“Really, it's too bad of him. I've told him that sort of thing isn't done. He keeps telling me that he married Mother in six weeks.”
In imitation of Mr. Canfield's serious tones, Alaric said, “Aye, met her Wednesday ... banns up Sunday mornin'.”
“Oh, he didn't tell you that old story! I'm sorry.”
“No, it was charming of him to confide in me. I hated to disappoint him by not running out to post ours on the nearest church door.”
“He just doesn't understand. Does he think he can force you to marry me?”
“Lillian, force doesn't come into it.”
“But say you decided that I do not suit you. He'd think I should continue with the ceremony willingly, even if you hated the idea. He can't see that anything would be preferable to being married to a man who did not love me.”
“Lillian!” Now Alaric took her hand in both of his and rubbed it anxiously. “Lillian, this is nonsense. I'm not about to hate the notion of marrying you. The thought of a life with you makes me quite happy. There's no need to talk of force or unwillingness. We agreed to wait. ...”
“Yes. Yes, we agreed to wait.” She laughed a little. “I think May madness took me away for a moment. Perhaps you are right and this staying up all night and romping in the woods is only for Druids and fairies. Walk with me to the house?”
“Of course, if you're feeling ... that is, if you can find the way out of this wood. I've ruined my boots already with tripping over roots.”
Sarah held her breath. The meadow was hushed as a church, the giggling and foolishness of the girls past for the moment. The carefully chosen flowers lay like many Ophelias on the surface of each ewer, calmed now after the splashing of pretty faces. Long hair flowing over each back had been brushed to the quality of silk. Sarah, like the others, waited trembling for the May miracle. A breeze stirred the water. No face appeared in the mirror beside her own.
Some other girl in the field screamed and the rest streamed over to hear her news, or to comfort her if the face was not that of the man she wished to choose. “I shall have to become reconciled to being an old maid,” Sarah said to Harmonia, who was still gazing into her own mirror. “What did you see?”
“I ... I don't know. I thought I'd see Harlow but it ... I didn't see anything. Of course not. It's just a superstition, isn't it? It doesn't mean anything.”
“No, as the duchess said, it's only a tradition.”
“I shouldn't even be here, as I'm engaged, that is. If her grace hadn't insisted, I wouldn't have come.” Harmonia yawned the last words. “Excuse me!” she said in some surprise.
“It's all I can do to keep awake myself. I hardly slept last night.”
“Was your bed as hard as mine?”
“Like a pavement.” It was easier to agree than to confess she'd lain awake because she'd not expected Lord Reyne to be at the duchess's May house party. She'd come around a corner and there he'd been, talking easily to his elderly host. Somehow she'd contrived to nod, to smile and to pass by without a word.
Dinner had been an ordeal. Some evil chance had placed her at his left hand. Her tongue had stuck to the roof of her mouth and neither water nor wine could move it. Mrs. Whitsun had beamed and made motions, suggesting in pantomime that she start a conversation. Every time Sarah thought of something to say, the memory of the moments in his arms choked her. It did not help to see Miss Canfield smiling on his other side.
“Do you want to stay out all night?” Sarah found herself asking Harmonia.
“Do you?” The two girls looked at each other and then smiled. “I would if Harlow were here,” Harmonia said wistfully. “But without a sweetheart ...”
And somewhere in the darkness, no doubt. Lord Reyne strolled arm in arm with Miss Canfield. “No, it's not much without your sweetheart. How cold it's growing. I'd rather go back to the house and have a cup of tea.”
“Oh, so would I! Do you think anyone would mind if we did?”
“I don't see why they should.” They started back, their long dresses rustling in the tall grass. The other girls had run off, perhaps to the garden to see what the unattached young men were doing.
Harmonia's steps were slow. “I did hope I'd see him in the mirror. I know it's just superstition, but I would have felt better if I'd seen him.”
“I'm sure there'll be a reply to your last letter when we return to London.”
“Oh, yes, he must have written this time. He must have.” When they reached the house, Harmonia had lost interest in refreshment. She wanted only her bed where, Sarah knew, she'd sigh and sob out the night.
