by Nikki Poppen
Her gaze wandered from the group immediately around her to rove over the others present. They were the same collection of people who had been at the Randolph ball the night before, the same people she saw every day taking the air up and down the length of Bellevue Avenue. They were all the same-many of whom she saw socially in New York throughout the year. There wasn’t a stranger among them. Did any one else notice? What was wrong with her that she could not pretend this picnic was somehow different from countless other similar events plotted on the summer calendar? Did no one else want to scream at the monotony of it all?
Suddenly she felt the overwhelming need to escape. She rose from her chaise and snapped her fan shut. “Excuse me, gentlemen.” She gave a smile but no explanation for her absence and wound her way through the throng of well-meaning suitors until she’d won free of the crowd. At last she was blessedly alone on the tip of the bluff, staring out over the ocean, watching the waves roll into shore, the powerful pulse of the surf reaching her ears even at the cliff’s height. In the distance, a yacht rounded the corner of a bluff farther east and headed toward her. If she had access to such a vessel, she’d sail in the opposite direction, away from all the pretensions and social-climbing nonsense of her world. The yacht passed the bluff she stood on and pulled up to the little dock located beneath the picnic area.
For a moment, Audrey felt a spurt of excitement. Maybe the boat carried new people, people she didn’t know. Three people exited the yacht and took the steep wooden stairs leading up to the picnic grounds. Audrey wished she had a telescope to better view them. From her vantage point, she couldn’t see them very well once they mounted the steps.
It probably didn’t matter. She most likely already knew them. How could it be otherwise? Strangers were not welcome in Newport. She could always go back to the picnic and find out. She cast a glance at the set of stairs near her on the bluff; they led down to the sandy strip of beach. Or, she could go down to the beach, take off her shoes, and carefully wade in the surf. She opted for the latter.
Gannon Maddox shook hands graciously and kept a polite smile on his face throughout the innumerable introductions while Lionel and Stella toured him about the picnic. By four o’clock, he had to fight the urge to cringe when Lionel said for the hundredth time, “May I introduce you to the Earl of Camberly? He is summering with us over at Rose Bluff” Gannon felt he might as well have worn a halter and shown everyone his teeth. Goodness knew, he was decked out in his best “tack and harness”-a white summer suit of cool, spotless linen, and a hat to ward off the sun.
The news of his arrival had circulated throughout the picnic like a ripple on a pond. Fathers smiled broadly and pumped his hand in the gregarious American custom. Mothers quietly urged fathers to introduce the family, and there had been a stream of conversations beginning with the phrase, “May I present my daughter .. ” Apparently no reference check was necessary if one carried the requisite title.
The girls curtsied and giggled, some of them barely out of the schoolroom by English standards. All of them butchered the appropriate address. He’d been “your highness”-ed and “your earlness”-ed all afternoon. But through it all, he’d not blanched. He’d made conversation, overlooking their silly errors, and complimented them on their hats or charm.
During a quiet moment, Stella pressed a glass of chilled Champagne into his hand. “You’re doing splendidly, Camberly. They’re not like our girls back home, are they?” She smiled fondly at a passing group of young debutantes headed for the shade of a nearby tree. They were giggling and failing miserably in their attempts to look discreet as they walked by the earl. “But they’re good girls, just high-spirited. That’s how it is over here. You’ll get used to it.” She gave him a supportive pat on the arm.
Gannon inclined his head. “I appreciate your commiseration, Stella” Lionel’s wife was English, and in the past three weeks since their departure from London, he’d come to rely on her as a connection with home. It helped beat the homesickness he’d been surprised to feel. He’d never been away from Camberly or England with the exception of his Grand Tour after Oxford. Even that had been cut short with his father’s sudden death. Afterward, Camberly had been his life. There’d been no time for trips abroad. And lately, there’d not been the blunt for them either.
“It will get better once you stop thinking of America as a copy of England. For all their Anglophilic passion, this is a place all its own” Stella laughed softly at his side.
