Cousin Cecilia

by Joan Smith

  “Of course I did. You don’t marry someone you don’t love.”

  “Ha, don’t you believe it! Plenty do. They marry for money. I wouldn’t say no to Jack Ketch himself, if the dibs was in tune. And you a fine lord—any lady would have you.”

  Very likely it had been the title. Adrianna’s rare shows of liveliness had centered around his titled friends. “Is he a real duke?” she had asked once of Beaufort. “Imagine, we had two barons and a marquis at our table!” she said another time. But the titles had not stood up to Mr. Gregory’s passion in the end. “He has feelings and that’s more than you have.” Funny, he had tried to curb his passions around Adrianna. She was so cool, so collected—who would have thought she craved passion?

  “Shall we have another bottle of wine?” Peg asked, forcing herself to smile, though it was midnight, and she must be dog tired. She got a commission on each bottle.

  “I’m poor company tonight.” He handed her a gold coin. “You have another bottle, Peg.”

  “Coo, it don’t cost this much!”

  “That’s compensation for my dreary company. I’m running along now. Take care, Peg.”

  She slid the golden boy into her pocket and swayed over to another table, with a smile over her shoulder at Wickham.

  He felt touched at that wistful smile. What a life, doomed to sit out one’s every evening in this hole. It felt good to get out in the clean, cool air. It chased away the shadows of memory. He wouldn’t come back to this place. It was too depressing. Dallan had introduced him to it, and in a small village there was nothing better to do. At least it provided something more than gambling.

  As he rode along, cold stars twinkled overhead in an ink-black sky. Trees loomed like earth-bound clouds in the distance. It was a lonely, eerie ride, with no company to beguile the trip. His mind roved over his past life, then looked into the future. He was well to do, thirty-three years old—not too old to begin again. As Miss Cummings had so slyly pointed out, he wanted a son and heir. A pity a man couldn’t buy one; it would be so much easier than saddling himself with another wife.

  Memories of Adrianna always turned him against another marriage. He entered Laycombe, and as he rode past Meachams’, the sound of music came through the windows Cecilia had opened to dilute the fumes of Sally Gardener’s scent. He took one look, then rode on without glancing behind him.

  Inside, Mrs. Gardener turned to her daughter and said, “I feel a wretched wind on my back, Sal. I’m sure a window has been left open, for the curtains are blowing. Close it, will you, before I come down with a chill.”

  Sally slid behind the golden drapery. As she closed the window, she saw Lord Wickham’s black stallion trotting down the road. She stared to confirm that she was not mistaken. She closed the window and hastened straight to Cecilia’s side.

  “If you care to take a look, you’ll see Lord Wickham just jogging down the road—alone. It seems he didn’t have company to take to Jack Duck’s, after all,” she said triumphantly. “I wonder why he told you he had company.”

  She put her hand on Cecilia’s elbow to lead her to the window. Cecilia shook it off. “You must ask him, the next time he picks up your parcels, Miss Gardener.”

  Cecilia wouldn’t lower herself to dart to the window, but she assumed that if anyone in Laycombe would recognize Wickham and his mount, it must surely be Miss Gardener. Her cheeks were flushed with annoyance, and in her breast she felt a deeper ache that she didn’t care to examine.

  Chapter Nine

  On Sunday, it was a full week since Cecilia had laid eyes on Wickham. She thought he might be at church, since he had attended the week before. Dallan and Wideman were there, and walked home with the ladies after, but of Wickham there was neither sight nor sound. This, coming on top of the slight of not attending the rout party, began to look like willful planning to avoid her. What could account for it? Curiosity was added to piqued pride. With her mind distracted by Wickham, she had uphill work being satisfied that the matches she had come to arrange were progressing more or less satisfactorily.

  Both Dallan and Wideman accepted an invitation to luncheon, and afterwards, George suggested the two couples drive out into the country.

  “And of course Cecilia must accompany us,” Dallan said at once. He was always trying to entice her into intimacy.

  “Oh no,” Cecilia said at once. “You two couples will not require a chaperon. You may chaperon each other.”