Sarah asked a passing servant for tea. Apparently, though, the duchess had given leave to her people for the evening, to go a'Maying in the woods, gathering fronds and flowers, just like their betters. The young footman promised he'd do his best.
While waiting, Sarah wandered out onto a stone-flagged terrace along one side of the long, low house. As in a dream, she heard the soft music of a flute, accented by the giggles of young lovers. She sighed and leaned against one cream-colored pillar, wishing for wonders without names. Hearing a step behind her, Sarah knew, before he spoke, that Lord Reyne had come.
He cleared his throat and then said, “I keep expecting to find I'm living in a vase at the Ashmolean Museum.”
Though his words were not what she expected, they made her laugh. Turning, she asked, “Why?''
“I seem to have gotten into some sort of pastoral landscape. I expect a troupe of fauns and nymphs to come dancing over that hill at any moment.”
“I see. And the music is the pipe of Pan?”
“Exactly. And you for Aphrodite.”
“Not I,” she said, matching his merry solemnity. “I'm just a wandering dryad. When tonight is over, back I'll go to be one with my tree.”
“An apple tree, no doubt.”
“No doubt.” Her eyes fell before his searching glance. Sarah turned from him, struggling to remember that she'd vowed to behave with perfect decorum in his presence. Unfortunately, it was difficult to achieve when he looked at her with such liking. A bubble of happiness grew in her breast so strongly it was as if she'd be lifted up by it to float away. He did like her, at the least. As the music grew louder, not just a pipe now but drums, Sarah pointed toward the hill. “Look, you were right.”
Over the hill came the young men and girls, dancing in a style never seen at Almack's. They were led by an odd, twirling figure in trailing robes who was only dimly recognizable as their hostess, the Duchess of Parester, Mrs. Whitsun's friend.
“Come on!” she shouted, waving to them. She held in her right hand some figure on a stick, like the doll a jester of old might carry. Shaking it at the two people on the terrace, she called again, “Come dance with us!”
“Let's go!” Lord Reyne said. Her hand seized, Sarah twirled about under his arm, her long hair of beaten gold flying out to brush his face. He grinned at her surprise, as his feet found the rhythm of the drums. His arm around her waist, he spun dizzyingly around the pavement with her. Sarah felt too breathless to laugh, but gasped a protest she did not mean.
“We can't ... we mustn't ...stop...”
Whether it was the loudness of the music or that he wished not to hear. Lord Reyne paid no attention. He let her go and leapt the low balustrade. Holding up his arms to her, he said, “Come on, Sarah. Come and dance with me.”
The dancers were passing. “I can't.” Manners, propriety, decorum! What use were they at this moment?
“Can't? Is this the Sarah East who climbs trees, and falls out of them? Who swims and runs and all but flies? Who stands off bulls and beasts and highwaymen?” She could see him clearly in the shimmering light, though the colors had run. He gave her a smile so coaxing that all her good intentions were no proof against it. She leapt over the low wall between them, to be caught and instantly drawn into the train of dancers.
She knew from the first step that whatever hurts his body had taken were healed. So lightly did they move together that sh
e could not feel the grass beneath her feet. The strength of his body was very real. They danced as though they were in no way strangers to one another, as if they'd trod this strange measure during each of the thousand nights before.
Then, the pagan music stopped. Slowly, as though afraid, Sarah turned her head to look after the others. The rest of the party, even the ragged duchess, stared back. A long table had been set out under the trees, loaded with a variety of delights. The fauns and nymphs stood about with glasses in their hands, revealed as proper gentlemen and ladies. Sarah wrenched her hands free of Lord Reyne's, noticing briefly that he was as embarrassed as herself, and smiled shyly about. “What is that?” she asked. “Punch?”
* * * *
“Yes, my dear,” said the duchess, taking pity. “Some punch for Miss East and Lord Reyne, Markham.”
“Very good, your grace,” said the respectable butler, coming forward with two glasses on a tray. Sarah could not meet Lord Reyne's eyes as she drank. The magic had broken like a crystal goblet, one which made no sound as it shattered.
“A most peculiar evening,” Mrs. Whitsun said, going home in the carriage the next morning. “It could have made quite a scandal, if the people had not been so excessively well-bred. Going into the woods all night to see the May in! Had I known Amabelle was planning a party like that, I shouldn't have taken you girls.”