“What do you think of it all, Gannon?” Lionel approached, stooping slightly to kiss Stella on the cheek. Unlike Stella, who insisted on addressing Gannon by his title, Lionel was American to the bone and had no such compunction.
“We were just making comparisons,” Gannon said obliquely.
“Well, here we are. A toast to our safe arrival.” Lionel raised his eyebrows meaningfully, and the threesome clinked glasses.
Gannon knew Lionel meant more than just the uneventful crossing on the Bothnia. He’d been introduced, his title and association with the well-loved Carringtons having sealed his acceptance into the tight Newport circles. “If our business is done for the day, Lionel, I think I will leave you two to catch up with old friends, and I shall wander about on my own.”
“If you’re sure?” Lionel prevaricated. “I don’t want you to be a wallflower.”
Gannon laughed. “Hardly that. When have I ever been a wallflower? I’ll be fine”
He set off, Champagne in hand, to see the picnic grounds. His first thought was that Moira would love seeing it. The canopies, the beautiful plates of food laid out like artwork, the fountain centerpiece on the buffet table spouting Champagne, the women in their summer dresses and beribboned hats. He would have to write her an extremely good description of the event, leaving out, of course, the more sordid undertones-that amid all the splendor of the afternoon, he’d felt lower than a common doxy. If he did, it was his own fault. He could imagine what Garrett would have to say to that. This was a bumblebroth of his own making. He’d put himself up for sale; he could expect to feel no less.
Gannon reached the edge of the bluff and leaned on the railing overlooking the ocean. The view was quite spectacular. Blue went on as far as he could see, and beyond that was England, two weeks away. He thought of Camberly, and it gave him strength. There was no shame in doing what was necessary.
A speck of white caught his attention farther down the beach, stark against the navy hue of the waves. Someone-a female someone, it looked like-was enjoying a walk in the surf. Inexplicably intrigued, Gannon followed the path to the stairs and went down to the beach.
He would never be quite sure what compelled him to set down his Champagne glass and behave so recklessly as to leave the party and wander off on his own. Goodness knew, it was bad form to simply leave, especially when one was fast becoming the most interesting curiosity on display. Then again, perhaps that was precisely why Gannon found himself on the beach, shucking off his shoes and rolling up his linen trousers before he could second-guess himself.
He was starting to appreciate the adage, “There is safety in numbers.” Among the ton, he hardly stood out as a rarity. Here, he was a rarefied specimen. The economics of supply and demand could not be illustrated in starker relief.
Gannon bent down to scoop up a handful of pebbles. He tossed one across the waves with a flick of his wrist, gratified to see the little rock skip three times. He threw another, trying hard not to think of the stream on Camberly’s western border where he had lazed away the long summer afternoons of his youth, skipping pebbles with Garrett.
“Is three skips the best you can do?” A feminine voice took him unaware as he studied the remaining pebbles in his hand, searching for a likely candidate.
Gannon looked up from his survey, unwilling to be embarrassed over being caught at his simple pleasure. “Do you think you can do better?” He fronted a charming smile, recognizing the girl in white before him as the one he’d seen from the bluffs earlier.
Those striking blue eyes of hers danced at the prospect of a challenge, her rose lips tilting up in a smile. “Yes, I think I can do better.” She gave an entrancing laugh and peered into Gannon’s open palm, poking around the remaining pebbles, unaffected by the reality that she was touching bare male skin.
It did not escape Gannon’s notice that no selfrespecting London debutante would have been caught in such an indelicate position or without her gloves on. But Lionel and Stella had warned him plenty of times that American girls did not follow London’s dictates when it came to decorum. Everything he’d seen today, this lovely beauty included, proved the Carringtons to be quite right.
“Aha!” The girl held a pebble aloft in triumph. “Perfect. It’s smooth and round,” she declared, giving Gannon an impish grin. “Now, stand back and watch.”
