Lady Sarah's Redemption

by Beverley Eikli

  Covering her face with her hands she reflected on the night at the Hollingsworths. She had forced herself to do so only through long training, yet she knew she had come through virtually unscathed compared with Lady Sarah. As if it weren’t enough that Lady Sarah had suffered the indignities forced upon her by Sir Richard, she’d been recognised when visiting Caro’s father at the inn where he’d stayed. She’d tried to learn more, but gossipy matrons did not readily divulge such details to innocents like Caro. Whatever was being said, Caro knew facts were unimportant compared with appearances. To be tainted by scandal was a crime in itself.

  Twisting her hands together as she sat at her dressing table, while Mavis, her dresser arranged her hair, she reflected on her poor unhappy papa. He must have been distraught when Lady Sarah had accepted Captain Fleming.

  “Do you approve, Miss Caro?” Mavis pushed in a final pin and Caro surveyed the elaborate but becoming hairstyle, smiling. Rose buds had been tucked throughout her shiny black curls. The effect was charming.

  “It’s lovely, thank you. That’ll be all, Mavis. I need” - she hesitated, feeling such mixed feelings of excitement, anticipation and sorrow - “I need a moment or two to gather myself and then I’ll be down.”

  It had been more than a month since her father’s abortive trip to London to propose to Lady Sarah. His behaviour had been erratic in the interim. Sometimes he had seemed distant and morose. At others it was as if the old fires burned within and he spoke to her like an adult, almost a friend.

  Now here he was smiling in the doorway, telling her she looked exquisite as he offered his arm to escort her to her coming-out ball.

  “You do me credit,” he said, as his eye swept from the curls that cascaded from her high crown, to the pearl-encrusted cream silk slippers that peeped from beneath the flounce of her evening dress. “Your mother would have been so proud of you.”

  “And Lady Sarah?”

  He flinched but made a quick recover, saying smoothly, “She was a good mentor. Come,” he added as if he didn’t want to be drawn on the subject. “The carriage is waiting.”

  During a rare moment of quiet later that evening, Caro surveyed the well-dressed crowd. How wonderful it would have been for Caro and her father if Lady Sarah had accepted his marriage proposal. Her rejection had had far more significant consequences for her father’s state of mind than mere disappointment. She bit her lip, pondering.

  Only since she had recovered her old spirit following her ordeal had she understood the extent of her father’s suffering.

  Within the first hour her dance card was nearly full. None of her fears of six months ago had been founded. She had not been the ugly duckling, forced to sit out dance after dance. The sallow complexion, once marred by spots, had become white and translucent, her dark hair had not needed coaxing with sugar and tongs to achieve the fashionable look of the day. It had just the right amount of curl and bounce. And her gangly, awkward figure, once rail thin, had blossomed into a woman’s body.

  So it was easy to smile, to feel confident and almost happy this evening. Her father had told her in as many words how proud of her he was.

  Still, something was missing.

  She closed her eyes a second as she fluttered her fan in the midst of a conversation with a group of young ladies discussing the merits of feathers over artificial fruit as headwear embellishments.

  Justice.

  Although she and Lady Sarah and her father had survived their ordeal relatively unscathed, natural justice had been denied.

  For the first time, Caro glimpsed the impulses which had driven her father his entire life. He could not bear injustice.

  Philly Miniver pressed against her to compare dance cards. It seemed she, too, could not get over Caro’s transformation yet she was not mean spirited. “What magic potion have you been taking, Caro? Or was it all those months in the Swiss Alps? Your dance card is almost full. Much fuller than mine. Perhaps Sir Richard will ask me to dance.”

  She simpered at a figure across the room.

  “Sir Richard?” Caro’s throat went dry.

  “He’s Papa’s friend and ever so obliging. Mama simply dotes on him and he’s always so attentive to me. I’ll get his attention. Perhaps he’ll ask us both to dance – if you have room! Caro, where are you going?”

  “I’ve lost a pearl button. Excuse me!” Caro whipped around, just as Philly signalled across the room.

