My fingers closed over a glass of sherry that was thrust in front of me. Startled, I looked up into Exmere’s penetrating gaze. There was a message there, a warning. Evidently I had failed to hide my indignation on Vanessa’s behalf. Heat stained my cheeks as I murmured a strangled thank-you. When I had myself in hand and dared look around, Exmere was gone, and the sisters had shifted their attention away from Vanessa. To David, whom they were eyeing as if he were some delectable sweetmeat. A glance at Vanessa revealed a sharp spark of anger I feared might build into a tantrum that could ruin all our plans. I plunged into some inane question about the Durrant family’s journey to Moorhead and was saved from complete foolishness only by Allard’s ringing tones announcing, “Dinner is served.”
Grandly, David followed on the heels of Lord Rothbury and Lady Emmaline, causing me to choke back a gasp as he neatly maneuvered in front of the younger members of the party, including Exmere, Lady Daphne, Huntley, and Lady Jocelyn. Oh, David, you rogue. The smirk of self-satisfaction on Vanessa’s face was priceless, wiping away her anger on the spot. Sometimes I could swear the two of them communicated by some silent means unknown to others.
To my surprise, both Kenrick and Lord Norvelle held out their arms, sweeping me into the dining room between them, albeit at the tail end of the line. As I took my place between Kenrick and Lady Daphne, I did a swift appraisal of the results of our playing hopscotch with the seating. Ah . . . I had not thought of one ramification of the switch. Huntley might have Rothbury to his left, but on his right was Lady Jocelyn, as lovely a seventeen-year-old as any young man could ask for. David, after rolling Vanessa’s chair into place, had effaced himself, standing motionless against the wall, as he did every night. Something I always found difficult, as I’m sure Vanessa did, for it was impossible for those who knew him to think of him as a servant.
By the time the fish course arrived, I had decided I did not like the Marchioness of Rothbury. I intercepted several speculative, even disdainful glances sent in Vanessa’s direction when she thought no one was looking. Or perhaps she disapproved of her son being so charming to the cripple. And cripple, I was certain, was how Lady Rothbury thought of Vanessa. She had, of course, welcomed a possible match between Exmere and one of her daughters, but I doubted a pairing between her precious son and Lady Vanessa had ever crossed her mind. At least, not since the accident. And, truthfully, who could blame a mother for worrying about what Norvelle’s apparent interest in Vanessa might mean to the succession?
Much ado about nothing, I decided. On my part, as well as an anxious mother’s. Lord Norvelle was a man well versed in how to be a charming guest. That was all there was to it. And then I looked up into David’s thunderous scowl.
So . . . perhaps it wasn’t all a hum. Lord Hycliffe’s determination for his daughter to lead a normal life was manifesting itself more precipitately than I had hoped. We weren’t ready. We were, in fact, so far from ready, our new regime had barely begun. Oh dear. Under other circumstances tonight’s dinner might be the start of a normal courtship—or two or three—but given Lady Vanessa’s problems, both physical and mental, the volcano likely seething under David’s stoicism, the earl’s expectations, and God alone knew what Exmere, Kenrick, Huntley, Norvelle and his sisters were thinking, the room was awash in swirling currents of tension.
I felt some hope for the complexities of the situation when I noted that Kenrick was most definitely keeping Lady Rothbury entertained, and Huntley seemed to be doing splendidly with the marquess, while managing his share of conversation with Lady Jocelyn with surprising ease. When Vanessa caught my eye, she actually smiled at me, so I was probably being foolish, my imagination escalating the stress out of all proportion to the truth.
I so wanted Vanessa to succeed as hostess. This was what the earl expected of me, and I had to make it so. For as long as I could remember, my life had been controlled by others, my fate dependent on the movement of armies, on battles fought, retreats endured, the vicissitudes of weather. I had truly been the faithful Penelope, the Ruth who followed where others led. Never before had my fate depended on me, on what I might accomplish.
