by Jane Toombs
Her knees went weak with relief when he swung down to the far balcony and turned toward her; involuntarily she clapped her hands in recognition of his feat.
Gavin acknowledged her applause with a bow. After brushing the leaves and dirt from his robes, he entered the adjoining room and she left the balcony, rejoining him in the hall.
"You frightened me,” she told him as they started down the stairway.
"I was more than frightened the first time I made the leap. I was absolutely terrified. Clive was suitably impressed, though, not only by my succeeding, but because I dared to attempt the leap in the first place, something he would never have done. He never teased me after that day. And I realized I possessed a certain amount of bottom, of courage, that I dared to take calculated risks if the reward was great enough. And that is what I have been doing ever since."
"I think I must have been just as impressed tonight as Clive was years ago. You might have been killed or horribly hurt if you lost your grip on the vine."
"Death is a far better fate than being mocked and derided."
Not certain she agreed—death, after all, was so final—Justine glanced at him and realized he was quite sincere. She had to admit Gavin was a brave man—though perhaps a bit foolhardy.
As they entered the ballroom a footman approached Gavin, speaking softly to him, so softly she could not hear.
After the footman left, Gavin glanced around the room, as though to assure himself that his guests lacked nothing, and then turned to her.
"My mother is still indisposed and has asked me to go to her in her chambers."
"Is she all right?” Justine asked, concern threading her voice.
"Oh, yes, she often takes to her bed for a day or two at a time after overtaxing herself which, unfortunately, she did in making the preparations for tonight's ball. You may judge the state of her health for yourself since she requests you to accompany me if you will."
When Justine stared at him in surprise, Gavin added, “Two weeks ago, when I returned from the Manor after our morning ride, I told her about you. Ever since, she has plied me with questions, questions of the most friendly sort, I assure you."
With some misgivings, Justine glanced down at her tunic and leggings. “Will she object to seeing me garbed as Robin Hood?"
"Not at all. A costume worn to a masquerade ball means nothing to her."
Gavin offered her his arm and, after a moment's pause—was it really appropriate to meet his mother while costumed as a man?—she took it and let him escort her from the ballroom and across a parlor to stairs leading up to a wing of the Hall she had not yet visited.
"These are the family quarters,” he told her.
When he tapped on a door near the top of the stairway, a woman's voice said, “Gavin?” He opened the door and, as he led an apprehensive Justine inside, she caught a whiff of lavender scent.
The wallpaper of the bedchamber was gold and cream, the furniture gracefully curved in the Louis XV style, the bed a four poster in an alcove with an imposing dark blue canopy; the only light shone from a lamp on a table on the far side of the bed. Charlotte Spencer sat in bed propped up on pillows, her face in shadow. To Justine, she appeared unexpectedly youthful with ash-blond hair framing an oval, high-cheekboned face.
Gavin strode to the side of the bed where he knelt beside his mother. She took his hand in both of hers and raised his fingers to her lips as she murmured soft words of endearment. Gavin lowered his head to her breast, creating, in Justine's view, a loving tableau of adoring mother and devoted son. At the same time she felt a pang for what had been denied her as a child, the tender care and the love of a mother.
At last Gavin rose and held out his hand to Justine who came into the alcove to stand at his side. “Mother, this is Miss Justine Riggs."
Taking Justine's hands in hers, Charlotte Spencer drew her to the bed, close enough to allow Justine to see that Mrs. Spencer owed much if not all of her youthful appearance to the shadows cast by the single lamp and to the liberal application of rouge and powder. Somehow the revelation saddened her. She was, though, relieved to see that her unorthodox costume did not seem to shock the other woman.
"My dear,” Mrs. Spencer said, “how very lovely you are. I often accuse my Gavin of exaggerating a wee bit when he spins tales of his adventures, but when he claimed you were beautiful, he was stating nothing more than the literal truth.” She glanced at Gavin. “You must leave us alone for a few minutes to permit Miss Riggs and myself to become better acquainted."
