Everything was so changed. . . .
Poor Virginia had indeed fled with her lover toward the Marriage Trees, but it had all ended in disaster. They had made an unfortunate choice of mounts and one had gone lame barely five miles from home. Rather than try to make it riding double, they had returned for fresh horses and the miller’s son, always hungry, had decided there was time for lunch. They had looked up from their meal to see the family returning unexpectedly early.
Virginia had lost her chance. Her mother, who did not see the miller’s son make his escape before their arrival, brought news that her father had betrothed Virginia to Algernon Vance, only son of Lyle Vance of Clannington Plantation. It was an excellent match for the “homely Lightfoot daughter” and Letitia had been exasperated when Virginia had promptly burst into tears.
The miller’s son had heard about the betrothal and, believing his true love had changed her tune, had taken the gold Virginia had entrusted to him and promptly married a farmer’s daughter and gone north to live near the Falls of the James. Virginia, bullied by her mother, had capitulated and married Algernon in a driving rain; the groom had caught pneumonia and was dead within the month. Pregnant and heartsick, Virginia was back home again, for Algernon’s grieving mother could not bear the sight of her, believing it was “overstraining” on his honeymoon that had run down his resistance. She might have been able to return to Clannington Plantation in triumph had she borne a boy, but she had fallen downstairs and suffered a miscarriage and so— widowed and no better looking—she was now permanently “at home” unless her mother could again arrange a suitable marriage, which grew less likely every day.
Carolina had shuddered when she had learnt Virginia’s fate. Nothing like that was ever going to happen to her!
But now, of course, there was hope for Virginia. For Fielding’s brother Darren, never much of a sailor, had taken a boat alone across the Chesapeake. When a sudden squall came up he had capsized and drowned— without leaving a will.
And so Fielding the Disinherited had come at last into his father’s fortune. All of it. And as a result the house on the York was no longer a foundation and a dream but was nearly finished. “And it is to be the handsomest house in all the Tidewater,” Virginia had written excitedly. “And we are soon to move in. I am very glad about it all,” she had added honestly. “For Mother is so occupied with fabrics and furniture and paint colors that she has put my problems into a back pocket. I doubt I will be able to bear up under the pressure when we finally do move in and Mother decides to ‘launch’ me.”
Thinking about it, Carolina’s young face grew bleak. If she returned to the Eastern Shore, she too would be “launched” and her mother would attempt to decide her future for her. It was a daunting prospect.
She came back to the present when Reba nudged her.
“Look at that!” she whispered, and Carolina’s attention was drawn to a statuesque brunette who was wearing so many bright magenta ruffles that she resembled a large puff. Along with the other girls, she watched in fascination the painted women (who must surely be actresses with all that makeup) and a motley collection of gentlemen surge back and forth in front of the theatre. With her attention thus diverted, she never saw the tricorne gentleman in tawny orange who, having deserted his hackney coach, was just now striding toward them. He had not seen them yet for the crowd still obscured his view but his blond head was swinging as his blue eyes searched the crowd for the girl he had glimpsed on the street corner.
But the handsome attire of the group of schoolgirls and their carelessness with their purses had not gone unremarked. A cutpurse now edged close to the end of the double line of girls. Seeing Carolina’s velvet purse dangle unnoticed from her gloved hand, held only by a plaited silken cord, he promptly snatched the purse and ran.
Carolina’s reflexes were excellent. She had noticed the slight pull as the silken cord parted company with her glove and whirled in time to catch sight of a narrow fellow in brown wool who was even now darting through the crowd back toward the Strand.
With an angry cry, Carolina darted after him. For the purse, while it contained but one gold piece and that a present from her mother sent inside a letter, did contain a most entertaining letter from Virginia. Carolina had meant to reread the letter tonight, especially the part that said, “A friend of Aunt Pets told her he saw Emmett when he was in Philadelphia last month and that Penny is not with him. When he asked Emmett about her, Emmett grew red in the face and refused to discuss it! He just said he was leaving the city for good and wouldn't say where! Mother is writing to everyone she knows in Philadelphia in an attempt to find Penny's whereabouts, but if Penny doesn’t want to be found, I'm sure she won't be!''
