Rakehell's Widow

by Sandra Heath

  Chapter 20

  The following morning Alabeth was roused by Jillian’s maid, who was most anxious because her mistress was feverish and seemed not at all well, Alabeth hurried to Jillian’s beautiful room, with its delicate Chinese silk on the walls, and found her sister looking indeed far from well. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes too bright, and when Alabeth learned of the rainstorm at Ranelagh, she knew straightaway that Jillian had taken an ague and the doctor must be sent for.

  The doctor too diagnosed an ague and said that Jillian must remain in her bed for at least a week, which precluded them from joining Octavia’s house party for Ascot. Jillian was disappointed, but at the same time felt really too ill to be too upset, and the doctor had hardly gone before she had sunk into a restless sleep.

  Alabeth immediately sent word to Octavia, who hurried around in great concern, but she accepted that Alabeth had no choice and must remain in Town with Jillian. Charles, on hearing of what had happened, was immediately most anxious, feeling responsible, as he had persuaded Jillian to go to Ranelagh with him, and he was at first disposed to remain in Town too, until Alabeth reasoned with him that there really wasn’t anything he could do.

  Alabeth was not too disappointed about the enforced stay in London, for it at least gave her time to consider her own position. The week was bound to be quiet, everyone being at Ascot, and she would be able to give a great deal of sensible thought to her feelings for Piers and what she must do about them.

  * * *

  By the end of the week, with Jillian well on the way to recovery, Alabeth had done her thinking and had come to the inevitable conclusion that she must try to forget her love for Piers. She really didn’t have any choice, for she had so mishandled everything from the outset that she had ruined any chance she ever had of happiness with him. He now obviously felt nothing for her and indeed had fallen in love instead with Adelina Carver. For Alabeth, acceptance of the truth about herself had come by far too late, and now she must pick up the pieces and continue with her life, with no thought of Piers Castleton at all.

  As that week ended, Alabeth had something else to consider too—Count Adam Zaleski. Soon he would be coming each day to the house to give Jillian her tuition, and now that Alabeth knew the true nature of the man, she had no intention whatsoever of exposing either herself or Jillian to his advances. In her heart she knew that the best course would be to cancel the arrangement entirely, but this would have upset Jillian a great deal and might anyway be entirely unnecessary, because the fact that he was disposed to pursue the elder sister did not mean that he was similarly disposed toward the younger. Knowing that he must be guarded against, however, Alabeth announced one morning at breakfast that she had decided it would be best if the lessons were conducted in the presence of a maid. She added hastily that it was certainly not because she did not trust Jillian, but rather that she did not trust the Count, whose reputation was not altogether spotless and who must therefore be regarded as slightly doubtful company for an innocent, unmarried young lady in her first Season in Town. Jillian did not seem to mind the stipulation, and Alabeth felt a great deal better about it—the maid’s presence would surely restrict any untoward activities the Count may envisage.

  Alabeth was called away to the kitchens shortly afterward, and Jillian sat alone at the table, contemplating the forthcoming lessons—and the Count’s rather risqué reputation with the ladies. It was inevitable that a man like that would become a little notorious in that direction, for he was quite the most divine of creatures, and his charm and consideration toward Jillian herself could not be faulted. Maybe he was not as immaculate as a Sir Galahad, but he was at least interesting, and above all else, exciting! Why couldn’t Charles Allister be more like that? Why had he instead to be dull, boring, and tedious?

  * * *

  The hour of the first lesson arrived at last and Jillian was sufficiently recovered to be in readiness. The Count, prompt, was shown into the drawing room. “Good morning, Lady Alabeth. Lady Jillian.”

  Alabeth nodded coolly. “Sir.”

  His blue eyes flickered a little at the chill and he smiled instead at Jillian. “I was most concerned to hear of your illness. I trust that you are now fully recovered.”

  “I am indeed, sir, thank you.”

  “You look enchanting, as you do always.”