She flicked the small stone expertly out over the waves and crowed with unabashed delight when it skipped four times. “There, that’s how it’s done. It’s all in the wrist,” she exclaimed in high spirits.
“Perhaps it’s all in the pebble,” Gannon countered teasingly. “It could be that that pebble would have gone just as far for me” He pretended to scrutinize the remaining stones in his hand. “I don’t think there’s an other one its equal in this bunch. Alas.” Gannon dropped the stones onto the beach and dusted off his hands.
“You’re English?” she asked suddenly.
Gannon gave a nonchalant shrug, trying to make light of it. He’d been having fun for a moment, not being anything. “The accent is a dead giveaway, is it not?”
The girl laughed again. “I didn’t notice it at first”
“Well, that’s understandable. I hear stone skipping can be quite thought-consuming,” Gannon parried. “But I am English, and, from the sounds of it, you’re not,” he said, returning to the topic of conversation.
The girl cocked her head to look up at him, shielding her eyes with a hand against the glare of the sun. “You’re quite funny. I had been led to believe Englishmen weren’t all that droll on the whole.”
Gannon put a hand to his heart. “I am fair wounded! I assure you that Englishmen are indeed possessed of some modicum of wit.” He gave her a teasing glance, then studied her in mock consideration. “It makes me wonder what else you’ve been misinformed about in regard to England.”
“My girlfriends who’ve been abroad tell me that the standard English gentleman is a sallow fellow given to slenderness and a slouch” She answered frankly. “But I can already see that they are much mistaken in that assumption.”
It was Gannon’s turn to laugh heartily. He drew himself up, purposefully exaggerating his already excellent posture. “Is that so? I suppose the American male is a preferred specimen, then? Amazing, we were able to defeat Napoleon years ago with all the characteristics you’ve imbued us with.”
“Pax!” she cried just as a large breaker roared toward shore, crashing worrisomely close to their bare feet.
In a swift movement, Gannon had his hands at her waist, sweeping her out of harm’s way, avoiding most of the wave’s residual foam. His own feet and ankles weren’t so lucky. Gannon stifled a yelp at the cold Atlantic soaking. “Is it always this cold?”
“Yes, we consider it quite bracing,” the girl laughed. “Are you all right? Your clothes aren’t wet, are they?”
“I’ll manage” Gannon shook out his damp impromptu cuffs, silently hoping the salt water wouldn’t damage the fabric permanently.
“There’s a boulder a short way down the beach that’s in the sun. Come on, I’ll show you, and you can dry out a bit,” she offered, holding up her skirts in one hand and making her way barefoot over the pebbly beach, much to Gannon’s astonishment.
She looked back over her shoulder. “Since we are to be sharing the beach, we should probably introduce ourselves. I’m Audrey”
Gannon smiled, taken in by her easy manner. “I’m Gannon” He could not recall the last time he’d introduced himself by his given name. Everyone had called him Camberly for ages, even his greataunts. A select few called him Maddox. But aside from Moira and Andrew and Garrett, no one called him Gannon, likely because Gannon meant nothing to anyone, and Camberly meant everything. He’d long ago come to the realization that his sole importance to society was that he was the living embodiment of a title, of a place. His own consequence was of little merit outside of that.
They reached the rock and clambered onto its broad back, Audrey making the scramble without any of his offered assistance. The rock was warm, and he could still see the wooden stairs leading to the cliff in the distance. They hadn’t come too far, but far enough to evade prying eyes.
“So, what brings you here?” Audrey asked as they sat side by side on the big rock, enjoying the sun.
“I was invited by some friends,” Gannon replied vaguely. The day was suddenly too pleasant to spoil with his realities. He wasn’t ready to confess that he was an earl. Audrey was probably the only person in Newport who didn’t know he was the Earl of Camberly.
His answer seemed to please her. “That’s good. So many Englishmen come here to hunt heiresses.”