Movement. Lady Emmaline had signaled the moment when the ladies left the gentlemen to their port, and David was suddenly in place behind Vanessa’s chair. A general rustle as everyone stood, Lady Rothbury and her daughters sweeping into the lead, the sisters with their heads together over something that caused them to giggle. I hoped their topic was David and not some disparaging remark about Vanessa, whose self-confidence was so new, so fragile, that almost anything could shatter it.
After rolling Vanessa’s chair close to the fire, David set a small sidechair in place for me beside her and once again retired to stand against the wall, as stiff as a sentinel outside Wellington’s headquarters. He seemed to be staring straight ahead, but I knew he didn’t miss a thing.
Here it comes, I thought. The inevitable questions about Vanessa’s health, the cloying sympathy that would be more of a patronizing denigration of her ability to fulfill her role as an earl’s daughter.
And the Durrant ladies would likely get around to me as well, quickly discovering I was a girl of no family and no background outside an army at war.
And then there was David. A target even more vulnerable than I.
I damped down my temper, folded my hands in my lap, assumed a pleasant expression I did not feel, and waited for the onslaught to begin.
Chapter Twelve
“How brave of you to join us, Lady Vanessa,” the marchioness declared in the hearty tone of someone who has never been sick a day in her life. “We were told you did not participate in household activities.”
I had to purse my lips to keep from leaping to Vanessa’s defense.
“A thing of the past, as you see,” Vanessa said to Lady Rothbury with far more graciousness than this highly personal remark deserved. “My dear Penny,” she continued with a glance in my direction, “has routed me out of my sloth and forced me, willy nilly, back into the world.”
I blinked. The Durrants, all three, turned to stare at me. Somehow I managed a taut smile.
“Such a dreadful accident,” Lady Jocelyn murmured, eyes wide with what appeared to be genuine sympathy.
“But such a quaint chair,” Lady Daphne offered. “Was it made locally?”
“By a family friend,” Vanessa returned so sweetly I feared my ears must be deceiving me. “Mr. David Tremaine, without whose help I would be lost.”
Seated where I was, I clearly saw David’s ears turn pink. Fortunately, the marchioness and her daughters remained oblivious to the fact that the chair’s creator was in the room.
“You have maintained your skill at repartee, it would seem,” the marchioness remarked with an undercurrent of venom I had no difficulty detecting. “Norvelle seemed quite charmed at dinner.”
“I can take no credit, my lady. Lord Norvelle is a true gentleman. And expert conversationalist.”
“And you, miss,” Lady Rothbury declared, turning to me, “I take it you are the companion so praised by Lady Vanessa.”
“I am the companion,” I returned as meekly as I could manage. “Miss Ballantyne.”
“Of the Leicestershire Ballantynes?”
“I believe my father had relatives there, my lady, but we are no longer in touch. My father was a military man, you see, and my mother and I followed wherever he went. I fear I am more familiar with India, Portugal, and Spain than I am with my own country.”
Lady Jocelyn startled me by clapping her hands and declaring, “Oh, how delightful! You must tell us all about it.”
Lady Rothbury, however, looked at me as if I had suddenly grown two heads. “You followed the drum?”
“Yes, my lady. Until my parents died and I returned to England in August.”
The marchioness drew a deep breath—I swear her nose fairly quivered with outrage as she said, “And Hycliffe considered a girl raised in the army to be a suitable companion?”
My hol
d on my temper began to fray. “My father was a colonel in the cavalry, ma’am.”
Vanessa, grasping at the classic rules of hostessing to rescue the situation, quickly inserted, “Our pianoforte is recently tuned. Perhaps Lady Daphne and Lady Jocelyn will play for us.”
“And you?” Lady Rothbury returned, accepting the change of subject. “I seem to recall you played rather well the last time we visited Moorhead Manor.”
Vanessa played the piano? Why had no one mentioned it?
“I fear it is a skill I have allowed to lapse, my lady. Now that I am up and about more frequently, perhaps I shall consider taking it up again.”
My whoosh of relief at Vanessa’s calm response was almost loud enough to be audible. A quick glance at David revealed that he, too, was amazed at Vanessa’s forbearance. I suspected we all might suffer from her temper in the morning.