  Jillian flushed a little, smiling and lowering her eyes. Alabeth reached for the bell which would summon Sanderson. “I know that your time is precious, Count Zaleski, and so we must not delay the commencement of the lesson. Oh, Sanderson, would you see that Lady Jillian’s maid goes directly to the music room?”

  “Very well, my lady.”

  Jillian hurried out in a rustle of pale-pink silk, but the Count waited at the door for Alabeth. His glance moved appreciatively over her figure, outlined so beautifully by the soft folds of her leaf-green gown. “I paid a compliment to Lady Jillian on her appearance, but I must also say that I have never seen you look more lovely, Alabeth.”

  “I asked you before not to address me so familiarly, sir, and must now point out that nothing has changed. You are here to give my sister tuition at the pianoforte, not to pay court to me.”

  “Why are you so cold? I surely do not deserve to be shut out altogether.” His voice was soft, calculated as always to play upon her emotions.

  But she was immune to him now. “You do deserve it, sir, as well you know.”

  Anger flashed into his eyes then, but only briefly before the smile returned to his fine lips. “Perhaps I transgressed a little, but surely I am to be permitted that one mistake? It was, after all, a mistake born purely out of my desire for you. Forgive me, Alabeth, let us forget my sins and begin again.”

  “My sister is waiting, Count Zaleski.”

  His smile faltered a little, the set of his jaw looking rather tense, but he seemed gallant enough as he offered his arm and they proceeded up to the music room. She intended to remain there for a short while, for appearance’s sake.

  He smiled charmingly at Jillian as he entered the room. “Very well, my lady, first of all I will see how you sit at the pianoforte.”

  She looked surprised. “How I sit?”

  “But yes, for how can you play your best if you sit incorrectly? Come now, sit as you would normally.”

  She obeyed.

  He pursed his lips, pretending to look a little cross, but with a smile. “That will not do at all, you are far too high.”

  “But everyone sits like this.”

  “Everyone does not play well. You look as if you are about to clamber over the top, not play. The fashion for sitting high up in the air is not the best one for a serious musician; it is better to be low, with one’s elbows level with the white keys.”

  He brought another, much lower seat and a moment later Jillian was once again seated. She shifted uncomfortably, looking quite uneasy now.

  But he was very gentle and understanding. “Soon you will feel that you have always played from this position, my lady. Now, play something for me, anything you wish.”

  She selected a sheet of paper and began to play. He listened, his head on one side, nodding now and then, but when she had finished, he was a little stern. “My lady, you play very well indeed, but you use the pedals as if you pump an organ! Take your foot away from them completely, pretend they are not there, and create the tone through the touch of your fingers, thus.” He leaned over her, his arms on either side of her as he played several bars. He was so close to her that his sleeve touched her bare arm.

  Her lips parted with admiration as he produced a complete range of sound without once having recourse to the pedals. She looked up at him as he finished. “But that was marvelous. I would not have dreamed it possible—”

  “Everything is possible with the pianoforte, my lady, as you will soon realize, and to begin with, you must use the metronome.” He took the little device down from the shelf.

  Jillian was appalled. “But I haven’t used one since
my first exercises.”

  “Timing is of the utmost importance; even I use the metronome,” he replied firmly, placing it before her and setting it. “Never scorn timing, for if you do, then you will fail.”

  “I do not wish to fail.”

  “Then do as I say,” he said, smiling down into her big blue eyes.

  “Even the metronome?”

  “Especially the metronome.” He pretended to wag a finger at her.

  She laughed. “What shall we begin with?”

  “Oh, all the usual things—the Bach fugues, Handel, Scarlatti, Mozart, and so on.”

  She gasped. “All of them?”

  “Naturally—and then you will progress to Beethoven.”

  “It will take a very long time.”

  “Nonsense, you will skip through them, I promise you. Come now, for after all, time is immaterial when one wishes to achieve an end.” His glance moved toward Alabeth.

  It was not of music that he spoke. She gathered her skirts and left the room.

