by M C Beaton
“She is not dying, my friend.”
“I still say you have changed. There is a secrecy about you.”
“It is the heat. This dreadful heat which goes on and on.”
The major continued to look at him suspiciously. Then he said, “I have a mind to settle down. I have a mind to propose to Miss Annabelle.”
“Then I would do so after the ball.”
“Why?”
“Because,” said Lord Granton patiently, “despite my indifference and coldness, I know they expect me to propose at the ball, to make an announcement. The Crowns are the type of people who see only the title. Should you propose when they are sharp with disappointment, then you will be accepted.”
“Good idea,” cried the major, rubbing his chubby hands.
“But,” went on Lord Granton, “is it any use in my pointing out that you are worth better, Harry, than being accepted simply because the Crowns’ ambitions have been thwarted?”
“I am used to being considered second best,” said the major in a low voice. “I do not have your title, your dangerous reputation, or your elegance.”
“I still say you are worth more. After your marriage you will have to listen to Annabelle playing the harp every damn evening.”
“I can think of nothing more blissful,” said the major quietly.
“I do believe you are in love.”
The major heaved a sigh. “I do believe I am.”
The heat in the dining room at Townley Hall that evening was suffocating. Annabelle, slightly red about the nose, was fanning herself languidly. No breeze stirred the curtains at the open windows.
She covertly studied Lord Granton. Anxious to see what was in this book he was writing, she had searched his room while he was out without finding a single scrap of paper. Was he so bored that he was merely claiming to be writing a book as an excuse to cut short his evenings? Arrogant and vain as she was, that thought buried itself like a worm in Annabelle’s brain.
“How goes your writing?” she asked the viscount.
“Tolerably well, Miss Annabelle.” His face was saturnine and his eyes glinted oddly in the candlelight. Annabelle thought he looked mocking and said with an edge in her voice, “You must let us see some of your work. No one has seen any evidence of it.”
“I am shy,” drawled Lord Granton, twisting the stem of his wineglass. My room has been searched, he thought furiously. My man was sure someone had been going through my belongings. “In fact,” he went on, “I am so shy that every day I give my work to my man, Gustave, and tell him to keep it under lock and key.”
Vanity and common sense warred in Annabelle’s brain and vanity won. Her parents had convinced her that Lord Granton was sure to propose to her before or at the ball, and in these days of correct manners, it was surely not at all odd that he had not shown much warmth toward her. So when he rose at the end of the meal and made his usual apologies, she was able to watch him depart with complacency. She might not have been so complacent had his friend, the major, not been so gallant in his attentions to her. With Major Delisle praising her and hanging on her every word, Annabelle felt secure in her attractions.
Lord Granton escaped from the Hall and made his way through the estate by a route that would not be overlooked from the front of the hall where the drawing room and dining room faced. He was wearing black: black coat, black breeches, and black leather top boots. He did not want to be seen. He skirted the village by a circuitous route. The air was so close and so stifling he was sure the villagers would be standing outside their doors to catch any breath of air the evening might afford. For one moment his stride faltered and he wondered what on earth he was doing putting Frederica’s reputation at risk.
Then he shrugged and walked on. She was the only person who had amused him in ages. Without him she would not know how to dance at the ball.
He found her sitting on the grass beside the river and sank down beside her with a little sigh of relief. “This must be the only cool place for miles around. We will talk for a bit and then we will dance. How did you fare this day?”
“Mama and my sisters were vastly disappointed to have missed you, but Mama has bought me muslin for new gowns. The only problem is they are to be made by our village dressmaker and so they will look, well, villagy.”
“But nothing suitable for a ball gown?”
“No, and there is something odd there. If I talk about the ball, Mama closes up and changes the subject. I suppose it is because she still blames me for nearly causing their invitations to be canceled.”
“Are you not a good needlewoman?”
“I am fair enough, but not nearly good enough to fashion a ball gown.”
“Perhaps if you say your prayers, something will happen.”
“I think the good Lord has more to do than listen to one vain village miss asking for a ball gown.”
“You will never know until you try.”
“I never thought to be urged to say my prayers by the devil himself.”
“Alas, my reputation! Now, Frederica, this is going to be a complicated dance tonight. The quadrille.”
Frederica got to her feet. “A French chalked ballroom floor will appear luxury after trying to dance on grass.”
He marched her first through the intricate figures of the dance and then showed her the steps. “Some members of society even have ballet masters to teach them entrechats, but I do not think you should attempt anything so daring.”
“Have you performed the waltz?” asked Frederica.
“Of course. It has not yet been sanctioned by Almack’s, that holy of holies.”
“I would like to go to Almack’s assembly rooms just once,” said Frederica wistfully. “Are they very grand?”