  “What will you do?” he persisted.

  With an excellent mount awaiting her pleasure, she said that she would be riding.

  “With Wickham?” Dallan asked jealously.

  She squelched the urge to inform him that it was none of his business and said, “Not today.” She didn’t volunteer that her only companion was the groom.

  Dallan left it at this, but curtailed his own outing severely. As soon as he espied Cecilia trotting through the meadow with only a groom for escort, he claimed an errand he must perform for his mother, and the two couples were home within an hour. Wideman agreed to walk over to the vicarage with Alice, but Dallan left. His “business” was to dart home and hop astride his mount, to go chasing after Cecilia. She had ridden away from the abbey that day, west of the village.

  Her aim was to calm her nerves and persuade herself she cared nothing that Wickham was proving so elusive. The appearance of Dallan, alone, darting toward her was more than her spirits could stand, and she was abrupt with him.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked crossly.

  “I have come to keep you company. You should have told me you had no escort,” he smiled.

  “I wanted to be alone. I have some thinking to do.”

  “Two heads are better than one. Does not this thinking jag involve me?” he asked, with a knowing look.

  So, he had tumbled to it that she was here to make matches. She always knew he was the sharper of the two. “Why do you think that?” she parried.

  “I keep my eyes open. Shall we dismount and stroll a little?”

  “You’re very clever, but I think best alone, and on horseback, Mr. Dallan.”

  “I have asked you to call me Henley, Cecilia. You’re right about the stroll. Dull stuff. There is nothing as enjoyable as a ride. Famous good sport,” he smiled, refusing to take the hint.

  “Where is Martha?”

  “I took her home.”

  This being the case, Cecilia immediately claimed fatigue and headed for home to deliver Mr. Dallan into the proper hands.

  “I wish you would share with me what is troubling you,” he said.

  “It is a personal matter.”

  “I am a bit of dab at handling personal problems,” he persisted.

  “So am I. I can manage it, thank you.”

  She quickly changed the subject to a discussion of the scenery, and got him back to Meachams’ house as fast as she could. Still her vexations were not over. He refused to come in. “For I told Martha I had an errand to perform for Papa. I hope you will not tell her otherwise.”

  “You ought not to ask me to lie to my cousin,” she pointed out stiffly, though she was not eager to tell Martha the truth.

  “All’s fair in love and war.” At least he spoke of loving Martha. That was something! “Anyway, it’s not exactly a lie. I am going to call on Aunt Percival immediately.” He apparently read agreement to the subterfuge in his companion’s face, for he said no more about it. Before leaving, he asked, “Will you be attending the assembly on Saturday evening, Cecilia?”

  “Yes, we plan to attend. Will you and Mr. Wideman be there?”

  “If you are to be there, wild horses would not keep me away.” This was accompanied by a soulful look from his black eyes.

  She noticed the subtle shift from “You and Mr. Wideman” to “I,” but ignored it. What she would have liked very much to discover was whether Wickham would be with him and sought to find out by indirection. “You won’t let Lord Wickham lure you off to Jack Duck’s?” she said, smiling to
remove any idea of her real concern.

  “I’m flattered at your eagerness. I will be there, have no fear.” He bowed and got away before she could think of any way to depress his presumption or discover whether Wickham would be at the assembly.

  Cecilia wore a scowl when she entered the house. It did not lessen to see Sally Gardener installed with Martha in the window seats, smirking like a pampered cat.

  “So this was Mr. Dallan’s errand!” she crowed. “That was a sly trick to serve your cousin, Miss Cummings.” Martha cast a suspicious glance on her cousin, but said nothing.

  Cecilia took a deep breath to calm her nerves and replied, “It was no trick, Miss Gardener. I met Mr. Dallan on his way to visit his Uncle Percival. He rode along this far with me.”

  “The Percivals live in quite the other direction,” Miss Gardener announced in a voice of triumphant malice. “We have caught you out there, Miss Cummings.”

  “Do they, indeed? Then I must conclude Mr. Dallan’s manners are exquisite, if he has gone so far out of his way to accommodate Martha’s cousin.”