  Chapter 21

  Over the next week the house echoed daily to the sound of scales and exercises, and the music room itself became more and more cluttered as Jillian labored her willing way through all the pieces set by the Count. But there was no mistaking that all the hard work was indeed improving her playing, for her fluency became smoother as the week progressed. To her the Count showed only his charming, dashing side, so much so that one morning Jillian had to confess to Alabeth that she found it impossible to believe that such a fine gentleman could ever have cheated at cards. Alabeth, naturally enough, reserved judgment, having witnessed for herself that there was quite another side to Count Adam Zaleski.

  He did not seem at all abashed by Alabeth’s rebuffs; indeed he lost no opportunity at all of trying to speak to her or to get her on her own, but she managed for the most part to elude him. For Jillian’s sake she endured his presence in the house, and that was her only reason for tolerating him, but she had a suspicion that he believed she had embarked upon some elaborate game. She was most careful, therefore, to give him no encouragement whatsoever, being at all times remote and icily civil, for never would she be able to forget how mercilessly he had used her unhappiness to try to seduce her.

  Octavia did not return to Town immediately after Ascot, but when she did, her first call was upon Alabeth. Her gray taffeta skirts crackling busily, she crossed the drawing room to kiss Alabeth on the cheek and then sink onto a sofa with a great sigh. “My dear, I don’t think I can survive much more of this Season, for I swear I am already on my last legs.”

  “Oh, I do hope not,” remarked Alabeth a little slyly, “for there is Jillian’s ball to see to yet.”

  “How utterly selfish you are,” replied Octavia, smiling. “And how is she? Recovered?”

  “Can you not hear?”

  The sound of the pianoforte echoed clearly through the house, and Octavia nodded. “How I wish I had had the foresight to ask him for private tuition. Just think of all those delicious hours alone with him.”

  “I can think of better ways of spending my time.”

  Octavia raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Really? You must tell me sometime, for to be sure I must be missing something exciting.”

  Alabeth smiled. “Besides, Jillian is most certainly not alone with him. I have seen to it that her maid is in attendance at all tunes.”

  “Perhaps you are wise,” Octavia replied, “dull—but wise.” She listened again as Jillian played a particularly difficult sequence. “She plays like an angel, but then I suppose she is being taught by an arch-angel, is she not?”

  “He isn’t any sort of angel, he’s the very devil,” was the short reply.

  Octavia was a little taken aback, but she tactfully decided to leave the contentious subject of the Count. “Well, Ascot was a bore,” she said at last. “I do not think I have ever enjoyed the week less.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  “Well, to begin with Charles Allister insisted that we all attend that odious little theater in Windsor to see Mr. Quick perform.”

  “The theater is hardly odious, and anyway, you like Mr. Quick.”

  “I do indeed, but on this occasion it was virtually impossible to hear a word from the stage.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, in spite of the Royal Family being present, a group of rather drunken Etonians continually quarreled and interrupted the performance. It was quite disgraceful and they should have been ejected a great deal sooner than they were. By the time the performance continued, I was quite out of sorts with it and wished more than anything else to leave. Piers Castleton had the right idea; he escorted Adelina from the theater the moment the trouble began.”

  “They were together at Ascot, then?” Alabeth tried to sound only vaguely interested.

  “My dear, they were together everywhere! It’s obviously quite a thing between them. Harry Ponsonby seems to have undergone a complete change of heart, for he’s now pursuing her again after having treated her rather poorly before. He’ll have a job on his hands, though, for he has a formidable rival in Piers.”

  “Yes.” Alabeth lowered her eyes.

  Octavia glanced curiously at her. “Are you feeling quite well?”

  “Yes, I’m perfectly all right.”

  “You look a little peaked. Have you been sleeping?”

  “Yes, truly I have, Octavia.”

  “Well, I think I detect a fibling or two in your replies, for you look far from glowing. I hardly like to ask, but is it perhaps something to do with the Count? A lover’s tiff?”