There was more and now this thief was running away with it!
In her wild charge as she tried to follow the twisting individual ahead of her, Carolina tripped over an accomplice’s outstretched foot and was catapulted directly into the arms of the gentleman in tawny orange who had stepped forward and now caught her soft form as it plummeted into his. He looked down for a hot moment into the lovely upturned face with its flashing silver eyes looking over his shoulder at the departing thief, noted the soft lips into which her unbelievably white teeth were clenched—and tightened his grip.
Lord Thomas Angevine regarded his struggling catch with delight. A glorious creature this! He thought he had never seen a girl so pretty—although in truth he had thought that before about other girls, for to Lord Thomas new loves always burned the brightest.
“Well, well,” he murmured, making no move to release her.
“Let me go!” cried Carolina. “I am chasing a thief who has stolen my purse!”
Lord Thomas’s sandy head swung round but he made no move to release her. “It would appear the fellow is gone now,” he said politely. “Did you lose much?”
By now Carolina had recognized him as the gentleman who had winked at her when the wind blew her dress up, and an angry red flush spread over her face. He had followed her here!
“If you do not let me go—” she threatened, but she was never to finish her sentence. Mistress Cardiff had been attracted by the commotion, observed that Carolina was the center of it and now, moving with surprising swiftness for one so large, had caught up with her.
“Carolina!” she said severely. “Come away at once. You are disgracing us!”
“My purse has been stolen!” cried Carolina wrathfully. “And this stupid fellow that I crashed into as I pursued the thief won’t let me go!”
Mistress Cardiff’s huge bulk stiffened. She gave the “stupid fellow” a daunting glance. With alacrity he released Carolina.
She turned to glare at him as Mistress Cardiff hauled her away by the arm. “You have cost me my purse!” she accused.
“What color was it?” he called after her.
“Dark blue velvet!” She might have said more but that Mistress Cardiff was shushing her.
“I’ll look for it,” he called.
At that she turned to give him a grateful glance and he swept off his tricorne and made her an elegant bow. As he straightened up, the sun and wind both caught his fair hair and Carolina caught her breath. For a moment he might have been The Golden Stranger of her unforgettable dream. She was jerked from her sudden reverie by Mistress Cardiff, who propelled her forward.
“Into the theatre, girls,” she piped, with that voice that was so tiny for one so large.
The play was Wycherley’s popular comedy The Country Wife, but Carolina never remembered later what it was about. Somehow the actors seemed faded and overwhelmed by that one startling image she had seen outside the theatre of a golden stranger smiling as he doffed his hat to her. And she only nodded absently when, on the way home, a giggling Reba reported how Mistress Cardiff had blushed at the dialogue and even given one shocked involuntary gasp of, “How could young Mistress Chesterton recommend such a play to her students?”
Since that time it had been reported excitedly by sev
eral of her schoolmates that the tawny orange gentleman had been seen several times passing by the school—he must have followed them home after the play! Always Carolina had been in class or otherwise occupied.
Carolina had been moved to stand frequently by the window and study the street below. Once she thought she saw a figure there but she could not be sure and she quickly turned away lest she seem to be displaying too much interest in who was out there—for she was determined not to pursue, but to be pursued!
And pursued she was, for the following Sunday, with the merry sound of church bells pealing all over London, Carolina’s “admirer,” as he was called, had shadowed the girls not only to church but to the Sunday morning market in Petticoat Lane.
And on the girls’ next outing the jaunty young gentleman with the slightly risqué air was right on hand, matching his stride to theirs—albeit slightly behind and on the other side of the street—and studying Carolina narrowly, much to the interest of the other girls.
Their object today was to explore the new St. Paul’s Cathedral which had been built to replace ancient St. Paul’s, whose 460-foot spire had dominated the city’s skyline until it had burned in the Great Fire some twenty years ago. But while the girls might lack interest in architecture, they were all fascinated by Carolina’s “admirer.”
