by M C Beaton
Oh no, thought Frederica. I will not be able to meet him, and I cannot even get a message to him!
“I shall never be suited to country life,” grumbled Lord Granton to the major over a game of billiards.
“I find it very pleasant. We cannot be roistering every minute of the day.”
“The pattern is the same. We eat a huge breakfast and walk with Annabelle and her mother and prattle, prattle, prattle. Then Sir Giles takes us on a drive to look at that wretched little piece of boundary that is in dispute, and we stand awkwardly while he trades insults with the squire. Then back to the Hall for nuncheon after which everyone stares at one another in glazed boredom. If we can avoid another expedition, then we hide away until the dressing bell sounds and so to dinner and then to Annabelle’s harp. Perhaps we might even play cards for pennies.”
“I find it all delightful,” protested the major. “If I could watch Miss Annabelle play the harp for the rest of my days, I should consider myself the happiest of men.”
“Then do not wait any longer. Propose to her. They cannot still believe I mean to drop the handkerchief.”
“I am afraid they do. I am also afraid it is my fault.”
“How so?”
“When you were so rude to Annabelle the last time we were over at the Blackstones’, I felt I had to comfort her. I said something to the effect that your crusty manners were due to your nervousness over being about to enter the marital state for the first time.”
Lord Granton carefully put down the billiard cue he had been holding and looked at his friend. “Then I suggest you undo the damage you have done. Can you not see what humiliation and misery you are building up for the girl? There we will all be at the ball with the Crowns waiting minute by minute for me to say something. They will probably put it about that my announcement is to be the highlight of the ball. Nothing happens. I take my leave the following day. Have you not thought of that? If you love Annabelle as much as you say you do, then it is your duty, man, to disabuse her and as soon as possible.”
“I’ll do it now,” said the major miserably. He put on his coat and went in search of Annabelle. He found her in the sitting room with her mother.
“It is such a fine day,” began the major, affecting a bluff cheerfulness he was far from feeling. “Would you care to walk with me for a little, Miss Annabelle?”
“Where is Lord Granton?”
“I do not know,” lied the major.
“Oh, very well,” she said, pouting. “I will fetch my bonnet.”
The major struggled to make conversation with Lady Crown while he waited… and waited. A walk just outside meant a complete change of clothes for Annabelle. In fact, so much time was taken up each day changing in and out of gowns that she had little time to suffer any of the boredom that plagued Lord Granton.
At last she appeared, looking bandbox fresh, pretty, and quite sulky, for she had asked the servants to find Lord Granton and ask him to accompany them on their walk, and a footman had returned with the message that Lord Granton was working on his book.
As soon as they were in the privacy of the old rose garden, the major cleared his throat and said awkwardly, “I fear my friend, Lord Granton, has no intention of marrying anyone. If I have said anything that might have led you to think otherwise, then please forgive me.”
Annabelle stopped short and stared at him. “I am sure you are mistaken. His very visit here is tantamount to a proposal.”
“I am afraid Rupert only came here on a whim. I am very fond of him, but he is untrustworthy where the ladies are concerned.”
Annabelle raised a handkerchief to her eyes. “But he must propose,” she said. “Everyone expects him to!”
The major dropped to one knee on the path beside her.
He grasped the hand that was not holding the handkerchief and cried, “Oh, Miss Annabelle, I love you so. Be mine!”
She pulled her hand away. “What is this, Major Delisle?” She lowered the handkerchief. Her eyes were dry, and angry.
“I have loved you since I first set eyes on you,” said the poor major.
The anger suddenly left Annabelle’s eyes, and a smile began to curve her lips. “Do get to your feet, Major. We will forget this scene ever happened.”
The major struggled up. “I will return to the house,” said Annabelle, “and leave you to compose yourself. Oh, you wicked man!”
Annabelle went straight to her mother. “You will never believe what has happened! Major Delisle has just told me that Lord Granton does not mean to propose marriage to me.”
“Oh dear,” mourned Lady Crown. “I had begun to think that was indeed the case.”
“Ah, but just listen. The good major proposed to me himself. Don’t you see? He is trying to steal a march on his friend!”
Her mother looked at her doubtfully. “Annabelle, my love, are you sure?”
Annabelle laughed happily. She felt all-powerful, a breaker of men’s hearts. The glory of the first proposal of marriage she had ever had seemed to surge through her veins.
“Trust me, Mama. I know the gentlemen.”
Lady Crown was a doting mother, but she had an uneasy thought that this knowledge of men that her daughter claimed to have had not enticed one of that breed during the Season.