Lady Daphne suggested that her sister begin the evening’s entertainment, and I instantly knew why. Lady Daphne would prefer to demonstrate her skill on the pianoforte when the gentlemen were present. And, truthfully, who was I to blame her? It was all part of the great matchmaking game. For a young woman of Lady Daphne’s station in life there was no future but marriage. The best marriage she could possibly make. Though three eligible bachelors lived at Moorhead Manor, for Lady Daphne there was but one goal. Robert, Lord Exmere. The heir.
Inwardly, I sighed. I had been so worried about how Vanessa would manage guests that I had failed to anticipate the possible problems for myself. Comfortably settled in, almost one of the family, I had not been prepared to be set back so firmly into the questionable social niche of companion.
Pride, abominable pride. The daughter of the regiment had come a cropper in an English drawing room.
Lady Jocelyn played with all the precise enthusiasm of a well-taught young lady just emerging from the schoolroom. A bit too mechanical, a few stumbles over which she blushed quite prettily, but with an overall pleasure in her accomplishment for which I could not fault her. The truth was, the more I saw of Lady Jocelyn, the more I liked her. No wonder she had charmed Huntley at dinner.
Lady Daphne got her wish. Just as Jocelyn relinquished the piano bench, the gentlemen joined us. I was tempted to applaud Lady Daphne’s sinuous grace as she made the most of traversing the room, pausing in the middle of her journey to drop a curtsy to the gentlemen, before continuing to the pianoforte. Needless to say, the men settled quickly and gave her their complete attention. Shoving uncharitable thoughts to the back of my mind, I sat up straight, pasted a look of polite attention on my face, and attempted to appear as if I were enjoying the concert, even though her sparkling performance made me grit my teeth and forced me to acknowledge that I was not immune to that green monster, jealousy.
Lady Daphne performed short pieces by Bach and Hayden, with the clockwork precision those composers demanded, followed by the last movement of Beethoven’s more recent composition, “Quasi una fantasia,” a piece so beautiful it brought tears to my eyes. Or possibly they were as much tears of humiliation as admiration, for I myself could not play a note.
Truthfully, Lady Daphne was superb, and I wanted to sink, for I had a horrid feeling I knew what was coming next.
And, of course, it did.
When the barrage of applause had finally faded, Lady Daphne rose, stood perfectly poised in the curve of the full-length pianoforte, and said, “Lady Vanessa has told us that she must resume her practice regimen before she can perform, but perhaps Miss Ballantyne will favor us with a tune or two?” Her limpid gaze skewered me, as if to say: I dare you, you dolt.
I held my head high, though my stomach churned, as I said, “I regret, my lady, that the tail of an army was no place to learn the pianoforte. But even if I did play, I assure you I would not have the temerity to follow such a superb performance.”
As Lady Daphne inclined her head and offered me a rather smug smile to acknowledge the compliment, a voice said, “Penny sings beautifully, however. Quite a capella and most sweetly.”
Vanessa! How could she?
“No, no,” I protested. “Merely songs of the people. I am not at all trained in bel canto or any songs suitable for the drawing room.”
“You have sung many lovely songs for me,” Vanessa insisted. “Please, Penny, do me the favor of allowing others to hear you sing.” There was a general murmur of agreement from the gentlemen, although I read nothing but gleeful anticipation of me making a fool of myself on the faces of the three Durrant ladies.
It wasn’t as if I’d never sung in company before, but whether my songs had been sung at the end of a ranking officers’ dinner or around a campfire, it had all been a long time ago. In a very different world than an earl’s drawing room in the north of Devonshire. But I had not been reared to be faint-hearted when a challenge was thrown my way. With seeming calm, I took my place in the curve of the grand piano.
“The Riddle Song” was always a favorite, and quite innocuous, so that is how I began. I grasped the pitch in my head and sang, “I gave my love a cherry that has no stone, I gave my love a chicken that has no bone . . .”
As any performer knows, it is fatal to look at the audience while performing, so I fixed my eyes on the far side of the room just to the left of where David was standing, and kept them there. Or tried to. As I acknowledged the applause, I let my eyes drift to Exmere and the words to my next offering were startled right out of my head. His face was fixed in a rapt expression that seemed to indicate both surprise and enjoyment. He liked my singing.
