by Joan Smith
"Alice told me to ask you."
Dallan glanced along the walk. Alice smiled and waved. It was enough. "I might as well then. We're only having a porker at home."
At the other end of the walk, Alice and Miss Cummings waited on tenterhooks to see the outcome of this meeting. George had hinted that Dallan was ready to repent. Alice had indicated that Martha might be persuaded into forgiveness, and Cecilia had suggested that an invitation be issued to Dallan. Knowing that her own presence might very well keep him away, she invented on the spot a luncheon engagement with friends of Sir Nigel's. All the company from London were immediately invited elsewhere by a fictitious friend.
She waited only to bow civilly to Dallan before leading Sir Nigel off. Alice would be taken home with George. Her eye glanced off Wickham as she nodded at Dallan. As he was gazing at her, she nodded again. He bowed, and left. She and Pincombe made a mad dart to High Street to gather up Woodhouse and Teale and ride into the country to an inn for lunch.
It was a merry meal, with a deal of laughter about Cecilia's idea of entertainment at a country party. "An assembly where the daughter of the house bursts into tears and flies home, and we are hustled out of the house like criminals when company is coming to call. Something quite new in the annals of a house party," Sir Nigel told her.
"I'm sorry, gentlemen, but your presence might have impeded the receiving of an offer of marriage. That is why I was there, you know. Nothing must stand in the way of success."
"Miss Cummings could do better for her cousin than that popinjay, if you want my opinion!" Mr. Teale of the sly blue eyes asserted.
"But she don't want your opinion; no more does Miss Meacham," Sir Nigel told him. "She wants her Mr. Dallan, and no doubt she shall have him. Cousin Cecilia has set her mind on it. God pity the poor gent she decides to have herself. He shan't stand a chance of escaping her clutches." He gave her a conning smile, knowing he was teasing her.
Cecilia laughed as gaily as the rest and kept the irony of it to herself for consideration at a later time and more private place. She kept the company away until after three. By the time they reached High Street, the whole matter was resolved. Mr. Dallan was smiling the warmest, most natural smile Cecilia had ever seen. Martha ran to her cousin and threw her arms around her.
"I don't know how you did it, but you did it, dearest cousin. I hope you will forgive any foolish thing I said last night. Henley was so repentant, so sweet and generous, quite like his old self. It was his falling in with Lord Wickham that did the mischief. He is well enough in his way, but too high and too fast for Henley. He owns he has been a perfect fool, and that he will never act so badly again. I threatened him I would call on you if he did and that made him look sharp!"
Blaming Wickham for Dallan's folly was bad enough. Being called an ogre herself at the end of all the thanks and praise took some of the pleasure from it, but Cecilia rejoiced for her cousin, and for her own success.
Sunday or not, the London guests realized they were wished at Jericho and bent the travel rules enough to betake themselves to an inn just beyond town for the remainder of the day, whence they would continue to London in the morning.
The talk at Meachams was all of weddings and trousseaux and wedding trips. Alice, too, had her offer and thought it would be a novelty for the sisters and their best friend to be all married the same day. Martha wouldn't hear of it. She was the elder; she must go first. Dallan couldn't have his house ready before autumn, and George, whose home was ready for occupancy, couldn't see that he and Alice must wait that long.
Mrs. Meacham was applied to in all the difficulties till her poor head was ringing, and she retired to the bay window with Cecilia, to offer her heartfelt thanks and apologies for any inconvenience to her guests.
"I hope you will stay with us a few weeks till we get the arrangements underway. You see what a mad scramble it will be."
"Unfortunately, I must be getting on to London. The Season is beginning, you know, and Mama will be looking for me. She is in London already."
"But you will return for the wedding at least?"
It was the last thing in the world she wanted. By autumn, however, she thought she might be cured of Wickham and gave a tentative affirmation.