  “No, for that would suggest that we have been lovers, which we have not—and which we are never likely to be. He is odious in the extreme and I endure his presence in the house simply and solely because of Jillian. So do not go imagining a liaison which does not exist.”

  Octavia’s shrewd gaze rested thoughtfully on her face for a moment. “Alabeth, I haven’t reached this age without knowing a thing or two, and when I look at you, I see someone who is nursing a bruised heart. If it is not the Count, which evidently it is not, then who is it? I swear I haven’t detected a sniff of one particular man having carried off your heart—”

  Alabeth stood up. “That’s because there isn’t anyone,” she said lightly.

  “My dear, I am your friend, your very dearest friend, and it grieves me that you will not confide in me. Perhaps I could help—”

  “No one can help.”

  “Then there is someone?”

  “Yes. Now, please, Octavia, I don’t wish to—”

  “Who is he, Alabeth?”

  “I really don’t want to say.”

  “I insist, for I cannot have you looking so utterly miserable, it won’t do at all.”

  Alabeth turned away, knowing that Octavia was far too concerned to have any intention of leaving the subject alone. She took a deep breath and then looked back at Octavia’s earnest face. “It’s Piers Castleton.”

  Octavia’s eyes widened. “Piers? But you’ve always loathed him.”

  “Have I? I think you will find that the truth was very opposite.”

  “For how long?”

  “Too long.”

  “Before Robert died?”

  “Yes.”

  Octavia was on her feet in a moment, swiftly taking Alabeth’s hands. “Oh, my dear, and I’ve been rattling on so unfeelingly— But you’ve hidden it all so well, you know, I really believed that you despised him.”

  Alabeth smiled wryly. “I tried to believe it myself. Anyway, it really doesn’t matter now, for Adelina has him, and from all accounts he’s very content to be netted.”

  “Hm. Well, if you ask me, she’s most definitely not his type. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. Alabeth, does Piers know that you—”

  “No! At least, maybe he guessed once, but nothing was ever said, and he certainly has no notion of my true feelings for him now. And, Octavia, you are not to tell him, do you hear? If you attempt any of your m
atchmaking, I will never forgive you.”

  “But—”

  “No, Octavia, I want it to be this way. I have decided that I will get over him, and I will succeed. I’ve thought of nothing else this past week but how I am going to put this part of my life well and truly behind me, and the last thing I want is for you, no matter how full of good intentions, to meddle.”

  “But it is hardly meddling,” protested Octavia.

  “It is, for he is completely indifferent to me, except perhaps to feel decidedly irritated whenever I am near him, and I could not bear it if he learned the truth. Promise me you will say and do nothing, Octavia.”

  Octavia reluctantly gave in. “Very well, you have my word—for the moment.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  “It means that if sometime in the future I really and truly feel that the circumstances warrant my meddling, as you are pleased to term it, then I will meddle. No, I’m sorry, Alabeth, for it would be very wrong indeed of me to promise once and for all on something as important as this. You obviously love him with all your heart, and you are my dearest friend. I would be a monster indeed if I agreed to stay my hand forever.”

  “Octavia—”

  “Rest assured, my dear, that I will be the soul of discretion, should the occasion ever arise, which it may not. Look at me, my dearest Alabeth, and know that in me you have a sincere and devoted friend. I would never, never do anything which would make you unhappy.”

  Alabeth squeezed the other woman’s hands then. “I know,” she whispered.

  Octavia spoke a little more briskly then. “Now, then, where was I? To be sure I cannot remember. However, there is the matter of the grand regatta at Ranelagh. There was a dreadful mix-up with my invitations and now for the life of me I don’t know who received cards and who didn’t. Did you and Jillian receive one?”

  “No, I’m afraid we didn’t.”

  “Oh, dear, this is very embarrassing. However, I shall issue the invitation personally. Will you both join my party on my barge? It should be so much more agreeable to sit in comfort on cushions and so on, and I can see to it that there is a tidy stock of champagne to add to the delight.”