The major found Lord Granton in his room. He was sitting in a chair by the window, reading. “How did it go?” asked the viscount, putting down his book.
“Good for you. Bad for me.” The major pulled up a chair and sat opposite him. “I told her that you had no intention of proposing marriage. I proposed to her myself. She refused me. She not only refused me, worse than that. My proposal seemed to amuse her.”
“The deuce it did!”
“But at least you should have no more worries.”
“I am sorry you were rebuffed,” said Lord Granton. “The Crowns must be furious with me. I will be especially pleasant at dinner tonight.”
And so he was, and to such good effect that Annabelle glowed and kept flashing triumphant little see-I-told-you-so looks at her mother.
So well did Lord Granton behave that when he said he really must retire and get on with his writing, Sir Giles smiled and clapped him on the shoulder and said, “Musn’t keep you from that, hey, m’boy?”
Lord Granton frowned at the familiarity of the gesture and the words, not knowing that Sir Giles already saw him as a son-in-law.
He went up to his room and quickly changed. Soon he was waiting by the pool. The night was still and quiet. The great heat had gone and everything smelled fresh and new. He waited and waited, wondering what had happened to her. He moodily threw a stone into the pool and watched the ripples spread. Had his visit to her room been discovered? He must have been mad.
After an hour he rose to his feet and made his way slowly back to the Hall. Frederica was only a little girl, barely out of the schoolroom. But she amused him and he so desperately wanted to be amused.
Frederica sat by her window and watched the village men patrolling the rectory garden. There was no way she could escape and get to that pool without being seen. He would think she had not troubled, could not be bothered. Perhaps they might have heard up at the Hall about the villainous stranger. But would they tell the viscount? And even if they did, would he expect the rectory to be so guarded that she could not get out? She waited and waited. At last about midnight she heard her father call out from the garden, “I think you can go home now, lads. I do not think we will be troubled again and you need your sleep.”
Frederica still waited, hearing the men’s voices as they said good night, seeing the lanterns bob away across the garden.
She seemed possessed of a madness. She had to see him, had to tell him why she had not come.
Without pausing to let one rational thought enter her brain, she swung a dark wool cloak about her shoulders, put a black felt bonnet on her head, which she usually wore only for village funerals, and crept down the back stairs and out into the silence of the nig
ht. She did not stop to think that there was no way she could see him, no way she could get into Townley Hall. She did not even know which room had been allocated to him.
She slid past the lodge and up the drive, keeping always to the shadow of the trees at the side. Only when the great bulk of the Hall came into view did she realize the folly of what she was doing. If she was surprised by one of the Hall gamekeepers, what excuse could she give?
Lord Granton put down the book he had been reading with a little sigh. He stood up and stretched and looked out of the window. He was about to turn away when a flicker of movement caught his eye. He raised the window and leaned out. He could swear there was a little figure over by the trees.
Could it be Frederica? Suddenly anxious, he swung himself over the sill and down the creeper outside and made for the trees.
“Rupert,” said a little voice from the blackness.
“Frederica?”
“Over here.”
She emerged from behind a tree.
“You should not have come here,” he said angrily.
“Have you no thought for your reputation?”
She shrank back a little. “I only came to tell you that you were seen last night.”
“What!”
“Oh, they do not know it was you, and one of the villagers described you as a villain with a great scar on your cheek. So Papa had men patrolling the rectory garden tonight and I could not escape.”
This is ridiculous, he thought suddenly. What am I, Lord Granton, doing encouraging the attentions of this village miss? All his life he had been pursued. Why should such as Frederica be the exception?
“Go home,” he said angrily. “This folly must stop and I am only sorry I was such a fool to encourage you in it.”
She did not protest. She curtsied low and said, “Yes, my lord. I am sorry to have offended you. We shall not meet again.”
She turned and hurried away.
He had an impulse to run after her, but he stayed where he was, his hands clenched.
Frederica hurried home. She did not cry. She was too angry for that. She hated him. How dare he speak to her thus? How dare he make her feel like a trollop? To hell with him! Her dream of dancing with him at the ball and making everyone jealous was a silly one. She would send that ball gown back to him, and she would tell her mother she had lost it.
But when she got back to her room and looked at that ball gown, she knew she could never have the heart to return anything quite so beautiful. She would never have another dress like it ever again.
Lord Granton awoke with a heavy, depressed feeling. At first he could not think why he felt so low, and then he remembered that bitter little scene with Frederica the night before. He should not have snapped at her like that. There was no one like Frederica. She had made the friendly gesture to try to let him know why she had been unable to meet him, and he had treated her like an importunate debutante.