What . . . when . . . where . . . Yes, where, that was the word I wanted. I gulped, studied the carpet for a moment, and finally got myself in hand and sang the opening line of “Lord Randal.” “Where have you been all the day, Randal, my son?”
It’s a dramatic ballad, with a tragic ending, and I put my heart and soul into it, singing the mother’s role in one voice and Lord Randal’s in another. At the end, when the poor dying Randal answered his mother’s question about what he would leave his true-love, I fairly shouted his response: “A rope to hang to her mother!” Then I softly intoned the final chorus, “Make my bed soft, mother, make my bed soon. For I’m sick in the heart and fain would lie down.”
Two beats of silence before thunderous applause. Pleased, I inclined my head and started back toward my seat.
“Miss Ballantyne. Penny.” Exmere’s voice brought me up short.
“My lord?”
“Before you go, might you honor us with ‘Greensleeves’?”
Lady Jocelyn’s eager voice sounded over the gentlemen’s murmurs of agreement. “Oh yes, please. I simply adore ‘Greensleeves.’”
It was one of my favorites too, but since I knew that in the era it was written, green sleeves were the mark of lightskirts, I had thought it best to avoid it. Yet now that was out of the question. And after all, it was highly unlikely anyone here was aware of the more shocking connotation of green sleeves.
I lost myself in the song, I admit it. Even though I could not claim Exmere had cast me off discourteously, I sang every syllable to him, for him. The sorrowful notes in a minor key were wrenched from my soul, winging their way across the room to the man who blew so hot and then so cold. And now . . .? Now I had no idea, but he had asked me for a song, and that was enough to fuel my fantasies not only for the evening but for weeks to come.
I was a silly fool, but there it was. As I finished the final verse, I took great care to keep my eyes fixed on the far wall as I sang, “For I remain thy lover true. Come once again and be with me,” before launching into the final chorus—“Greensleeves is all my joy, Greensleeves is my delight” with more gusto than the tale of lost love warranted, but my sentiments were heartfelt, and in song I could express them without fear of censure. I did, however, allow the final phrase—“And who but my Lady Greensleeves?”—to fade away to a long-drawn whisper, acknowledging the futility of a love that was not meant to be.
Applause was long and loud, but I quickly effaced m
yself to my chair, keeping my eyes downcast to avoid both Exmere and the sour and condescending looks I could imagine on the faces of Lady Rothbury and her daughters. I could not, of course, shut out their words.
“How sweet,” the marchioness purred. “Clearly, Miss Ballantyne, you have had ample exposure to the songs of the lower classes.”
I forced a smile. “Yes, indeed, my lady. In the army it is possible to learn songs from every part of England, Scotland, Wales, and Ireland, as well as Portugal and Spain. Though I must admit, I never quite assimilated the exotic sounds of India. Perhaps I was too young at the time.”
Before Lady Rothbury could respond to this, Vanessa announced that she was ready to retire but urged the rest of the company to remain until the tea tray came in. During the polite murmurs of farewell, David materialized out of the shadows and whisked Vanessa from the room. I followed in their wake.
I had gone only a few steps toward the stairs when Exmere caught up with me, whisking me into a darkened room. “Hiding another light under your barrel, I see,” he said, his voice coming out of the shadows in a room lit only by ambient light from the hall.
“A meager glow, my lord, compared to Lady Daphne’s true skill.”
“You ride, you sing, you tame my sister. You are a miracle worker, Penelope Ruth.”
“And you, my lord, have surely kissed the Blarney Stone.”
“I’ve never been to Ireland. God’s truth.” His voice was low and sensuous, his body suddenly close to mine. With my last bit of common sense, I said, “You will be missed, my lord, your departure all too obvious.”
“I made the excuse of seeing my sister to her room.” His lips came closer to mine. “I had to tell you I am sorry for all this, for visitors that will keep us from riding together, from doing any of the things I should like to do with you—”
Mists of Moorhead Manor Page 10