“The company is but the rooms are nothing out of the common way, and the fare is lemonade and rather stale sandwiches. One goes there to be seen.”
“And to find a husband?”
“Yes, the rooms hold the most expensive marriage market in the world.”
Frederica half closed her eyes. “I can imagine it. My Lord Granton arrives. There is a flutter among the debutantes. Which will be the lucky one? Lord Granton has an evil reputation and looks like the devil, but no matter. There is the title and fortune to consider, and Mama and Papa would be so pleased and the other ladies so jealous.”
He smiled down at her. “And my charms have nothing to do with this flutter?”
“I should not think so,” said Frederica, wrinkling her smooth brow. “Perhaps the married ladies anxious for an affair may view you thus.”
“You should not be so cynical at such a young age.”
“I did not mean to be rude. There are times when I forget exactly to whom I am talking.”
He had a sudden desire to flirt with her, to see her become aware of him as a man, but he fought down the impulse.
The night was too warm and calm and innocent. The water foamed over the rocks in the stream. The faintest of breezes sprang up and rattled the dry leaves of a stand of birch. Moonlight silvered the grass and the stars burned overhead.
“I must go,” he said suddenly.
Frederica’s eyes were large in the darkness. “I have offended you, Rupert.”
“No, I will return tomorrow night. I do not want our country idyll to end just yet.” Again he raised her hand to his lips and kissed it.
She waited by the stream, watching him until he had disappeared. She felt suddenly sad. Soon he would leave and life in the sleepy village would never be quite the same. A treacherous feeling of discontent took hold of her. If only she were older, richer, beautiful, then there would be no reason for the idyll, as he had called it, ever to end.
The newspapers were avidly perused by Mrs. Hadley, not for news of the war in the Peninsula but for royal gossip, marriages, and engagements. She liked to read the juicier pieces aloud.
Frederica entered the drawing room the next morning in time to hear her mother exclaim, “Do but hear this. A certain L
ord M. who is in his forties has been forced to wed a Miss C. who is but eighteen. He was staying in the country somewhere at the village of J. I do hate these initials. Why do they not come out and say who the people are? It seems this Lord M. was in the way of secretly meeting this Miss C., who was not of his rank but merely the daughter of a gentleman farmer. The villagers came to learn of their secret meetings and told Miss C.’s parents. Lord M. protested—and do but hear this—that the girl amused him and he had only been enlivening an otherwise boring visit. Miss C.’s parents insist he marry her. He says he has done nothing wrong and is refusing to do so. Have you ever heard anything so ridiculous? Miss C. weeps and protests her innocence and says they only talked.”
“No one is going to believe that, Mama,” said Mary.
“It all sounds reasonable to me,” said Frederica, a knot of fear forming in her stomach.
“You poor innocent,” retorted Mrs. Hadley, rattling the newspaper. “When you are older and wiser to the ways of the world, you will know that middle-aged men do not dally in the countryside with young misses for the benefit of their conversation.”
Lord Granton had shown no interest in her as a woman, thought Frederica. But what if they were discovered? She bit her lip in vexation. He would survive the scandal. It would add to his reputation, but it would ruin hers.
She would not meet him that evening, or any other evening. She could not write and tell him so; she dared not.
She wandered up to her room and sat wearily in a chair by the window. Perhaps he would be offended and he would not dance with her at the ball.
At last she rose. She decided to go back to the pool where she had first met him. It would not matter if anyone saw her. She would be alone.
She slipped out by the back stairs, feeling the heat of the sun burning through the thin muslin of her gown. She looked up at the glaring, remorseless cloudless blue of the sky. The old people in the village said they could remember summers like this in their youth, but Dr. Hadley had shaken his head and said there had never been a summer like this. Old people, looking back, only remembered the sunny days.
When she entered the wood and headed for the pool, she suddenly stopped, aware that she was not alone.
She was not afraid. Barton Sub Edge had been remarkably free of the footpads and highwaymen that haunted other parts of England.
But she looked around and said loudly, “Who’s there?”
Jack Muir, the poacher, came out from behind a tree.
“What do you want?” asked Frederica. “Why are you hiding like that?”
Jack came up to her, a big grin on his face. He was holding a parcel. “A certain gennelman said I could make myself useful by givin’ you this.”
He handed her the square parcel wrapped in tissue paper.
Jack had been hailed by Lord Granton earlier in the day. He had been given a couple of sovereigns and told to find Frederica when no one else was around and to give her the parcel. Jack, delighted to have made money out of this lord somehow, had lurked about the rectory until he saw Frederica leave and had followed her.
“Thank you,” said Frederica, coloring up.