  This explanation satisfied Martha, and her next business was to ask what Henley had said.

  “He made me promise to deliver you to the assembly next Saturday,” Cecilia told her, with a twinge for the lie. Martha’s satisfaction soared to pleasure, and she gave a sniff in Sally Gardener’s direction.

  “I don’t suppose Henley happened to say where Lord Wickham is today?” Miss Gardener inquired.

  “I didn’t ask,” Cecilia said loftily. She left before any further impertinences could be offered.

  “You will have to keep a sharp eye on that one,” Sally said, as soon as she was again alone with Martha. “Having lost out on Lord Wickham, she has set her bonnet at Henley.”

  “You are mistaken, Sally. My cousin does not care overly much for Henley. They are always coming to cuffs.”

  “What better way to draw his attention, goose?”

  “No, truly. She even thinks I might look higher myself. And if she does not think him quite good enough for me, you may be sure she would not want him for herself.”

  “What a sly creature she is! First she tries to set your jaw against him, then she wins his attention by these flirtatious little quarrels.”

  “You misunderstand the matter entirely. I am quite sure it is Wickham she favors.”

  “Is that what she says?” Sally asked eagerly.

  “Indeed no! She has not said anything of the sort, but she—she seems to like him. She is a little excited and nervous when he is coming to call, you know. And though she tried to hide it, I think she was disappointed that he didn’t come to the rout last night. You may be sure that if Cousin Cecilia ever accepts an offer, it will be from an older, titled gentleman like Lord Wickham.”

  “How old is she?”

  “In her early twenties.”

  “That old! She’s not finding easy work of nabbing Wickham’s title in any case,” Sally said, and had to be satisfied with that.

  Sally Gardener didn’t happen to be on watch at her window when Lord Wickham arrived at Mrs. Meacham’s door the next afternoon. She missed his entrance, but by the time he left, she had been summoned by her mama, who was nearly as interested in the doings of Miss Cummings and Lord Wickham as her daughter.

  The Meacham girls were out on Monday afternoon when he called. They were at the vicarage making plans for a birthday party for Kate. It was their hope that their beaux could be coerced into attending. Cecilia was upstairs with the servants, making arrangements for the weekend visitors. When Miss Miser came to fetch her, Cecilia felt an unaccustomed confusion. Her fingers flew to her head to arrange her hair. She darted to the mirror and saw the bloom of a flush on her cheeks and the sparkle in her eyes. “Tell Lord Wickham I shall be down presently,” she said, trying to appear calm.

  “I’ll make an excuse downstairs myself, to get a look at him,” Miss Miser said roguishly. “You don’t usually show any discomposure when a gentleman calls on you. This one must be something out of the ordinary.”

  “So he is, extraordinarily troublesome!” Cecilia said. “He is the one holding up my marital arrangements for my cousins.”

  Miss Miser, long her mistress’s confidante, was not deceived by this transparent subterfuge and suggested a quick brush be taken to Miss Cummings’s curls before she go down. Cecilia used the interval to determine what tack she should take with Wickham. A direct confrontation was not her intention, yet she wanted to mention the rout party, and his attempt to keep Dallan and Wideman from it.

  She had wiped all traces of excitement from her expression when she entered the Gold Saloon. Her smile was no more than polite, and her curtsy, though graceful, was small. “Good afternoon, Wickham,” she said. He rose, he bowed, with a similar sort of smile. Each made a quick survey of the other, and the smiles broadened spontaneously.

  There was no denying Miss Cummings was a very handsome lady. Wickham found her something quite out of the ordinary, especially in a quiet backwater like Laycombe. Her becoming tousle of black curls, her wide-set gray eyes and her rosebud complexion were even more admired than her elegant toilette. Cecilia was measuring her caller against the ton, but still found him to pass muster.

  “I expect you have come to check up on the mount you lent me,” she said. “Fear not, she is unharmed and very much appreciated. I had her out for exercise yesterday and shall do the same later today.”

  “I’m happy you’re enjoying Lady, but my reason for calling is not so innocent,” he warned her. “If you have a few moments free, perhaps you would come out for a drive with me.”

