A Lady in Love

by Cynthia Bailey Pratt

  Taking Sarah roughly by the arm, he led her to stand beneath it. “If I lift you up, can you open that window and climb in?''

  “Of course I could. But there's another ...”

  “Be quiet. Miss East. I'll do you this favor, but then our association is at an end. I have been grossly deceived in your nature and have no wish to continue our acquaintance.”

  Wishing she could kick him in revenge for his odious tone of superiority, Sarah stamped her foot, a mistake as her slippers were thin. Through a sudden tide of tears, which she put down to the pain in her foot, Sarah glowered at him and replied, “That pleases me above all things, my lord.”

  Meeting her gaze, Alaric regretted the strange impulse that had sent him walking home from the Canfields’ soiree. He seriously resented Mr. Canfield's presumption in announcing an undiscussed wedding date, and had hardly stayed long enough to hear the first congratulations. His thoughts dwelling on the unpleasant situation Mr. Canfield had forced upon Lillian and himself, Alaric did not think of the path his feet were taking until he looked up and saw Sarah East letting a strange man out of her great-aunt's house.

  “What does this supposed letter say? Did he tell you that?”

  “It explains why he cannot marry Harmonia. Are you going to lift me up, or are we to stand here until the watch comes round?”

  In answer, he turned her so her back was to him. His hands squeezed against the quilting over her rib cage, but it was not this pressure that made her breath come short. Sternly, Sarah took herself to task for responding even inwardly to his touch. He'd made his attitude toward her absolutely clear. She was, in his eyes, low and contemptible.

  “Go on,” she said, bracing her hands on his.

  He lifted her as though she were of no weight, without jerks or panting effort. Sarah reached out. Though she struggled, she could not quite manage to lift the window. It slid upwards a scant inch and stuck. Sarah gritted her teeth and tried again, to no avail. She'd slid down between his hands and his strength began to hurt her. “Put me down,” she gasped.

  Standing, she bent this way and that to try and ease her sides, which felt as if they'd collapsed. “You didn't have to hold me so hard.”

  His face was heated from his exertions. “You would have rather I dropped you? Move aside; I'll do it.” He put her out of the way with one hand.

  Sarah watched as he stretched upwards to attempt to reach the window. Even in her exasperation, she could not but recall the glimpses she'd had of his person under other circumstances. She could imagine the flexing of his muscles and the rippling play of his skin as he reached up. Though the lateness of the hour had brought a chill with it, Sarah felt too warm.

  With the intention of irritating him, she said, “Shall I fetch you a footstool from across the street? That window's a good two feet higher than you can reach. Do you want to pick me up again?'’ She hoped he'd refuse, yet her heart sank when he did.

  “No, that's worse than useless. I'm afraid you'll just have to face your butler.”

  “Are you willing to listen to my alternative? After all, it won't look very good for you either, me in my nightclothes, as you pointed out.”

  “Very well. What brilliant scheme have you?”

  Sarah explained.

  “That's won't work. He's bound to suspect something. People don't call at half-past eleven.”

  “Yes, but a mere butler isn't very likely to question the Earl of Reyne, is he? Just be haughty and look down your nose. That's right, like that.”

  His scowl darkened. “Why can't Atwood marry Harmonia?”

  “What? Oh, are you still harping on that! He can't marry her because he married a woman named Lucy while in Scotland! I don't think he wanted to. It sounded as if her father made him do it.”

  “That's preposterous. What any woman could find attractive about Atwood is beyond me. Yet you seem to expect me to believe that armies of girls are hurling themselves at him every minute of the day and night.”

  “I expect you to believe nothing but the truth!”

  “Keep your voice down. Miss East, or not all your subterfuge will serve you. Hide in the shadows by the steps, and I thank God this is the last scrape I ever need rescue you from.” With that, he stomped up the steps, his broad shoulders squared.

  His knock at the locked door sounded like the hooves of the Four Horsemen. When the portal did not instantly open, he thundered at it again. At last, Mrs. Whitsun's butler appeared. “My lord Reyne? What is it?” he inquired tremulously. “Has there been an accident?”