“There he is again, that man who’s been following us,” whispered Geraldine Darvey excitedly. She tapped Carolina, who was walking just ahead with Reba, on the shoulder with her velvet muff. “Oh-h-h, isn’t he dreadfully handsome?”
“Stop turning to stare, he’ll think we’re interested!” Reba snatched her new green hat, bought yesterday, to keep the gusty wind from taking it and shivered in her thin fashionable green cloak. For all that they had had several warm days it was still late fall and a chill wind was now blowing from the North Sea.
Carolina, who was wearing a dark blue broadcloth cloak borrowed from Reba, cast a slanted look toward the young gentleman in tawny orange who strolled across the narrow street, pacing them as he whistled a tune. Then her gaze picked out Mistress Blanton, marching at the head of her charges, who—Mistress Cardiff having contracted a cold at that “shocking play” at Drury Lane—was chaperoning the girls today.
It was too bad the headmistress had chosen Mistress Blanton, she thought regretfully. So much better if it had been lively young Mademoiselle Vaupier who was supposed to teach them French but told them naughty French stories instead—Mademoiselle understood about tawny young gentlemen. But Mistress Blanton was old and heavy and severe and very very deaf and she had long since given up the idea of taking a lover—if indeed she had ever considered it.
Not so the young headmistress! For a green and gold coach with the Ormsby coat of arms painted on the door in gilt had been seen in the area, which meant that Lord Ormsby was back in town. Old Mistress Chesterton, rest her soul, had never understood how her young niece made her money stretch so far—to visits to Bath and even the Continent. Bright-eyed Jenny Chesterton, with her full red mouth and her lissome figure, had kept the truth from her, thinking, rightly, that she would have been cut out of her aunt’s will—and here she was, a woman of property, in charge of a school of character and reputation! Still she had not quite forsworn her old life, although she thought she had kept her secret well. Jenny would have been appalled to learn that her wealthy charges guessed her every move. When Lord Ormsby was in town, Jenny Chesterton sometimes chose to entertain him at the school (although usually she still visited by stealth a small London flat he had taken long ago for the purpose). On days when Lord Ormsby came calling, the new headmistress bundled up her young charges, willing or no, and sent them, well-chaperoned, out on long jaunts about London. To improve their cultural appreciation, she was wont to say.
And to get us out of the way, someone was always bound to whisper.
This was one of those days. Even though it had turned damp and cold, the girls had been hastily put in the charge of old Mistress Blanton, the Latin teacher, with orders to take them sightseeing to St. Paul’s, after which they might stroll about and have some sweets—it was all right if they returned late. And tomorrow—here the headmistress had paused and cocked her head— tomorrow they were to be off bright and early to Greenwich. By boat.
Blinking, Mistress Blanton had put on a heavy wrap to keep her rheumatism from flaring up and lumbered off, blissfully unaware that her employer was about to receive a gentleman caller.
“Do you think he’ll follow us into St. Paul’s?” giggled Geraldine, turning to look at Carolina’s admirer.
“Of course,” said Reba. “He’s come this far, hasn’t he?”
Before them, crowning the hill, loomed the mighty bulk of St. Paul’s Cathedral, their cultural target for today.
“My Cousin George, who is studying law at Gray’s Inn, says old St. Paul’s was built on the site of a Roman temple to the goddess Diana,” whispered Reba with an irreligious giggle as the girls filed into the vast echoing interior.
Diana, goddess of the hunt. . . . Carolina cast a quick look backward. She was the huntress today and the young fellow who had just unobtrusively followed them into the cathedral’s dim interior was her quarry! For Carolina was young and glorying in the first blush of a beauty that would become legendary—and she was, like any immature huntress, eager to sharpen her skills.