  Escape! She had to get out of here before she fainted. Before she embarrassed them all. Her mind was racing. She had to think clearly; had to be calm.

  There was a knot of people gathered in the doorway. It would be impossible to simply barge past them out of the room. She veered to the left, walking fast but as gracefully as she could before she sank against the wall near a luxuriant and partially concealing flower display. A green curtain served as a partition separating the saloon from a small alcove, affording her the opportunity to nestle partially into its velvet folds and gaze at the milling guests. Taking deep breaths, she fanned herself energetically, terrified she might succumb to that most feminine of maladies: the vapours. Never, however, had any female had more cause.

  Sir Richard had moved gracefully over to speak to Philly. Her friend was looking coquettishly at him from over the top of her fan points.

  Surely Philly couldn’t find him attractive? Caro wondered as her stomach rose up in disgust.

  He must be at least twenty years older than her. Tall, thin with an insinuating smile, he had confidence but the charm of a death adder. He was a slug, a leech sustaining himself on the spoils from the underbelly of society, sucking out goodness where he could while he paraded himself as a gentleman, ruining the lives of people like herself, like Lady Sarah, like her father. People who had no recourse.

  Helpless…

  She closed her eyes, her breathing rapid. Then with one final, sustaining breath, her backbone stiffened; slowly she straightened up against the wall.

  Helpless?

  She took another breath. This time she felt almost calm. She blinked a few times, slowly scanning the richly garbed guests until her gaze alighted once more upon Sir Richard.

  He towered over Philly. His body was bent slightly over her in a stance which, to Caro in that moment, suggested an attitude of brutal vanquishment of the female sex as a whole. Anger and revulsion swept over her and, at the same time, an all-encompassing feeling of empowerment.

  It was too easy to assume that because she was a young girl she was helpless.

  No, there were ways, other ways than the law – or breaking the law - whereby justice could be served.

  She sucked in a short, sharp breath and her heart gave a nervous flutter.

  Helpless?

  Only if she lacked courage. And if she hadn’t learned courage from her father, she certainly had from Lady Sarah.

  Justice for herself. Justice for Lady Sarah.

  She closed her eyes and thought of her darling, devoted father.

  Most importantly, she wanted justice for her father.

  “Hawthorne!”

  Roland, striding down the passageway in the direction of the music, stopped as the red-haired giant, James Fleming, advanced towards him across the crimson Aubusson carpet. A deep flush burned the captain’s throat and cheeks which, had Roland not been such a keen observer, he might have assumed was embarrassment. However the hardening of Fleming’s eyes and the clenching of his jaw quickly disabused him of that notion.

  Whatever Fleming’s reasons for speaking to him, Roland had not the slightest desire to pursue a conversation with Lady Sarah’s intended, yet the fact that it suggested Sarah was here made his heart beat faster. He marshalled a smile. “Congratulations on your forthcoming nuptials. Lady Sarah is a remarkable woman,” he managed with admirable fortitude.

  “She is.”

  There was an awkward silence.

  “I formed the greatest admiration for her character when she was a member of my household.”

 
“An irony, then, that the stain upon her reputation was, indirectly, on your account.”

  “What?” Shocked, Roland could think of nothing else to say. He’d heard Sarah had been seen unaccompanied at a late hour and that some interfering matron had embellished this by suggesting all manner of outlandish hypotheses. Each time he’d enquired as to the exact nature of Lady Sarah’s sins he’d received a different account. Certainly, he’d heard nothing which connected his name with hers.

  “So you did not know, Hawthorne. I am glad to hear it, for your sake.” Fleming’s look was slightly less condemning. “Don’t like your politics but didn’t want to think too badly of you, if you weren’t in the know. Lady Sarah’s a mighty proud woman.”

  When he’d gathered his wits, Roland asked, “Why did Lady Sarah not tell me if my name were connected with hers, in the public domain?”

  James grunted. “Seems she didn’t want to exert undue pressure since you’d already sent her a letter outlining your thoughts on matrimony. And that’s fair enough, Hawthorne. Only I wasn’t going to see such a diamond of the first water end up an ape leader through no fault of her own.” He sent Roland a challenging look. “Well, Hawthorne, I must return to Lady Sarah.” He bowed. “I’m looking forward to rusticating in the country. London is a cruel place.”