“No, Aunt.” Sarah had been rather hoping that it would turn out to have been a dream. But as Aunt Whitsun's first words had been an admonition not to pay too much attention to other people's fiances, Sarah had known her brief adventure had made her the object of gossip.
Mrs. Whitsun returned to the subject now, after a glance to reassure herself that Harmonia was occupied by the view out the window. The weather, from the warm softness of yesterday, had turned grey and cold. “Lord Reyne is most charming, dear thing, but perhaps you should exercise more caution where he is concerned. I don't wish to make you conceited, but you are very beautiful and he is a man. You don't want to take on a reputation as a flirt, do you?”
“No, Aunt.”
“Enough said, then. I know I can count on you not to be alone with him and not to show any preference.”
“Yes, Aunt.”
“Why shouldn't she show a preference?” Harmonia suddenly asked. “What's the use of hiding your feelings? I'm sure I'd rather have attentions paid me by anyone rather than sit hiding my face in some corner.”
“Miss Phelps!”
Sarah caught Harmonia's hands. “It's all right; I'm sure it will be all right.”
“And what if it isn't? What if he hasn't written to me? How much longer can I be expected to keep calm about it when it's driving me mad—quite mad?”
As Aunt Whitsun fumbled in her reticule for her sal volatile, Sarah slid over to the opposite seat and put her arm around her friend. “Please don't, darling. Please don't.”
“I tell you, I'm about ready to go to Edinburgh myself. I want to demand an accounting from Harlow! How dare he keep me in suspense this way? How dare he?”
Aunt Whitsun handed Sarah the cut glass vial. “Here, apply this to her nose. She's quite hysterical. What is all this?”
Sarah did as she was told. Harmonia coughed, gasping, and pushed her friend's hand away. “That's awful. What is it?” she said, spluttering.
“Never mind. Aunt. Harmonia's a trifle overset. Her fiance has not written to her recently.”
“Recently!” Harmonia protested. “Not at all!”
“But he will,” Sarah reassured her. “And if he hasn't, I'll go to Scotland with you. What do you think of that? Now, don't worry about it anymore.”
“I had no notion the girl was brooding about this fellow. Does her father know she's been treated in this way?”
“I haven't told anybody but Sarah. I ... I apologize for my outburst, Mrs. Whitsun. It just ...” Harmonia put her hand to the bosom of her drab wool pelisse. “Something seemed to explode here.”
“Too much lobster last night, no doubt. You'll take a dose when we come home.”
The best medicine would have been some message from Mr. Atwood. But there was nothing for Harmonia, except a letter from Lady Phelps. Sarah did not know how to help her friend, except by staying near to her in case she needed a sympathetic listener.
After a day of this, however, Harmonia turned to Sarah and said, “Oh, for goodness’ sake! I'm not so addled I'll jump out the window if you're not watching me. There's nothing I can do to make him write, and at the moment I'm so furious with him I don't care if he never does. But you don't need to hang on my skirts. Go out. Change that library book, visit the shops, go riding.”
“What will you do?”
“I don't know. Write Mother. Or I've been meaning to see about making over that blue dress. But you ought to get out of the house. You've looked peaky ever since we came back from the duchess’ silly party.”
“If you're certain... . Russet does need exercise.”
“Then drop a note to the groom. I'll be right as a trivet; never mind about me. I need to occupy my mind. Maybe I'll change that book. What do you wager they still won't have a copy of The Curse of Kehama yet?”
Peeling somewhat less guilty at leaving her friend, Sarah scribbled a note to her aunt's groom to bring her mare around, and then went to change into her habit. Running outside half an hour later, Sarah stopped on the step. Instead of the hulking figure of her aunt's groom, Hannay, there was a small, greying man holding her horse's and another's bridle. “Good mornin’ to you. Miss.”
Sarah peered at the man. “Mr. Packer, isn't it?”
“Yes, miss. At yer service.” He grinned, showing a gap on one side. His smile was shyly engaging despite the flaw.
“But you work for Lord Reyne, now. Or have you been discharged?”