Gannon was immensely glad he’d avoided mentioning that. Still, he had to marvel at the slight bitterness in her tone. “Jealous, are you?”
“Heavens, no!” Audrey exclaimed. “There are plenty of girls who want Englishmen’s titles, and they’re welcome to them. It’s not a life for me, though. I don’t want to be tucked away in a drafty house in the country, pouring my efforts into a pile of crumbling stones and an impractical lifestyle.” She tossed him a sidelong glance. “Does that offend you?”
There it was again, that American bluntness. Gannon tossed an errant pebble into the waves. “What part would I find offensive? The part where you deride dear Britannia, or the part where you speak your own mind?” He held his stoic pose long enough for her to really worry. Then he grinned. “I’ve been warned about you American girls. And forewarned is forearmed. I was prepared for such an outburst”
Audrey laughed up at him. “You’re very clever for an Englishman.”
“I like to think so”
“Modest too”
They sat in affable silence after that, appreciating the late afternoon and the cooling breeze that came up off the waves. It was deuced odd to enjoy a woman’s company so easily, Gannon thought, covertly studying his companion. He barely knew her name, knew hardly anything about her that he could put down on paper, yet he felt he knew this Audrey.
Too bad she wasn’t an heiress. Too bad she was so poorly disposed toward Englishmen. It would be nice to be married to someone with whom one could trade easy banter, sit with and not have to talk, someone who would be pleased to share a quiet afternoon of stone skipping. When he had concocted this scheme, he’d not taken time to think of what he’d be sacrificing by putting himself at the mercy of the highest bidder. This afternoon, he’d had a chance to see firsthand what he’d be giving up.
“The tide’s coming in,” Audrey said at last, nimbly sliding down from the boulder. “I should head back before my parents discover I haven’t simply slipped home ahead of them”
She was so nonchalant that Gannon had the impression the intrepid girl might have done this before-this heading down to the beach unchaperoned-on several occasions.
Audrey shook out her skirts to minimize any undue wrinkles in the white cotton. She flashed Gannon a brilliant smile that lit up her face. “Perhaps I will see you around. Newport’s not so large, really”
Gannon inclined his head. “Perhaps we’ll meet again,” he affirmed, but inwardly he doubted the words. As she moved down the beach, he thought that unless she moved in the lofty circles of the Carringtons and the Astors, he would not encounter the
intriguing miss with chocolate hair again.
And he was skeptical that she did move in such exalted groups. He rather questioned that parents of a lovely heiress would let her roam the beach at will without so much as a maid or governess in attendance, even if they were Americans. Of course, her gown had been fine. He had noted the excellent quality cotton and exquisite lace trim, but many middle-and upper-class people were beginning to spend money on nice clothes in the hopes of aping their millionaire betters. In all likelihood, Audrey was the daughter of a well-to-do merchant. He wouldn’t see her again.
It was for the best, Gannon thought, recognizing only after she’d gone how compromising their situation could potentially have been. Based on what the lovely Audrey had shared, she wouldn’t welcome finding out he was an earl, nor would she welcome being legshackled to him and his “drafty” country house. Yes, he was certain she wouldn’t relish the prospect any more than he did, knowing that a moment’s foolishness could have cost him Camberly Hall forever. At least that’s what he told himself as he tried with only marginal success to push aside thoughts of Audrey and focus on the task at hand.
Audrey brought the Beethoven piece to a close with a resounding chord that sent the conservatory of her parents’ grand summer “cottage” reverberating with the force of it. Her music instructor, a slender German fellow of indeterminate years named Heinrich Woerner, applauded enthusiastically from the edge of his Louis XV chair. But Audrey could feel her mother’s abject disapproval without turning around.
She took a moment to bask in her instructor’s appraisal. She deserved the praise, and she knew it. She had dedicated herself to the task of mastering the Beethoven piece for months. She needed a perfect Beethoven piece in her portfolio as part of the admission process to a highly acclaimed Viennese conservatory where she’d secretly applied for entrance.