Gavin nodded. “I shall wait in the hall,” he told Justine.” Looking at his mother, he said lightly, “I hope you won't burden Miss Riggs with any more of our family secrets. Only a few minutes ago I told her about Mrs. Mallory and her work."
"Have no fear,” Mrs. Spencer told him. Their gazes met and held momentarily before Gavin turned and, with his white robes flowing behind him, left the room.
Mrs. Spencer nodded Justine to a chair beside her bed. “Do you find our Prospect Hall to your taste? It is rather a hodge-podge."
"'Immensely,” Justine said with enthusiasm. “I consider old houses so much more intriguing than modern ones and the Hall is such a marvelous collection of odd nooks and hidden crannies. I can imagine that a ghost would love to take up residence here."
"I suppose we have our ghosts,” Mrs. Spencer said, seeming distracted for an instant. “But if ghosts there are, surely they must by only of the most amiable variety.” She sighed. “I do worry so about Gavin."
"I imagine any mother would worry if her son were constantly leaving home to sail to foreign shores."
"How very true. No one knows what diseases might be rampant in those foreign climes, or what sort of exotic strangers a traveler might encounter, or what temptations might lurk in those cities of the east. I do so worry about Gavin. He needs more than I can give him; he needs a steadying hand. When I married Gavin's father he was twenty-two and already my Gavin is ten years older than that. He should marry, and soon, before—” She paused. “Before the right season of his life, and there is a season for all things, has passed him by."
Justine, perplexed, wondering exactly what Mrs. Spencer was trying to tell her, said nothing.
"Do I embarrass you?” Mrs. Spencer asked. “I do have the reputation for speaking my mind,” she went on without waiting for an answer. “To my way of thinking, a mother has the right to be concerned about her son, especially an only son, and Gavin and I have always been close, but even more so since his father passed away. I am proud of Gavin. I hope you realize how very proud of him I am."
"You have every reason to be proud, having a son who is admired throughout England."
"Many mothers of gentlemen of achievement, and with all due modesty I include dear Gavin among that number, are apt to interfere in their sons’ lives even after they marry. I want you to know, Miss Riggs, I am not that sort, not in the least."
Justine, puzzled by the twists and turnings of the conversation, said, “I had no reason to think you were, Mrs. Spencer."
"I suppose not, but one is constantly meeting those, and sadly they are women for the most part, women who spread tales that have not the slightest basis in fact. Tales of overbearing mothers, interfering mothers, mothers unwilling to recognize when the time has arrived to sever the silver cord. My wish is that everyone, not only you, my dear, becomes aware of my true feelings regarding my son."
How marvelous it would have been to have known a mother, no matter how overbearing or interfering, a mother who would love her and whom she would love despite any possible flaws. Those who had mothers should count their blessings.
"More than anything in the world,” Mrs. Spencer went on, “I desire to see Gavin married. When he does marry, I will be more than willing to fade into the shadows of obscurity for good and all. Here at Prospect Hall, Gavin's wife will be the one to manage the household rather than myself and oversee the estate manager while Gavin is away from England on one of his expeditions."
Several moments passed before all the implications of what Mrs. Spencer had said became clear to Justine. “Do you mean,” she asked, surprised, “that after Gavin is married you expect his wife to remain here at Prospect Hall rather than traveling with him?"
Now Mrs. Spencer appeared surprised in turn. “Traveling with him? Into the jungles of tropical Africa? To fight alongside the rebels in Greece? Oh my dear, Gavin would never allow any wife of his to take such risks."
Justine bit back her words of protest. She had supposed a wife would be allowed, if not expected or encouraged, to share her husband's life whether that meant taking risks or not. As she had been about so many things, she decided, she was probably wrong about this as well.
"My dear son,” Mrs. Spencer said, “often travels to dangerous places where women are unwelcome, where they become more of a hindrance than a help. Not that any wife of Gavin's would be confined here at the Hall. We have a town house on Hanover Square
and every autumn I visit my brother at Hallows near Leeds."