  “Not yet,” Alaric replied grimly. “I'll wait for your mistress in here.” He pushed by the elderly servant with more discourtesy than Sarah had ever seen him use. The butler looked heavenward as though asking for help to deal with the humors of hasty young bucks and slowly closed the door. Sarah listened anxiously, but did not hear the snap of bolts being thrown. From the morning room, she heard Alaric say, “Come in here and light more candles. It's dark as a funeral.”

  “Very good, my lord.”

  Sarah pushed open the door. She took the stairs two at a time and in a moment was safely on the landing. After kicking off her slippers, she tore her robe half-off. Then, she had a ghastly thought.

  Without pausing to reclaim her footwear, Sarah dashed down the stairs and burst into the morning room in the nick of time! Alaric had already Mr. Atwood's letter in his hand, peering at the red blob of wax with which it was sealed.

  “Give me that!” Sarah demanded, approaching with her hand held out. When he hesitated, she snatched it from him and jammed it into the bodice of her robe. Defiantly, she crossed her arms.

  “Sarah,” he said, a frown drawing his brows down over his eyes. He dared not look down, for the sight of her bare pink toes caused a strange constriction in his heart.

  “You should not call me that, not if you think what you have been thinking about me.”

  “Let me see that letter.”

  “No. It should be seen by Harmonia before anyone else. It ... it's going to break her heart, and it's not fair that anyone else should see it first.”

  “I demand to see it!”

  “Sssh!” Sarah waved her hand at him for silence and turned her head to listen. If the butler heard that shout ... A quick flick against her breastbone and the letter was once more in Alaric's hand. She jumped for it, but he held it over his head. “Return that at once!”

  “Don't you see that I have to open it, Sarah? Otherwise, how am I ever—” Alaric damned himself for the faint note of supplication that had entered his tone. Why in the world should it matter to him if the girl before him had a thousand lovers or none? Only, it did matter.

  Through the open window came the clatter of hooves and the rumbling of wheels on a cobbled surface. In the face of this new danger, Sarah and Alaric instinctively moved closer together. They heard the coachman say, “Ha!” as the equipage halted outside the townhouse. “Oh, heavens,” Sarah whispered. “My aunt!”

  A fresh awareness of her costume and the invidiousness of his position came to Alaric. With a half-bow, he returned the letter to Sarah. “I am, of course, compelled to accept your account of what I saw this evening. Miss East. Nevertheless, I am confirmed in my opinion that it is better we do not meet again.” He hated sounding like his own grandfather, but he felt safest from her charms in the refuge of pomposity.

  Sarah, with a pang, knew that tone meant he had retreated from her and had once more become the correct English gentleman. She feared indeed that she'd never again meet the merry friend she'd sometimes glimpsed behind that facade. Looking at him now, it was hard to believe she'd ever been the cause of even one of his smiles. “As you wish. Lord Reyne. I think you'd better leave by that window, if you can get it open.”

  Behind her, she could hear the whispers of the butler. “Lord Reyne?” Mrs. Whitsun exclaimed. “At this hour? You must have been asleep and dreaming.”

  Sliding his fingers under the frame, so slightly ajar, Alaric brought hi
s hands up. The window squeaked, resisting. He glanced over his shoulder at Sarah and exerted one more ounce of effort. The knob of the morning room door was turning.

  Sarah turned a white face toward the window. Only the movement of the curtains betrayed his departure.

  Instantly, Sarah flung herself into her aunt's own armchair. Snatching up the second volume of a novel, Sarah opened it so fast the spine cracked. She hadn't time to bring the candle closer but was apparently so deeply engrossed that she'd not noticed the lack of light. She started to hear Mrs. Whitsun say, “Still up, dear thing? Good. You should hear how we were forced to come home at this hour. Snubbed by all and sundry. Your flight did not go unnoticed. Oh, no, it did not.”

  “Where's Harmonia?” Sarah asked.

  “I've sent her up to bed. She shouldn't hear the peal I'm going to ring over you. Why are you barefooted? Now, Sarah, I think—”

  “Yes, Aunt. In a moment. First, I must talk to Harmonia. You'd better come, too. She may need you.”

  Harmonia poked her head around the door just in time to hear this last. “Why will I need her?”