  Still reeling, Roland returned his bow. “I wish you well, Captain,” he managed. “You are a lucky man.”

  Captain Fleming turned on his heel with and shot him a look not without reproach. “Always been fond of the gel, and it didn’t look as if anyone else was coming to her rescue,” he said, pointedly.

  Another trembling peacock feather.

  Sarah watched it atop the emerald green toque as the feather responded to the haughty toss of its wearer’s head. Plucked eyebrows arched heavenward, Sarah’s erstwhile acquaintance passed by without a greeting.

  The cut direct. Stock standard treatment for those who had fallen from grace.

  Except that Sarah was not a fallen woman. She had been painted as one but thanks to James’s loyalty her disgrace would be relatively short-lived, although there were those who would never receive her.

  Like the peacock feather a moment ago, Sarah could feel her mouth begin to tremble.

  She must find James. This propensity to tears that plagued her lately was out of character and she despised herself for it.

  She wished she had not begged James to escort her to tonight’s ball. He’d been right when he told her she was positively courting such reactions as the trembling peacock feather, and that she ought to stay where she was, in the country, with her father. She wanted, though, so desperately to encounter Roland one last time before she married James next week. Even if she knew seeing Roland was courting even greater heartache.

  The card room was to her left, the supper room at the far end. She hesitated, scanning the crowd. James had said he would procure her a glass of champagne.

  Her heart gave a nervous flutter as she surveyed the crowd. In all her life she had never felt so alone.

  With her head held high she began her regal progress down the length of the room. She could just spy James, semi obscured by a knot of gentleman.

  She craned her head over a tiny voluble woman offering advice to a couple of gawkish girls, her staccato words like a volley of gunfire. Sarah almost smiled to hear her … until amidst a group near James she saw him.

  The bourgeoning smile vanished and her heart rate sped into dangerous territory.

  “I beg your pardon.” She vaguely registered spilling champagne upon a gentleman’s sleeve but paid him no further heed as she negotiated the knots of chattering guests, all the while holding Roland in her sights.

  He was not quite as tall as James, nor as broad shouldered. But where James was large and forceful and brash of manner, Roland was well proportioned, careful and reflective.

  Advancing, she was conscious of the furtive glances in her direction and appreciated how Caro must feel as a fragile, vulnerable debutante. If possible her heart contracted even more. How was Caro faring, she wondered?

  And then was able to see with her very own eyes, though what it was that distracted her gaze from Roland to the quivering girl in the far corner of the room she could not say.

  Caro was alone, against the wall, one hand pressed against her chest, the other covering her mouth. She looked as if she were about to faint or, worse, be sick. Certainly, Sarah could see the waxy pallor of her skin from here.

  Instinctively, Sarah glanced from Caro to the object upon whom Caro’s gaze was fixed.

  As she feared.

  Sir Richard was engaged in intimate conversation with Philly Miniver in the far corner. His hooded eyes roved over her in a transparently speculative manner while Philly blushed and giggled, using her fan just as Sarah had taught her. Clearly, the young innocent was flattered. Sarah felt simply nauseated.

  Caro clearly was.

  Quickly, Sarah turned her footsteps in Caro’s direction. She would be by her side within a couple of seconds. She would usher Caro into another room, soothe her, bolster her confidence. It was what Caro needed, but it was what Sarah needed also.

  To be needed.

  Her progress was interrupted by a couple of leisurely promenading dowagers and when Sarah glanced again at the curtained alcove Caro was gone.

  She frowned. Then she saw her.

  Caro was advancing upon Sir Richard, looking like an avenging Valkyrie. Three more footsteps and she’d be upon him, with consequences Sarah dared not think of just now.

  Altering her trajectory, Sarah hurried past a footman bearing a tray of drinks, jostled a scowling scion of the aristocracy and nearly floored a club-footed colonel.

  Her hand shot out and she grasped a scrap of lace.