It was a long day, a day of callers and excited conversation and whispered love messages in quiet corners. Dallan found a moment to make an embarrassed apology to Miss Cummings. Cecilia had become Miss Cummings again. "It was the wine speaking," he said earnestly. "I hope you will not think me a fickle fellow. There never was anyone for me but Martha. It is just that I was not used to anyone so sophisticated as yourself, Miss Cummings. You quite turned my head, but I have got it screwed on tight now and know Martha is the one, the only one for me. Your lecture did me a world of good, you know."
She said everything that was proper and did not say, though she felt that he would in all likelihood require another lecture every couple of years. No matter, Martha would have no one but Dallan. As she matured, perhaps she would remember this lesson and know how to handle him.
Cecilia left for London on Monday, late in the morning. While Miss Miser finished her packing, Cecilia sat at the bow window, scanning the street as busily as the Gardeners across the way, but Wickham did not come to town. Her leave-taking was a warm mixture of joy and sadness, with many promises to write, and many reminders that she was to come for the weddings. As the carriage drew away from Laycombe, she tried to project her thoughts into the future.
Usually on her visits, the scene she left behind her faded with the miles, to be replaced by whatever lay ahead—London, or home, or another matchmaking visit. This time, her mind refused to make the change. Her heart, she feared, was left behind.
But it was not her heart Lord Wickham wanted. It was her dowry, and her presence as a mistress for the abbey, and her ability to give him a son and heir. It might have grown to love in time... She would not have spurned such an offer out of hand for any of her protégées. Position was a matter of importance in making a proper match. But no, there must be affection at least—on both sides to begin with.
Chapter Fourteen
Before many days passed, Wickham learned of the spate of betrothals in Laycombe. Wideman said categorically that Miss Cummings had come as a matchmaker, and as she had left as soon the engagements were arranged, Wickham eventually overcame his pride and believed it. His only informant that Cecilia had come to make a match for herself was Sally Gardener, a tattling gossip whom no one took seriously. What a presumptuous ass Cecilia must have thought him, with his pompous offer. With an acceptance of the true situation came shame and regret. He cringed to think of his behavior.
Why had she not stopped him before the words were out, if she had no interest in marrying him? Why had she let him run on and make a fool of himself? All the time he was riding around his estate with her, outlining his holdings and income—she must have had some idea what he was about.
And she had not seemed averse either. She had even allowed him to embrace her. Surely that indicated she meant to accept him? The embrace was as bad as the rest. He had let himself get carried away. One did not embrace an innocent girl as warmly as he had done. Yet the kiss hadn't put her off entirely either. She seemed to like it well enough. He had been certain of acceptance.
An unseasonal spell of raw, wet weather broke out in early May, keeping him much at home, with time to remember and think. She had been ready for his offer—wanted it; why then had she refused? Was it a sudden change of mind? He mentally enumerated his advantages. He was wealthy, titled, popular enough, not without character and address. His person was not unsightly. Was it his former marriage that had put her off? She had known of that before she received his advances.
She had called him selfish. He had made the proposal awkwardly, mentioning only the benefits to himself. Did she expect him to harp on his title and position? He had already showed her around his place. She was well aware of the advantages that accompanied him. Belaboring them w
ould have looked like pride, or worse, bartering. His pride was piqued, but as the days wore on and still the thing festered in him, he realized there was more than wounded pride at stake here.
It wasn't a son and heir he wanted. He was young; there was plenty of time for that. No, it was Cecilia herself, sitting at his piano, her sable curls glinting in the lamplight as she played, that he wanted. It was her bold laughing eyes and insouciant conversation that first beguiled him. It was a lovely woman to come home to, to share his days and nights, his triumphs and sorrows with, that had prompted that offer. It was love, he admitted, and was stunned at his stupidity in not realizing it before. He should have known. He had sworn off love before she came. She was the one who had changed his mind.