"Almost any woman should be more than satisfied with all of that,” Justine said, chiding herself for expecting too much, for being unreasonable.
"Of course she would.” Mrs. Spencer reached out, took Justine's hand and squeezed it affectionately. “I have so enjoyed our little chit-chat. I am exhausted—the preparations for the ball, you know, Gavin so surprised me by insisting that we hold a ball, but after meeting you I can understand his reasons."
Flattered and yet made vaguely uneasy by Mrs. Spencer's laudatory words, she said, “The masquerade is proving a great success."
"Now,” Mrs. Spencer said, “I must release you. I realize how anxious you must be to go to Gavin and to enjoy the dancing. I so liked to dance when I was young. My son must be equally eager for me to return you to him."
Justine rose and, murmuring her hope that Mrs. Spencer would soon be in the best of health, rejoined Gavin in the hallway. He glanced at her and then over her shoulder at the closed door to his mother's room, sighed and offered Justine his arm and escorted her down the stairs. “Though I love her very dearly, I find that sometimes my mother fails to understand. She treats me as though I were still a young boy."
In many ways, Justine told herself as they entered the ballroom, he seemed a boy. Most men were, not only Gavin but Quentin as well. Which was part of their charm. As well as a constant source of exasperation. Quentin, for instance—Shaking her head, she paused in her thoughts, firmly reining them in. Whatever Quentin might be like, he no longer mattered to her.
She found Prudence barely able to suppress her curiosity. Once Gavin left them, bowing over Justine's hand, the older woman, all agog, said, “You were with Mr. Spencer for such a long time."
"Gavin showed me the Hall,” Justine told her. “And, after he introduced me to his mother, she and I had a most pleasant chat. She told me how much she worries about him."
"I understand she hopes he marries soon. Before he leaves England again."
"She did mention something of the sort,” Justine admitted.
* * * *
A short while later, alone with Gerard, Prudence said, “I have the most encouraging news to tell you. Mrs. Spencer had a long conversation with Justine on the subject of marriage, not marriage in general, but her son's marriage in particular."
When Gerard met Ogden as they were helping themselves to generous portions of roast beef from the supper table, he said, “Just as I thought, young Spencer came home to England seeking a bride and has his eye on Justine Riggs. Only tonight, Prudence informs me, his mother met Justine and approved of her."
As Ogden reluctantly danced with Daphne, he said, between muttered apologies for his clumsiness, “Good as married according to Prudence, young Spencer and Justine, nothing left to do except set the date."
"Such wonderful news,” Daphne told Quentin a few minutes later. “What a catch. He certainly cuts a dash."
"Who cuts a dash?” Quentin wanted to know. “And what is the wonderful news?"
"Gavin Spencer introduced Justine to his mother,” Daphne explained, “and Mrs. Spencer simply adored her. Mr. Spencer subsequently asked Prudence for permission to propose marriage and, I do believe, he not only has done so but Justine has accepted him."
Quentin's eyebrows shot up; he glowered down at Daphne. Hastily excusing himself, he strode across the dance floor, his cape unfurled behind him, to where Justine was seated drinking punch as she talked to John Willoughby.
"Come with me,” Quentin told her.
When she stared defiantly up at him, he said again, louder this time, “Come with me."
"I say, Quentin,” John began, “you really should be a bit more—"
Quentin motioned him away with a wave of his hand and John, after a glance at Justine, who nodded, rose and walked sulkily off. Quentin remained standing, hands clenched at his sides, staring down at her.
"Why did you do it?” he demanded.
Why were the two of them always at daggers’ drawn, Justine wondered. “What on earth are you talking about?"
"I have no need to explain since you know perfectly well. You and Gavin Spencer. After an acquaintance of little more than a fortnight. Have you taken leave of your senses?"
Ah, he must have seen me alone with Gavin when he showed me around the Hall. Does that give him any right to consider me an abandoned woman? “What passed between Gavin and myself is none of your concern,” she told him defiantly. “I did nothing improper."
"Foolhardy would be a better word. What do you know of the man after such a short acquaintance? Or do you believe one should act in blissful ignorance?"