“Oh, no, miss. I like it there, I do. Me an’ Barton talk over old times in the evenin’ when I'm polishin’ up a bit of leather. The beer's right regular.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
The small man scuffed his boot along the cobbled street and a flush of embarrassment came up on his thin cheeks. “It's loike this, miss. You done me a good turn, an’ I try to pay back. That feller yer aunt's got workin’ in the stables ain't no good. He drinks, don't he?”
“Does he?”
“Yerss. An’ it's a shame. A nice ol’ lady like this ought get her meals regular and not be stinted on the oats.” He rubbed the mare's velvet nose, and Russet held her head still as if she enjoyed it.
“Thank you. It's very good of you.” She walked down to the street and Packer helped her mount, quite as if he'd never pointed a pistol at her in his life.
With an instinct she'd not known she possessed, Sarah did not tell Packer she'd inform her aunt about Hannay's inadequacies. It would make Mr. Packer feel badly if his information lost another man his job, though he must have known that would be the outcome. For the first time, Sarah became consciously aware that sometimes it felt better not to acknowledge what was perfectly plain.
She realized she'd been doing this herself for quite some time. If she once let herself think about the fact that Lord Reyne obviously felt no love for Miss Canfield, liking being something quite different, it would become impossible to keep from throwing her arms about his neck whenever he came near. She found it difficult enough to constrain her feelings as matters stood.
Mr. Packer behaved in every regard as the perfect groom during Sarah's ride. Though he never permitted her to leave his sight, he kept up so beautifully she hardly knew he was there. It was only on their return to Mrs. Whitsun's house that he once more dropped into his own personality. “There, miss, and ‘ow was that?”
“Heavenly, Mr. Packer.”
“I know the horse liked it. Didn't you, old lady?” He helped Sarah down. “Now, about this feller ...”
“Hannay?”
He shook his head. “This other feller. The one what ‘as been ‘anging h'about the square. All white-faced ‘e is. Skinne
d to the nubbins, near enough. ‘Orrible-lookin'. I run ‘im off myself a couple times, but you just tell yer butler to look out sharpish for ‘im. An’ if ‘e comes h'around, t’ call the watch or send for me and my mates.”
Sarah would have questioned Packer more about this mysterious person, who sounded rather like a character from one of Harmonia's favorite type of stories, but Mrs. Whitsun opened the drawing room window and said, “Sarah! Come in at once.”
“Thank you, Mr. Packer,” Sarah said, turning to go.
“A pleasure, miss.”
“Really, Sarah!” Mrs. Whitsun said, as soon as her great-niece entered. “Bandying words with a common groom in the street! Will you never grow sense?” She slit open a letter with her long paper-knife. “Another appeal from charity! Do these people think we are made of money?''
Even when Sarah told her aunt about the groom, Mrs. Whitsun pooh-poohed it. “Hannay has been with me for years. I'm not about to take the words of some stranger about him. And as for this loiterer, no doubt he and this groom are in collusion. I shall tell the servants to be on guard against all strange persons.” She shook open the next letter. “Oh, dear. Mrs. Lampert won't be able to come to supper. The catarrh again. Remind me to send her some jelly. Go and change, dear thing. You reek of horses.”
As Sarah opened the double doors to go out, she heard her aunt give a vexed exclamation. “What is it? Is something the matter?”
“It's really too bad. You might as well know what consequences your actions have, Sarah. If you hadn't made such a cake of yourself over Lord Reyne at Amabelle's, we'd be able to attend this party at Miss Canfield's. Last year, her soiree was the hit of the Season. And you have that charming Aetherial blue crepe that would have been so suitable.”
“But, surely, if Miss Canfield isn't scandalized by my actions .... After all. Lord Reyne is her betrothed. ...”
“Oh, she'd be putting a good face on it. I've known girls who'd throw a man over for that sort of behavior. Dancing with another the moment she'd retired! Men did not do that sort of thing when I was presented. You should have refused him, Sarah.”
Sarah wanted to protest that she'd not known what she was doing that mad May Eve, but it would have been a lie. “Perhaps,” she said slowly, “perhaps Miss Canfield is wise to invite us. If we went, that might stop all this gossip, for it would show we are still friends.”
A Lady in Love Page 16
