Candlelight Wish

by Janice Bennett

  He spared her an amused glance. “I imagine you have done much the same for Lucy on more than one occasion.” He sounded unconcerned, as if journeying some nine miles with horses already tired from the original expedition were of no account.

  “Nevertheless I am grateful,” she said, unbending a little.

  “If you can refrain from catching a chill for another quarter of an hour we will come to an inn where I have already bespoken several hot bricks.”

  “Oh!” A gasping chuckle escaped her. “You are bent upon making me beg your pardon for every unkind thought I have ever harbored against you.”

  “Well, if one tends to be of a managing disposition, one ought to put it toward a good cause.”

  At that she actually laughed, something she could not have imagined doing half an hour before.

  They arrived at the inn a short time later and while the bricks were placed about her feet the innkeeper himself handed her a steaming mug of mulled wine. This she sipped as the horses trotted briskly out of the yard and resumed their journey to London. “I was right,” she murmured as her eyelids began to droop. “It is well sprung.” And with that she settled back in surprising comfort and allowed the strains of the day to fade away.

  She roused some time later to the realization she had fallen asleep. The horses had slowed and now they turned through a narrow gate. She sat up and discovered she had been using Miles’ shoulder as a pillow. “I beg your pardon,” she began then broke off her apology. “Where are we?” she demanded, eyeing the illuminated windows of a manor house at the end of the drive.

  “Westerly Place. The home of Mr. and Mrs. Pershing,” he told her, his voice soothing. “No, I am not abducting you. Your godmother is here. We felt your arrival in Half Moon Street under these circumstances might give rise to unpleasant gossip. So you will attend a very small dinner party here and then you and Lady Xanthe will return to your home in your own carriage. There will be no hint of impropriety attached to the evening.”

  “That,” she said after a moment, “sounds like your managing again.”

  “Mea culpa,” he agreed, his amusement sounding in his voice.

  “There are times,” she said as one admitting to an unwelcome truth, “when a bit of managing does not come amiss. But how did you know I needed rescuing?”

  He cast her a sideways glance as they drew up before the house. “I guessed. Forgive me but Rushmere can be rather obvious at times.”

  “And I can be rather thick-witted” she said in a very small voice.

  “Not that I have ever seen.” He jumped down and came around to her side. “But I should have to say it was your own uneasiness in his company that alerted me to the possibility that his intentions might prove to cause you some little difficulty this night.”

  “A-a little,” she admitted. She accepted his hand and he helped her to alight.

  A groom ran up from a path leading around the corner of the house and Miles handed the bays over into the man’s charge. He turned back to Phoebe, offering her his arm. “When you did not return within an hour of our own arrival I thought it best to set out in search of you.”

  “And to involve my-my godmother in your scheme?”

  “She was quite delighted with it, I assure you. Kept humming to herself.”

  “Humming?” Phoebe demanded, her gaze narrowing. “Now I wonder what she was up to?” But as she added this last in an under voice, Miles might not have heard.

  The front door swung open as they approached and he led her up the stairs and into a small but elegantly appointed entry hall. Phoebe barely had a chance to look around her before she found herself facing a footman who waited to relieve her of her pelisse and bonnet. Freed of these garments, she allowed Miles to escort her across the hall and into a salon.

  An elderly couple sat side by side on a sofa before a hearth and Xanthe sat in a chair facing them, sipping from a wineglass. The sweet smell of almonds and lemon filled the room, stirring Phoebe’s hunger. Her relief at seeing her godmother faded beneath a burning desire for the answers to a few questions but she held these in check while Miles introduced her to her host, a small rotund man with thinning white hair and twinkling blue eyes and hostess, a spare woman with silvery hair and the sweetest expression Phoebe had ever beheld.

  “And now, my love,” said Xanthe, “we must make you more comfortable. If you will excuse us?” She directed a brilliant smile toward the others and swept Phoebe from the room.

