Reginald was revealed to her. His garments were rent and his face bloody, but as he moved toward her he appeared to be otherwise unharmed. Then strong hands were lifting her to her feet, strong arms clasping her to a warm chest.
“Bernice, my love,” whispered Reginald. “The villain is dead. The demon was killed by his own pistol shot. And we are free. Free to love each other.”
“Yes, Reginald,” whispered Bernice, all her longing revealed in the eyes upturned to his. “Right has prevailed and we are free to love.”
And, as though sanctifying that love, the dark clouds fell away and the moon cast its serene light on the embracing pair.
Louisa put down the pen and blinked back the tears. She simply must stop being so sensitive about the whole thing. She simply must live in the world of reality where Viscounts did not marry the penniless plain daughters of dead barons, where heroes did not save maidens in distress, and where she would spend the rest of her life writing about what she could never possess - the love of a hero.
With a cry of anguish Louisa threw herself onto the old oak bed and let the tears flow. Flesh and blood could only endure so much, she told herself. And she had passed her limit.
For the picture of Reginald and Bernice, locked in an embrace that promised a life of love and happiness, served only to increase the longing that was consuming her. She did not care, she told herself, still sobbing, whether it was sensible or not. It was time for a good cry. And that, at least, would not be denied her.
Chapter Eight
As the day of her debut at Almack’s grew closer, Louisa’s nervousness increased. She did not want to face the ogling eyes of the ton. But Betsy’s future had to be considered.
Indeed, it was for Betsy’s future that the whole of her life was now designed. Her own hopes and dreams she knew to be futile. The workings of an overheated imagination, Aunt Julia would probably say. But Betsy’s future was still to come and her sister determined that she would not be cheated out of it.
Love in the Ruins had been delivered to Mr. Grimstead and his round face had broken into a cheerful smile. “Good news for you, miss. Mr. Newman says, as you’re selling so well now, that we’re going to give you one hundred pounds for this one. And the next one, too.”
That news had considerably eased Louisa’s guilt. The new dress would not now be such an extravagance. She could enjoy it with a lighter heart.
But her heart did not stay light long. She had not danced for many years, since before Mama and Papa’s death, and then only in the privacy of the school-room. The prospect of dancing before all those unfriendly eyes was not a pleasant one. Not at all.
But then, she told herself severely, who had said she would be dancing at all? Her place would be to sit with the chaperones and watch the proceedings, not to participate in them.
As she stood before her Mama’s cheval glass surveying the result of Naomi’s hard labor while that worthy creature scurried off to attend to Aunt Caroline, Louisa wondered what Mama would have said at this vision in cream satin. Even to her own critical eyes Louisa looked good.
The chestnut curls that cascaded down over her bare shoulders had been arranged while Betsy watched eagerly and consulted the latest book of fashion. Mama’s garnets looked lovely against her throat and over the wrist of her fresh kid glove.
Louisa sighed. She was probably imagining that she looked good. Since the advent of Atherton into her life she had begun to doubt her perceptions of reality. If she had been wrong in one instance, she might be wrong in others.
She turned from the mirror, gathered up her shawl, and hurried toward the stairs. She had no desire to keep Lady Con-stance waiting.
Louisa was as yet unsure whether Atherton would accompany them. She had not seen the Viscount for almost a week, since the day of their ride in Hyde Park. And she had not dared to ask Lady Palmerton about him for fear her color would betray her.
She had worked exceedingly hard in the past week to make herself stop regarding Atherton in the rosy light of romance. She believed she had succeeded. At least, she hoped she had.
It was true that her new hero. Sir Percival Avonford, persisted in looking and behaving like a fifteenth-century Atherton. And her new heroine, Corrine, looked even more like Louisa herself than the sainted Bernice. It was also true that she did not seem able to direct her characters as she had before she met Atherton. But the book was started, though as yet it had no title, and there was still time to overcome whatever weakness still possessed her.
She entered the drawing room to find Aunt Caroline, elegantly turned out by Naomi, nervously awaiting Lady Palmer-ton’s carriage. “It’s been such a long time,” said Aunt nervously, “since I’ve been anywhere public that I’ve no notion how to act.”
“There now, Aunt,” soothed Louisa, immediately forgetting her own fears. “Don’t get yourself in a pet. These are just people, you know. Be your own kind self and we shall succeed famously.”
“You are a sweet girl, Louisa,” said Aunt Caroline warmly. “It’s such a shame you never got to come out.”
“Indeed it is,” said a deep voice from the doorway and Louisa turned to find his lordship regarding her with narrowed eyes. He stared for so long that Louisa f
elt the color rising to her cheeks.
“You must get accustomed to be stared at,” observed the Viscount with a cynical smile, “if you expect to be one of the ton.”
“It only seems rude to me,” replied Louisa, and then colored even more as she realized that she had inadvertently called his lordship rude.
Atherton, however, laughed heartily. “Another hit,” said he. “Though perhaps not suitable for most of the ton.”
The eyes under the lazy lids surveyed her easily until finally Louisa found herself asking somewhat pertly, “And will I pass muster, do you think, milord?”
His thin mouth curved in a smile of lazy amusement. “I expect so, Miss Penhope. But I had thought that since we are family friends you would condescend to call me Philip. If you insist on milording me, I shall not be pleased.”
Louisa forced her eyes to meet his dark ones. “That is not very kind of you,” she said, her eyes sparkling. “To force me into such a manner of addressing you.”
His lordship smiled lazily. “But you forget, I am a hero. And heroes are permitted, at times, to break the rules.”
“So they are,” returned Louisa gaily, wondering how she had ever become this creature who could bandy words so easily while her heart was slowly breaking. “I expect then that I shall have to stop milording you - Philip.”
Her heart wrenched so as she pronounced his name that she feared her expression had betrayed her. But his eyes remained the same - amused and dancing.
“And Mrs. Pickering,” said he, turning to where Aunt Caroline waited. “You are looking excellently well.”
“Thank you, milord.” Aunt Caroline had not missed the exchange between Louisa and his lordship but she was not sure that it included her.
“I should like to call you Aunt Caro-line,” said the Viscount. “If you do not mind.”
Aunt Caroline was extremely pleased by this. “Of course I do not mind, milord.”
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