He was a hot-blooded man. He would never marry without passion to urge him to it. Since his return, he had spurned a dozen eligible ladies suggested by his relatives as potential wives of convenience. The very idea repulsed him. But Cecilia—without even trying, she had pierced that crust of indifference he had tried to build up after Adrianna's running off... But what had Adrianna to do with Cecilia Cummings? They were as opposite as night and day, as frost and fire, as indifference and love. His first marriage was the ill-considered, rash act of a young fool, as unfair to Adrianna as to himself. She could never fit comfortably into his life, but Cecilia would be perfectly at home there. He had not thought of Adrianna's comfort or pleasure. And his second proposal was as bad as his first marriage. He had done it all wrong—because he was selfish. No wonder she had refused him! He was fortunate she had not laid her riding crop across his shoulders.
He was mad, to be suggesting that a young Incomparable with beauty and wealth had come to this backwater to lure him into an offer of marriage, when common sense told him she must be fighting the men off with clubs. The Elgins had said as much. God, what a monster of arrogant stupidity she must have thought him. Eagerness to correct the matter and to show himself in a better light came over him. The miserable weather continued, but it went unnoticed. She might have said yes if he had approached her as a lover. Perhaps it was not too late to undo the damage.
She had been ripe for marriage. When she struck one parti off her list, she would not be long in accepting another. There comes a time in a lady's life when she is ready to settle down, and he feared that time had come for Cecilia Cummings. He had his valet pack his luggage and said he would leave that day.
"Has your lordship forgotten his London house is not open?" his servant inquired.
"Then I'll stay at a hotel till it is."
"You have that meeting with your bailiff tomorrow morning."
"Cancel it, if you please. I'll write him from London."
"May I inquire, your lordship, if something urgent has arisen? Is there an emergency..."
"Yes. I must leave at once. Please hurry."
"Then you'll want to notify the Lowreys you won't be dining with them tomorrow."
"I'll send them a note. We'll be leaving in half an hour," Wickham said, with a commanding eye. No further obstacles were thrown in his lordship's path. They left in twenty-four minutes.
Once established in the Pulteney Hotel in London, Wickham was struck with an unaccustomed fit of doubt and indecision. In happier days, Cecilia had given him leave to call in Hanover Square. After what had transpired between them, it seemed like presumption to call. His pride, though more malleable than before, was not so soft as to relish being told that Miss Cummings would not see him. Yet to leave it to chance… A week might pass before a casual meeting occurred. Anything could happen in seven days. She had arranged three matches inside of two weeks. How much more speedily might she not arrange one match for herself?
To add to his problems, Wickham had been so long out of the country that he had lost close contact with his former circle. Staying at a hotel made getting in touch with him even more difficult. The Season was just opening, and in the first rush of enthusiasm there were half a dozen parties and routs a night. The ones that he managed invitations to were not those that Cecilia happened to attend. He spent a few days reestablishing his network of friends and relatives, and when his house was open, he had a notice of his arrival printed in the journals.
Cecilia, scanning the social columns daily for just such an announcement, saw it and turned pale. She had heard rumors before, had even thought she spotted him once in Bond Street, but he had not seen her. He had evidently been here for some time, but had not called. There was to be no rapprochement then. She clenched her jaw and told herself it was no more than she expected. Her quick trip to scan the calling cards left on the silver salver in the hall did nothing to cheer her. There was none from Wickham.
Like Wickham, she was sunk to scanning the streets and ballrooms for a glimpse of her quarry. Their first meeting occurred at a small but select rout thrown at Lady Bracken's. Cecilia attended with her cousin, Sir Nigel's, party, as her mother preferred to stay home in the evenings when she could. A quiet musical soiree could always draw her out, or a command to Carleton House from Prinney, but a small rout was not temptation enough to do it. Cecilia stood chatting with friends between sets when she recognized Wickham amidst the throng of black jackets.
Like burning lava upon reaching air, the very sight of him congealed her heat to stone. The only part of her capable of movement was her eyes, that flickered from the proud, dark head, along the half-averted profile of strong nose and jaw, down to his sparkling white cravat. The rest of him was hidden by the crowd. His head turned, and for a moment their eyes met across the room. Both looked away guiltily, as if caught out in a crime, or at least a solecism. Soon their eyes again met, like filings drawn by magnet, and again there was the same swift averting. To an uncertain hope, these quick looks and turnings away were as fatal as being cut dead. Anger was added to hurt and wounded pride in both cases. Cecilia told herself it was for the gentleman to make the first move.