  “Because ... because Mr. Atwood was here.”

  “Harlow?'’ With a brightened face, Harmonia stepped into the room, looking around for the visitor.

  “I'm sorry; he's gone.”

  “Gone?”

  Sarah came over to her friend and put her arm around her. “He left this letter for you. I don't know what he wrote, but he told me why he has not communicated with you before this.”

  Harmonia took the letter in hands that shook. Casting a look at Sarah's face, she said quaveringly, “Is it ill news?”

  “I'm afraid it is. He's ... he's no longer free.”

  Mrs. Whitsun strode past them. “I'll order some tea.”

  Shrugging off Sarah's restraining arm, Harmonia walked to the candle. In a single motion, she broke the seal and shook out the page. Sarah could see that there was no more than a single, closely written paragraph. Harmonia read it over twice, and then once more. She sighed. Holding the page to the candle, she waited until one corner was alight. Carefully, she carried it across the room and dropped it onto the cold grate. She stretched out one hand to the cold marble mantel. In a moment, the message was ash.

  “What ... what did it say, Harmonia?”

  “Just what you said. I'd wager his wife wrote it for him, as it did not sound like Harlow at all. There was only one apology in it.” Her voice seemed to hold a laugh. Then, she dropped her head onto her arm and began to cry.

  “Oh, please don't,” Sarah said, starting impulsively toward her. “He's not worth it, you know, not in the least.”

  Harmonia raised her head to look, with reddened eyes, at her friend. “Oh, you wouldn't know. You've never been in love.”

  “No, I haven't,” she said forlornly.

  “Sarah!” Harmonia forgot her own heartache in the sheer amazement of the discovery. “Who is it?”

  “I don't know what you mean. Do you want to know what Mr. Atwood said to me?''

  “Later. Who is it? Lord Morebinder? Sir What's-his-name Boneview? That other fellow—the one who's Harvey's friend ... ?”

  “Harmonia, I think you're overwrought. Where's Aunt Whitsun with the tea?” Who knew but that Harmonia might guess that it was Lord Reyne she loved? Despite his coldness toward her during their dreadful last adventure, Sarah knew she still loved him. At least, there were a few happy memories to cling to in the lonesome days ahead. Lost in a reverie of the past, Sarah did not heed her friend until Harmonia shook her.

  “Sarah Marissa Clivenden East, if you don't tell me who it is you've fallen in love with, our friendship is at an end.”

  “Oh, please don't say that. If you knew who else said that tonight ... and I'm afraid he meant it.”

  “Who? Who?”

  “Oh,” Sarah sighed, and said from the depths of her heart, “I wish Mother were here.”

  “Then I'm glad I've come,” Mrs. East said.

  Sarah spun about to see the soft figure of her mother, still cloaked and bonneted, standing in the doorway with her arms outstretched.

  “Mother?” Sarah said, unable to believe the miracle. She dashed across the room, to bend her head down to rest on her mother's shoulder and put her arms about Mrs. East's waist. Only then did she realize her prayer had been answered. “Oh, Mother, things are in such a muddle! How I wanted you to talk to!”

  “Did you, sweetheart? Sometimes all my children seem so grown-up that it's lovely to find I'm wanted, still,” Mrs. East said, looking down into her child's face, wrung by the misery she saw there. She smiled and blinked eyes in which tender tears threatened to spill over her red cheeks. Mother and daughter clung together.

  Then Sarah, shaking the long hair out of her eyes, said, “Mother ... poor Harmonia ... could you ... her own mother is so far away.”

  Mrs. East untied her bonnet and put it in Sarah's hands. “There, there, Harmonia. What's the difficulty?” She reached up to kiss Harmonia's cheek. “Your mother's charged me with so many messages for you, I hardly know where to start! Wait until I tell her how fine you look in your ball gown. That pink is so lovely with your hair and eyes. Have you been crying, child?”

  The story of Mr. Atwood's defection came pouring out. Mrs. East held the sobbing girl, her face as hard as Sarah had ever seen it. She said, “I think he must be a very foolish young man to pass you over for anyone. But come, you mustn't cry anymore. I've been telling Mortimer what a beauty you've turned out. He doesn't believe me.”