  Phoebe cast a glance over her shoulder at Miles then followed her godmother, determined to have a few words with her in private. As soon as the housekeeper had shown them to a bedchamber, ascertained they had all they needed and taken her departure, Phoebe rounded on Xanthe. “What have you been about?” she demanded.

  “With Rushmere?” Xanthe did not pretend to misunderstand. “Not a single thing, my love.”

  Phoebe blinked at her. “But it was because of you he paid me such attentions. Why else would he look at me?”

  “For your own sake, child. I had no hand in that.”

  Phoebe sank onto the edge of the bed. “I thought it was your doing. I thought you offered him to me as the answer to my wish.”

  Xanthe settled beside her, taking her hand. “I only offer opportunities, my love. Only you can provide the answers.”

  “I-I see.” A wry smile tugged at Phoebe’s lips. “To think I set my cap at him simply because I felt I had to. I was so afraid of ruining the opportunity you gave me. Only it wasn’t him at all.”

  “It could be anyone, my love, whomever your heart leads you to. Or it could be no one. It is entirely up to you and what you truly desire.”

  Phoebe rose and paced across the floor. “I want Thomas to finish his education,” she said after a long couple of minutes.

  “Very admirable,” approved Xanthe. “But that has nothing to do with what you want for yourself.” Phoebe stopped and stared at her and Xanthe smiled that mysterious smile. “You have never given that aspect sufficient thought, have you, my love?”

  Phoebe found she had no answer for that.

  Xanthe’s eyes gleamed. “Shall we join the others now?”

  “I have to change my—” Phoebe began only to break off as she looked down at her gown. The crumpled muslin of the day had vanished to be replaced by a low-cut evening gown of amber colored silk decorated with only a single ruffle at the hem. She turned to the mirror that hung above the dressing table and discovered that her hair now hung in heavy ringlets from a knot at the crown of her head while wispy tendrils framed her face. A strand of amber beads clasped about her throat.

  “Magic,” said Xanthe with a note of smugness, “can certainly be useful, can it not?” She rose took Phoebe’s arm and led her toward the door. “As long as you remember it cannot solve every problem.”

  They descended the stairs to find Miles and the elderly Pershings still in the salon, surrounded by papers that on closer inspection proved to be musical scores. As they entered Miles came to his feet, his gaze resting on Phoebe with a look she couldn’t quite fathom. It left a warming glow in her though. Almost at once a portly butler of kindly aspect announced dinner and they crossed the hall to the dining room, a small apartment furnished with comfort rather than grandeur in mind. Phoebe liked it at once.

  She took the seat Miles held for her. As he settled at her side she looked up at him and said softly, “Thank you.” He touched her hand, a fleeting contact but the smile that accompanied it filled her with an unexpected contentment.

  A nosegay of violets erupted into the air before her and their petals cascaded down to her plate, vanishing before they touched the china. She looked up quickly and saw similar petal showers falling over the other members of the party. Xanthe met her accusing gaze with a mischievous wink and the petals reappeared, swirling upward to burst into iridescent particles as they collided with the ceiling.

  The strains of a string quartet sounded in her mind. Xanthe humming? she wondered but her godmother addres
sed her hostess, her attention apparently far from music. The magic though continued. Even the candles seemed to burn with a warmer hue, casting a rosy-golden glow over the table, the courses presented by the butler and the wine that sparkled in the crystal glasses.

  Talk centered around music, of Mr. Pershing’s search for a viola of exquisite quality, of the discovery of a new musical score arranged for a quartet, of altering favorite arrangements for fewer instruments as so very few people really enjoyed sitting down to an evening of serious music these days.

  In the midst of this Mrs. Pershing turned to Xanthe. “Do you by any chance play? So foolish of me to hope, I know but it has been so very long.” She blinked wide hopeful eyes.

  “By happy chance,” said Xanthe, her eyes brimming with mischief, “Sir Miles mentioned we might indulge ourselves this night. I have brought my flute with me.”

  Mrs. Pershing radiated joy. “And Miss Caldicot? Can we hope that she too is musically inclined?”