  “Caro!”

  She pulled the girl from her studied path, her own grasp stronger, and her subject more pliant than she had expected.

  Caro had been wearing that mulish look of old. The consequences did not usually augur well. She extracted her from the crowd, orchestrating the potentially risky manoeuvre with all the skill of a consummate society hostess. Caro rewarded her with a scowl. But at least they were now partly obscured by the curtained alcove.

  “I didn’t like the look in your eye as you were advancing upon Sir Richard.” Sarah had not the time to formulate a more considered approach. Her words were blunt, her look direct. “It will do your reputation and our cause no good if you make a scene.”

  “Look at him!” hissed Caro. “Talking to Philly like he’s the most eligible man in the room, and unless one of us shows him up for what he is, he will continue to ruin lives.”

  “But publicly condemning him is not the answer-”

  “Credit me with some subtlety.” Caro’s tone was injured. “I was hardly about to rail at him like a Billingsgate fishwife.”

  “What, then, were you about to do?”

  “Entice him.”

  “Entice him?”

  “That’s right.” Caro’s eyes narrowed. Her breathing came fast and shallow. “Entice him onto the balcony, alone. Then I was going to scream and succumb to the vapours, and when a large enough crowd was gathered I was going to accuse him of trying to … to kiss me.” She looked once more as if she were about to be sick before her expression became defiant.

  “Caro…” Sarah was lost for words. Her young, awkward charge had altered a great deal since Sarah had arrived at Larchfield. The coal dark eyes shone with the fervour of old, but were set in a face that had matured and blossomed. Sarah had feared Caro’s spirit had been extinguished by her experiences at the Hollingsworths. She needn’t have worried.

  She reached out and touched Caro’s cheek. “You are an innocent, you do not know how dangerous this would be,” she said softly. “Your reputation is your most valuable commodity. Nothing is worth endangering it.”

  “Justice?”

  Sarah winced, feeling the familiar ache in the region of her heart. “Justice is never guaranteed,”
she said, softly.

  “Clearly not, Lady Sarah, else Sir Richard would be in Newgate, not featuring on Philly’s dance card.” She made a noise of disgust before adding quietly, “And you’d be marrying Papa.” She sighed. “But you’re not and I am more than prepared to take a risk to avenge ourselves against Sir Richard.”

  Sarah frowned. “Caro, what happened that night at the Hollingsworths was something we are powerless to avenge. The risks we run in trying to prove the blackguardly behaviour of both Mr Hollingsworth and Sir Richard are too great to our own positions. And to your father’s.”

  “But if I were to claim Sir Richard guilty of enticing me onto the balcony and trying to kiss me, Papa would have no choice but to challenge him to a duel.”

  So that was it. Sarah watched with dawning understanding as Caro warmed to her theme.

  “Inaction is absolute anathema to Papa. He’ll just wither away if he’s denied recourse to justice.” She hesitated, adding pointedly, “Papa will sacrifice his own happiness if he feels he doesn’t deserve it.”

  Sarah knew this, but Caro’s boldness had opened up new avenues of hope. It fizzed in her veins. Then she realised the futility of Caro’s plan and the sudden excitement drained from her.

  “Caro, do you know what lunacy your father considers duelling? Oh yes” — she interrupted the anticipated response — “he duelled my very own Papa in his hot-headed youth, but he is wiser now.”

  Caro opened her fan with an expert flick of the wrist and drew herself up tall. “I’m very sorry we are at odds, Lady Sarah, but I love my father and would do anything to give him back his sense of honour.”

  “You think I would not?” Sarah grasped her shoulder. “Your intentions are good, but you are too vulnerable—”

  Caro swung away from her. “Someone has to take risks,” she flared, marching into the centre of the room.

  Sarah pulled her back. Caro was young with too much to lose; but Sarah had lost everything she held dear.

  “It is a reckless, even stupid plan,” she countered, her voice low as she tried to conceal themselves from general observation. Caro could only be hurt if seen associating with Sarah. “But if you promise me not to undertake it yourself, would you be satisfied if I did so?”