  This suited Cecilia perfectly, as conversation in front of Mrs. Meacham was a little circumscribed. “Very well. It’s too fine a day to remain indoors. I shall just get my bonnet and pelisse.”

  Before long, they were installed in his carriage, while Sally squinted through the curtains, taking in every detail of the affair. The only item for conjecture was that they drove not toward St. Martin’s Abbey, but away from it.

  “What is it you wish to discuss?” Cecilia asked, as they clipped along the High Street.

  “I have come to ask you a favor, ma’am. I need your help.”

  “I’m very happy to give it. What can I do for you?”

  He slanted a smile at her. “You are impetuous, Miss Cummings. You agree to help me before you hear what I have to say.”

  “Impetuosity is one of my little faults. I cannot believe, however, that you will ask anything of me that I might not with propriety grant.”

  “That is a pretty compliment to me. I hope the favor does nothing to change your opinion. The thing is, I am in a bind. You recall I mentioned Elgin and some fellows from the British Museum were coming down to have a look at my bits and pieces from abroad.”

  “Yes, and Elgin will try to get them away. Do you wish me to hide them?” she asked, her smile making it a joke.

  “He’ll get only what I decide to give. I want to ask you to help me entertain him and his wife. A few of the other gentlemen are also bringing their ladies. I must do something in a social way, a dinner party at least. I know of no one who would make such a charming hostess as yourself.”

  She looked at him in alarm. “That is a singular honor, sir. I am not at all sure I can accept.”

  “You misunderstand me,” he hurried on. “Naturally I meant that your hostess should also be of the party, and your cousins, too. Mrs. Meacham would be the nominal hostess, but as you are acquainted with the Elgins and more familiar with entertaining on a larger scale than provincial dos, I hoped you would agree to help.”

  Put in this light, the invitation appealed to her. “I should be happy to do it, but I must first discuss it with Mrs. Meacham.”

  He gave her a conning smile. “There’s no hope for reprieve there. I’ve done my reconnaissance work. She has already consented, depending on your lending a hand.”

  “When are your guests expected?”

  “They come Wedne
sday afternoon and leave Thursday. It’s only a brief visit, as Lord Elgin’s schedule is busy. One dinner party is really all the trouble I would put you to.”

  “Did you want us to arrange the party—”

  “No, no. I would not impose so strenuously on your good nature. My housekeeper will attend to the details. It is just your presence that I am asking.”

  “That is hardly a favor at all, Wickham. I will be more than happy to attend.”

  They left the town and drove into the open country, with a sun-drenched vista of valley beyond. Cecilia was happy with the projected party and decided to put the drive to use. “It is your being a bachelor that puts you in this awkward position,” she pointed out. Oh yes, this man definitely needed a wife, and while she could not think offhand of anyone to fill the bill, she would give it consideration. A smile of anticipation lit her eyes.

  Wickham took a sharp breath but said nothing. She wasn’t hiding her claws! Say that for her, she was as bold as brass. “But it is only a hostess for my party that I am looking for,” he said, rather pointedly.

  “I did not mistake the invitation for an offer of marriage, sir!” she said, and gurgled quite delightfully, while batting her long lashes at him.

  Wickham was seized with a strange compulsion to grab her into his arms and kiss those laughing lips—but he felt no desire at all to marry her. Beauty had seduced him once. If he ever married again, it would be a sensible, coolly thought-out marriage to some lady young enough to give him a son, and old and plain enough that she would never touch his heart.

  As they drove on, Cecilia remembered that Wednesday was Kate Daugherty’s birthday, and Martha and Alice would be attending it. She was to have attended as well, and dreaded it, as it left her prey to Dallan’s advances. Wickham’s dinner party made an unexceptionable excuse to miss the party. Looking at her, Wickham wondered at that pensive look. He hesitated to use the word “scheming,” but “sly” seemed not too strong. Now what plan was she hatching? Her next remark seemed innocent enough.

  “What did you find in the barrow Blackie discovered last Sunday, Wickham?”