  “She plays the pianoforte,” Miles assured his old friend. “Exceptionally well, I might add.”

  This accolade startled Phoebe but she had no time to dwell on its unexpectedness. Already the eager Mrs. Pershing rose from the table, not allowing the gentlemen to linger over brandy but ushering them to the music room where she took a violin lovingly from its case. Her husband turned to his viola and Miles bent to examine the cello that stood in a corner, wrapped in protective cloths.

  While the Pershings sorted through various scores, Phoebe moved to Miles’ side. “You and your friends have gone to a great deal of trouble for me this night.”

  “Not in the least.” His smile held a touch of amusement. “I fear they will now make you play for your supper. I hope you are not too tired.”

  She shook her head. “I am actually looking forward to it. But I have had little opportunity to play with a group like this. I hope I won’t disgrace myself.”

  Miles’ eyes gleamed in the candlelight. “You couldn’t,” he said simply and turned his attention to tuning his borrowed instrument.

  After the first few faltering tentative notes, Phoebe lost herself in the joy of playing with gifted companions. She could imagine nothing more unlike teaching bored young ladies the rudiments of the pianoforte. They launched into another piece, this one a sonata unfamiliar to her and she quickly discovered it was of Mr. Pershing’s own composing when he broke off in the middle of a run of sixteenth notes and announced he must make a change.

  Miles laid his cello aside. “This will take some time,” he informed Phoebe. “Would you care to stroll in the garden while we wait?”

  As Xanthe and Mrs. Pershing embarked on an impromptu duet at that moment, Phoebe rose and accompanied Miles toward the drapes on the far side of the room. She’d never seen him so relaxed. The change in him fascinated her. Or did she merely choose to see him without the eyes of prejudice this night? He drew back the curtain to reveal French windows which he opened and she stepped out beneath a shaggy rose arbor arching high on its trellis.

  Moonlight flooded the garden and a surprisingly warm breeze brought the heady scent of the huge blossoms along with gardenia and violet. Other flowers blended their aromas, creating an intoxicating perfume. She could hear water babbling softly from the depths of a nearby stream and above, in a sky of midnight blue velvet, myriad stars glimmered with a rainbow of light. Violet, brilliant pale yellow and icy blue, the intensity of the colors penetrated and she realized Xanthe added her mite to the beauty of the night. She wasn’t the least bit surprised to see half a dozen tiny fairies dancing about on the moonlit grass nor another half dozen plying miniature musical instruments. She cast a surreptitious glance at Miles but he seemed oblivious to the exotic touches to his surroundings.

  He led the way along a flagstone path between lavender shrubs and hollyhocks until they reached a bench set against a wall of hawthorn. She seated herself, knowing she had not the least worry about staining her gown and he joined her, leaning back to look up at the sky.

  “One should always escape to a garden whenever one has worries,” he said.

  “This is certainly a perfect one,” she agreed, a touch dryly.

  A cat emerged from beneath the hawthorn, gleaming pale in the moonlight. For one moment Phoebe thought it was Titus then it leapt to her lap and she realized this was a smaller feline, pale cream in color. And it lacked that smug supercilious expression. She stroked its fur and it set up a rhythmic purring.

  “You are honored.” Miles sounded amused. “Hannibal does not favor everyone.”

  “That was one of the many disadvantages of the Misses Crippenham’s Academy.” Phoebe rubbed an ear to the cat’s intense satisfaction. “I could not keep either a cat or a dog.”

  “A grave disadvantage,” he agreed. “Everyone needs a puppy to chew one’s slippers or savage one’s best waistcoat.”

  “You have had one, I see.”

  “Mmmm. Though they’re not half the trouble of some sisters.” He turned to gaze lazily down at her. “And what of you? Have you any siblings? I don’t remember you speaking of any.”

  Which was hardly surprising because until these last few minutes they’d scarcely exchanged a civil word. “My brother Thomas is up at Cambridge,” she admitted and at the thought of him couldn’t prevent the smile that came to her lips.