He touched his forelock and slid away quietly through the trees. Frederica sat down in the grass with the parcel on her lap and then slowly opened it. There was a folded letter on top under the wrappings. She cracked the seal. “Please do me the honor of accepting this ball gown, Frederica. Your humble servant, Rupert.”
She shook out the ball gown and held it up. It was of white muslin embroidered with seed pearls. It had a low square neck. Silver embroidery and seed pearls encrusted the bodice. It was a miracle of stitching and design. She stared at it, her heart beating hard. Had he run mad? How could she tell her mother about the gown?
Her fingers trembled as they ran lightly over the embroidery. But it was so beautiful. What could she do? For the present she would hide it in her room. Perhaps she could pretend to be altering Amy’s gown, the one she was supposed to wear, and then brazen it out on the evening of the ball and swear all the work was her own. But where was she supposed to have found all those pearls and silver for the embroidery? A tear rolled down her cheek. She would need to meet him that evening and ask his advice.
Once more at the Blackstones’, Lord Granton made easy conversation as all the while he worried and worried about that gown. On impulse he had driven to Chipping Norton and to that dressmaker that Frederica had told him about, where he was told about a lady who had asked for a ball gown to be made and then had not collected it. He saw it and knew somehow it would fit Frederica perfectly. And meeting that villain, Jack, on the road home had been too much of a temptation. Jack could not betray him, but what if Frederica thought he had gone too far and told her parents? The heat was adding to his temper and worry. Lady Blackstone had a high, fluting voice that grated on his nerves. Furthermore, on walks about the estate, Annabelle had adopted the habit of taking his arm in a possessive sort of way that was obviously causing the jealous major some distress.
Would the long hot day never end?
The Blackstones had other company, two plain girls and their parents. The girls had obviously been told that Lord Granton was Annabelle’s property, and he began to feel trapped. If it were not for Frederica, he would run away before that wretched ball.
As they were approaching the gazebo, Annabelle clutching his arm, the rest of the company walking behind, Lord Granton said testily, “I do not wish to be ungallant, Miss Annabelle, but it is much too hot to walk arm in arm.” He detached himself. “I am sorry,” said Annabelle, tossing her head. “Perhaps I should ask the major to accompany me.”
“Perhaps you should,” said Lord Granton angrily. He strode on ahead, leaving Annabelle staring after him.
Had the major not been so softhearted, Annabelle and her parents might have realized at last that there was no hope whatsoever of a proposal from Lord Granton at the ball or at any other time. But the major, hurrying up to the distressed Annabelle, saw the tears in her eyes and could not bear to know his beloved suffered, so he said, “You must forgive my friend. He never could stand the heat. Besides, having escaped marriage for so long, the thought of being shackled makes him testy.”
Annabelle, from looking the very picture of a distressed maiden, became quite radiant. “Oh, you gentlemen.” She giggled, rapping his arm with the sticks of her fan. “How are we poor ladies to know where we stand?”
She lost no time in abandoning the major to whisper to her mother that Granton really meant to propose and that his crusty behavior was only due to nerves at the prospect of becoming married at last. The major had said so, and who should know better than his best friend?
Lord Granton, suddenly aware of the smiles of approval being thrown at him by the Crown family, wondered vaguely what it was all about, but was not interested enough to find out.
He located Frederica that evening sitting by the river, the tissue paper-wrapped dress on her knees. He sank down beside her.
“It is very beautiful,” said Frederica sadly, fingering the tissue paper. “But how can I wear it? Where was such an expensive gown supposed to come from?”
“Could you not say you made it?”
Frederica gave a bleak little laugh. “Where on earth could I say I found all those seed pearls and the silver for the embroidery?”
“Do you not have any rich relative, any indulgent rich relative?”
“There is a distant relative of Papa’s, a Lady Prebend, but she is so very distant, something a hundred times removed.”
“I knew Lady Prebend. She died two months ago, as I recall.”
“So that is that.”
“Does your family know she is dead?”
“No, nothing was mentioned.”
“Then there is your answer. Give me the gown and I will have it delivered to you tomorrow with a letter supposed to come from Lady Prebend. She was accounted eccentric and they will know that.”
Frederica’s eyes shone with hope. �
��But what will happen should they ever find out she is dead?”
“You must just shake your pretty head and say the old lady must have left instructions for the gown to be sent to you and it must have been forwarded with her letter after her death. I will date the letter before the date of her death.”
“Perhaps it would work. I should not accept the gown, you know. It is most shocking to accept such an expensive gift from a gentleman.”
“But we are friends and conspirators in banishing boredom, are we not?”
“There is something else worrying me.”
He stretched out his long legs and leaned back on one elbow and looked up into her face. “Everything is worrying you this evening, my chuck. Go on.”