"Gavin Spencer has always behaved like the gentleman he is while in my presence which is more, Lord Devon, than I can say for you."
"A gentleman? Does a gentleman practice deceit and deception?"
"What deception? There has been no deception."
"It so happens,” Quentin said with a quickening note of triumph in his voice, “that those accounts of his expeditions which you find so enthralling were not written by Mr. Spencer but by a female scribbler named Alicia Mallory who, it seems, is living at Prospect Hall at this very moment."
Justine smiled. “I was aware of that. Mr. Spencer has been quite above board with me; he himself informed me of the help Mrs. Mallory gives him in preparing his books for publication."
He blinked in surprise. “And that failed to change your obviously inflated opinion of him?"
"I thought it commendable of Gavin"—she emphasized his given name—"to be so forthcoming."
Quentin shook his head. “You, Miss Riggs, are past praying for.” He drew in a deep breath, seemingly in an attempt to regain his composure. “Under the circumstances, all I can do is wish you my very best."
He bowed, turned abruptly on his heel and strode off leaving Justine staring after him in confused amazement.
CHAPTER 15
On the morning following the masquerade, Quentin Fletcher drove his curricle from the stable yard onto the avenue leading away from Kinsdale Manor. Oblivious to the heat of the summer sun and the dust raised by the wheels of his carriage, he stared straight ahead as he tried to bring order to the jumble of his roiling emotions.
He was returning to town by driving through Tyburn to the London road as, he ruefully reminded himself, he should have done long before this. He had learned many years before that once the tide turns, whether at the gaming tables or in the affairs of men, only a King Canute or a someone equally foolish or a believer in miracles continues to stand his ground.
He was well rid of her.
She was a perverse creature, she was stubborn to the point of being intractable, she was willful, she demanded a greater commitment than any reasonable gentleman could be expected to give, she was terribly naïve, she lacked a dowry of any sort, she was practically devoid of the customary feminine talents—unless singing sea chanties qualified. She refused to be amiable, at least to him, she insisted on challenging a
man rather than graciously acceding to his simplest wishes, she was—
Quentin shook his head. He could go on listing her failings, he could go on almost indefinitely, but why should he bother? His case was proved, there was no room for any debate.
And now she had shown how fickle she was. Only a few days before she had given every evidence of having a tenderness for him—with a pang of loss he relived that moment when she was in his arms beneath the swaying branches of the weeping willow—and yet last night she had accepted an offer of marriage from Gavin Spencer, a mere chance acquaintance, a pig in a poke, an adventurer she had known for little more than a sennight.
It occurred to him that it might appear to a casual, neutral observer, to Rodgers for example, that he was being a tad inconsistent. True enough, he had considered encouraging a liaison between Spencer and Justine, he freely admitted having entertained such a notion at one time. But that was before he had chanced on Mrs. Mallory in the west wing, Spencer's secret writer in residence. Men who practiced deceit rarely stopped with one deception, trickery became a habit with them. Who could tell what other secrets Prospect Hall concealed?
But what of yourself? he demanded in an attempt to do justice to Spencer for he had always been, Quentin assured himself, a fair-minded man. What do you call your so-called retreat on Whitechapel Road if not a deception? Have you stopped with one such ruse or are there others? To take it a step further, have you ever thought that perhaps you, Quentin Fletcher, practice deception not only on others but on yourself as well?
What utter nonsense! Whitechapel Road could hardly be compared to Mrs. Mallory. He could say this with certainty because, unlike many others, he had a clear and complete understanding of the workings of his own mind. And of his heart as well. And since he was fully cognizant of what is in his long term best interest, he intended to act accordingly.
No one could claim his departing the Manor this morning was the act of a spurned and therefore a defeated man. Or even of a man in temporary retreat who fully intends to marshal his forces for a triumphant return to the scene of his setback. Setback? Ha! Even now, all he would have to do to have her come to his was snap his fingers. That he choose not to snap them was his decision, arrived at after long and careful consideration.