  “And you have been supporting him.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “Only helping,” she said quickly. “He tutors.”

  Miles’ brow snapped down. “That cannot cover the half of his expenses.”

  “They aren’t as great as they might be. He lives very quietly, which he says is excellent training for when he becomes a curate and won’t have two pennies to rub together.”

  His frown deepened. “Is he suited for the church or can he think of no other profession?”

  Phoebe shook her head, smiling. “I should say he is suited for nothing else.”

  She had been hearing the melodic notes of the flute and violin since they had come outside. Now they broke into a familiar waltz melody. She caught herself humming it and when Miles stood and held out his hand to her it seemed the most natural thing in the world to take it. Hannibal sprang from her lap and she rose to glide into the first of the open steps.

  Lucilla had a point, Phoebe reflected as she looked up at Miles, aware of the play of shadow and moonlight on the planes and angles of his face. A touch of romance added something to one’s existence, gave one’s heart a reason to beat faster, one’s breath to come more quickly, one’s flesh to tingle with the contact. She allowed the music to flow over and through her, breathed in the sweet scents of the garden. Awareness swept over her, of his eyes, his smile, of the intangible bond that seemed to link them as surely as did his touch. When he gathered her into his arms for the circling steps, she melted against him, losing herself in the overwhelming sensations he created in her. He released her all too soon into the open movements then pulled her close once more. And all the while his hand warmed hers in a clasp so perfect it seemed impossible to break it.

  The music ended and from within the house came the sound of voices. For a long moment they stood together, their hands still touching. Then he led her back to the bench and settled at her side, his gaze still holding hers. Slowly he lifted one finger to touch her cheek then brush tendrils of hair back from her face.

  In another moment, the hazy thought filtered into her mind, he might kiss her. A thrill of yearning enveloped her and her hand stole to his arm, just touching his sleeve. But the more reasoned portion of her brain warned her none of this was real, that it was all a Xanthe-induced fairy tale. She didn’t want to succumb to a make-believe romance. What if Miles didn’t truly want this? He couldn’t, not judging from their previous encounters. Yet she longed for his touch, to feel his arms about her, to taste his kiss, so desperately it caused a physical ache within her.

  “Phoebe.” He breathed her name, making it a caress.

  She couldn’t allow it
, couldn’t let him do something he would regret. It took every ounce of her will to force herself to rise and once on her feet she found herself alarmingly unsteady. “Forgive me, I seem to be somewhat exhausted by the events of today. It would be best if we returned home soon. And I must thank you again for coming to my rescue.” She gave him a wavering smile than turned and hurried into the house.

  As she came through the curtains the Pershings looked up from the table where they examined a newly edited violin score. Xanthe laid aside her silver flute and rose. “My dear, there you are at last. It is time we took our leave.”

  Phoebe managed to express her thanks to Mr. and Mrs. Pershing for their hospitality then found herself ushered outside to where Xanthe’s coach already stood waiting. She started to climb in but knew Miles was there watching her. She longed to turn back, to run to him, to feel the strength and security of his embrace. How could she, though, when so much magic lingered in the air, influencing them both? Yet her gaze sought him where he stood on the steps, staring after her. She looked away, her eyes blurring, and settled on the rear seat, fighting the tears that threatened to overflow.

  She was tired, that was all. She’d spent a long eventful day knowing worry and fury and fear. And then Miles had come. It was only natural she had overreacted to his capable and reassuring presence, to his masterful management of a terrible situation. She was grateful, that was all. And if Xanthe hadn’t intervened with her romantic setting they might have settled into a comfortable friendship. Instead…

  No, she was too tired to sort out what had happened between them instead. Or had anything at all? Had it just been in her imagination? What would he have said had she allowed him to speak?

  No, she’d been right to prevent him from saying words that owed their origin to a romantic setting provided by Xanthe. When he spoke—if he spoke—she had to be certain the words came from his own heart.