Above them rose the high inner cupola and it was up there that a puffing Mistress Blanton led her charges. From the Stone Gallery which encircled the base of the dome, they stood clutching their hats in a whistling wind. But at least her clothes were up to snuff today. This was Reba’s second-best cloak covering a dress too thin for this weather. Granted the cloak was dark and a bit plain but both cloak and dress had a very fashionable cut since Reba would have nothing but the latest fashion. Carolina was unaware that the very plainness of the dark blowing cloak brought out startlingly the flawless complexion and moonlight pale hair which looked like silver gilt in the dim light of the cathedral and caused the young man following to catch his breath at the glowing sight of her there, flickering like a candle in the dimness before him.
The girls caught Mistress Blanton’s last words.
“. . designed by Sir Christopher Wren,” she was saying, just as Reba nudged Carolina with her elbow and muttered, “He’s here. I just saw him.”
“Who? Sir Christopher?” laughed Carolina, who was enjoying her new notoriety.
“Oh, you know who I mean! Your admirer. He did follow us in.”
Carolina shrugged and the girls filed up the stairs to the Golden Gallery at the base of the lantern. On the way up they paused in the Whispering Gallery to view the cathedral’s cavernous interior below.
“He’s waving,” said Reba suddenly. “I think he wants you to—yes. Carolina, lean close to the wall, he’s going to speak to you.”
“But he’s clear across the gallery,” objected Carolina, sure that a voice that could boom across that great space would attract even Mistress Blanton’s deaf-eared attention.
“No, this is the Whispering Gallery,” insisted Reba. “If he whispers something at the wall over there, you can hear it over here—if you lean against the wall.”
Instantly Carolina inclined her ear to the wall, entirely ignoring Mistress Blanton’s trembling treble that informed them the top of the cross rose 365 feet.
“Mistress Carolina Lightfoot,” said the wall. And Carolina turned with an involuntary start to view the stranger in the dim distance across the cupola.
“How do you know my name?” she whispered.
“I inquired of a friendly chambermaid at the school,” was the cool rejoinder.
“Who are you?”
“I am Lord Thomas Angevine,” came the answering voice. “And I have for you a dark blue velvet purse to replace the one you lost when I blocked your way on Drury Lane.”
Carolina caught her breath. “It was I who ran into you,” she protested.
“Not so,” insisted her admirer sturdily. “But i
t is cursed hard to gain access to that school of yours. I have tried three times without success.”
Carolina felt a twinge that she had not been told. “We are not allowed gentlemen callers,” she explained in a breathless voice.
“Then how may I reach you?”
“We go by boat to Greenwich tomorrow,” she said recklessly.
“I will see you there,” came the disembodied masculine voice.
Beside Carolina, Reba was agog. “Oh, he’s going now,” she said regretfully, her words cut into by Mistress Blanton’s high falsetto “—and the cathedral was built at a cost of millions.”
“Raised by a tax on sea coal,” spoke up Geraldine Darvey loudly. “My father thought it was a scandalous waste of money!”
Mistress Blanton heard that and frowned at this sacrilege. Huffily she led her charges down the stairs. As they clattered down on their fashionable high heels, word spread among them like wildfire that Carolina had arranged a “meeting” tomorrow with the tawny stranger.
Chapter 6
Lord Thomas Angevine’s pursuit was always single-minded. True as an arrow he would home in on his target, doing his best never to be out of sight of his current objective’s tossing skirts.
It was no different in this case.
When the girls’ barge slipped by the red brick walls of Lambeth Palace, the splendid seat of the Archbishops of Canterbury since the thirteenth century, Reba, seated next to Carolina, muttered, “There he is!”
And Carolina turned to look into a sunny face dominated by a pair of wicked blue eyes and to see Lord Thomas bowing to her from a boat that had miraculously appeared alongside. Fortunately their chaperone, Mistress Cardiff, pressed into service despite her slight cold when Mistress Blanton’s rheumatism acted up after her damp windy walk to St. Paul’s, did not notice, among the busy river traffic, that they had acquired an admirer. The girls did and giggled and turned to stare.
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