Wickham recognized Sir Nigel as the man who had been at church in Laycombe with Cecilia and felt sure they must have reached an understanding by now. His first instinct to rush from the scene soon gave way to an unworthy wish to show her how little he was affected. He looked about for the second prettiest lady in the room and secured the hand of Lady Gloria Kirkwell for the next set.
Without once actually looking at each other again over the next hour, each could have described the other's partners to a tee. Cecilia could put a name to the ladies, for she moved much in society and knew everyone. She and Lady Gloria were not bosom beaux, but they had made their debut together five years before, and five years of attending the same parties threw them together often.
Wickham only knew that after Pincombe, she had stood up with a sorry looking fellow in a badly cut jacket, and after that with Lord Compeau, who was happily married, and therefore allowed to be not unhandsome in appearance.
After that set, Wickham strolled from the room, not to leave the house, but to fortify himself with a glass of punch. Cecilia caught Sir Nigel's eye and asked him to take her for a glass of wine. She acted from instinct. For years she had been maneuvering gentlemen into marriage, and the first step was always to throw the lady in his path, for little could be done at a distance.
"I see what you are about," Sir Nigel said, as they headed for the refreshment parlor. "I recognized your Laycombe beau. We are following the scent. Which way did he go? We'll run him to ground."
"You are too absurd," she laughed, and tapped his wrist playfully to cover her embarrassment, while hastening to the parlor door.
As they entered, he replied playfully, "No, miss, you are absurd, and as transparent as glass. But I forgive you. We should all be absurd when we are in love, or when will we ever be allowed to act the fool without censure? No sane person would willingly shackle himself for life. We have to be fools to marry." He spoke in a teasing manner and in a loudish voice.
Wickham, glancing up, saw them smiling fondly at each other, heard the words "love" and "marry," and turned quickly away to hide hi
s agitation. Cecilia saw him look at her, saw his quick turning away, and was incensed. A demon entered her, and she advanced directly to him.
"Lord Wickham!" she exclaimed, in a pseudo-friendly way. "What a surprise! I had no idea you were in town. Have you been here long?"
"Miss Cummings." He bowed with stiff formality. "I have been here a few days."
"How did you leave all our friends in Laycombe?"
"Tolerably well, I believe. I have not seen them since—recently, but in a small community, news travels fast."
"You have heard that my cousins are both engaged?" she asked brightly. It was her intention to pretend his offer had never occurred. She would treat him like any casual acquaintance.
"Yes."
His curt reply made conversation difficult, but she forged on a moment longer. "Have you met Sir Nigel Pincombe?"
"I have not had the pleasure."
She introduced them, which did not appear to give Wickham any pleasure whatsoever. "Do you stay in town long, Lord Wickham?" she asked.
"No. That is—perhaps—I have not decided."
"You must not hurry away. The Season is just beginning." Others entered the parlor, and Cecilia, recognizing them, excused herself and went to speak to them. Long practice enabled her to chatter gaily, while her mind was a terrible jumble of confusion.
When she left her friends, she saw that Wickham was gone. "He called his carriage and left," Pincombe told her.
The news struck her like an arrow. She had given him a perfect opportunity to patch up the quarrel. He could have invited her to stand up with him. "Really?" she asked, feigning indifference.
"I expect he has gone on to Saywell's do. I have a card for it..."
"No! Let us return to the dance."
Very shortly afterward, she asked Pincombe to take her home. "But as you are interested in going on to Saywell's party, you might tell me tomorrow whether Wickham was there. No, wait!" she said suddenly. "If he sees you there without me, he will know I went home. I would not give him the satisfaction. I can find out from someone else tomorrow whether he was there."