  “Me? A beauty? Mortimer?”

  “Mother!” Sarah said. “Is Mortimer home?”

  “Home? He's here!” Mrs. East noted with satisfaction that Harmonia began at once to hunt for her handkerchief and wished that there were time to send the girl upstairs for a splash of cool water and the touch of a comb. But already the sound of rolling steps was heard in the hall.

  “Mortimer!” Sarah shrieked as she was tossed up in the arms of her eldest brother. Young Commander East stood at least six feet tall and, in his blue-and-white uniform, looked six feet wide as well.

  “Children, children. My bonnet.”

  “Here you are. Mother,” Mortimer said, taking it from his sister and tossing it lightly on a chair. He dropped Sarah to her feet and kissed her cheek.

  “You've been promoted again?” she asked, admiring the shiny new epaulet decorating his left shoulder.

  “Last month.”

  “Good, then Sam is certain to receive a promotion in the next six months.”

  “Sooner than that, I'd wager. I can't tell you where the lucky dog's been sent—I saw him two weeks ago off Brest—but he's bound to come back an admiral at least. Don't worry, though, Mother. There's no danger in it.”

  “Of course not,” Mrs. East agreed bravely, though she knew that promotions appeared most quickly when battles removed the senior officers. “Mortimer, you remember Miss Harmonia Phelps, I know.”

  The family grey eyes looked very bright in the tanned face of the naval gentleman as he directed a single glance toward the wan figure by the cold fireplace. “Miss Harmonia,” he said, bowing. “I say, Sarah, it's not too late to find something to eat, is it? Mother wouldn't stop on the road, and I'm ravenous. Even a week of home cooking isn't enough when all you've had is hard tack and boiled beef for six months.”

  “I should say not. I'll show you to the kitchen.”

  Once there, Mortimer set about charming the sleepy cook, already summoned by Mrs. Whitsun to make tea. After a wink and a further description of naval-style meals, the plump woman stirred and chopped with a good will. Sitting on the table, kicking his long legs, Mortimer said, “Was that Harmonia Phelps in truth, or was Mother making a game of me? I can't believe it.”

  “Because she's changed so much?”

  “Because she hasn't changed at all. She was crying when I left, and she's crying now. Did she weep all of the last four and a half years, or am I always going to make her cry?''
<
br />   “It has nothing to do with...Did you make her cry when you went away?”

  “Yes, I suppose it was my fault, in a way. Of course, I didn't know she felt that way about me. How could I? She ran like a frightened hare every time I looked her way. Besides, she resembled a baby porpoise at fourteen,” he said, as his voice dropped away to a wondering murmur.

  Two hours later, after the uproar of accommodating two more persons at one o'clock in the morning, Sarah and Harmonia were once more preparing for bed. “Why didn't you tell me you formed an attachment to Mortimer when he was home last?”

  “I hadn't. Where did you get that notion?”

  “He told me.”

  Harmonia dropped her hairbrush. “Don't tell me he knew? Oh, goodness, I had hoped no one knew.”

  “Then it's true?”

  “Sarah, I do believe that I'm the most fortunate girl alive today.”

  Thinking that the strain of the evening had been too much for the balance of Harmonia's mind, Sarah said, “I don't understand. Mr. Atwood ...”

  With a new radiance shining in her eyes, Harmonia came to sit beside Sarah on the white counterpane. Half-laughing, she said, “What a narrow escape I've had. Imagine if I were still betrothed to Mr. Atwood, or worse. What if I'd married him already and then Mortimer came home? Oh, when he came into the room, I felt as if my heart would bound right through my side.”

  “Mortimer?”

  “Sarah, you've got to help me. When he went away before, I thought I'd die. I was fourteen; of course it was hopeless. But I'm nearly nineteen now. If he'd only ... I suppose it's impossible. He's so wonderful. There must be a hundred ...”

  “What's impossible?” Sarah asked, taking both her friend's hands. “You'll be his bride if I have to tie him up. I promised you any man you wanted, remember?” Between giggles and plans, not unmixed with sighs, neither girl slept much before the dawn.

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  * * *

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Would you care for more haddock, Mortimer?” Harmonia said, bending over him as she filled his cup with tea.