He must find some way to see her, to convey his apologies to her. Like many aristocrats, Lord Granton had never bothered to analyze his motives from the day he was born. He did not want Frederica to think badly of him, and that was that. He had to see her. No one could possibly suspect him of romantic overtures to a young miss who still wore her hair down.
So when hailed by Sir Giles as he was leaving the breakfast table and asked where he was going, he said he had found the old church very interesting and had decided to have another look at it. The major stared at his friend in surprise, wondering at this sudden interest in old churches, and then remembered that odd little girl at the rectory.
“We will all go,” said Sir Giles. “Annabelle quite dotes on churches.”
And so Lord Granton had to wait and fume and fret while Annabelle went upstairs to consult her lady’s maid about the best outfit to wear for viewing a church and to have her hair rearranged.
He was in a mood that the major privately thought of as surly when they finally set out.
They drove straight to the church. “Should we not call at the rectory and explain our presence?” suggested Lord Granton.
“No need for that,” said Sir Giles heartily. “The church is always open.”
“But there are a few questions I would like to ask Dr. Hadley,” pursued Lord Granton.
“I am sure we will be able to answer any questions you might have,” said Lady Crown.
To Lord Granton’s relief Dr. Hadley bustled in only a few moments after their arrival with offers of refreshment at the rectory.
“I am sure we can entertain Lord Granton back at the Hall,” said Lady Crown, and then found to her irritation that the viscount was already accepting the invitation.
Lord Granton, to keep up the fiction that he was really interested in the church, proceeded to ask a great many questions about it while Annabelle fretted, fidgeted, and yawned.
At last they walked over to the rectory. Mrs. Hadley had seen the carriage outside the church and had her daughters all arranged in the drawing room.
“We can stay only a short while,” protested Lady Crown. “Lord Granton has a busy day.”
“I cannot think of anything,” said Lord Granton. He smiled at Frederica, but that young lady was studying the toes of her shoes as if they were the most fascinating things she had ever seen.
“We had a great scare here, my lord,” said Mary. “Some villain was seen lurking about the rectory, and the villagers patrolled the grounds. He must have been some passing footpad. But only think, we could all have been murdered in our beds!”
“Were you frightened, Miss Frederica?” asked Lord Granton.
There was a silence, and everyone looked at Frederica, and Frederica looked at her shoes.
“Lord Granton has just asked you a question, miss,” snapped Lady Crown.
Frederica raised her head. “What was the question?” she asked. “I was thinking of something else.”
Lord Granton looked amused and everyone else, irritated.
“I asked if you were frightened, Miss Frederica,” he said.
“Last night was something I would rather not think about,” replied Frederica. “When unpleasant things happen, my lord, I put them out of my mind and go on as if they had never really happened.”
“I am working on a poem of the event,” said Mary eagerly. “I have the first stanzas.”
“Spare us,” said Annabelle faintly. “It is too fine a day to listen to poetry.”
Tea was served. Lady Crown hoped Lord Granton would refuse, but he not only accepted tea but two scones as well, which he proceeded to eat with maddening slowness.
“Are you all looking forward to the ball?” asked Lord Granton.
“Very much,” said Amy, casting him a flirtatious look.
“We have been practicing our steps,” put in Harriet.
“And you, Miss Frederica, have you been practicing your steps?”
“But…,” began Lady Crown.
“Frederica cannot dance,” said Mrs. Hadley firmly, not wanting the Crowns to tell Frederica that she was not invited.
“Have you nothing to say for yourself, Miss Frederica?” Lord Granton looked steadily at Frederica and Frederica looked steadily back.
“No,” she said bluntly.
There was a shocked little silence. Lord Granton felt like tearing his hair out. But he leaned back in his chair, the picture of elegance, and smiled at Frederica.
“I am sure your sisters will be able to help you. Every young lady should know how to dance.”
Annabelle looked from one to the other with narrowed eyes. “That is the problem of holding a ball in the country,” she said. “So many people do not know how to dance properly.”
“Has that been your experience, Miss Frederica?”
Frederica looked at Lord Granton with hurt and angry eyes. “As I do not dance, my lord, I have had little opportunity of finding out whether people perform well or not.”
“But you must have observed them.”
A little flash of malice
lit up Frederica’s fine eyes. “My lord, I have no accomplishments. Amy, on the other hand, is a very fine artist. You must see her watercolors.”
Gratified, Amy rose to her feet and went to collect her portfolio, which she had placed ready behind the sofa.
Minx, thought Lord Granton as he took out his quizzing glass and studied one inferior painting after another.
“And Harriet is an accomplished pianist,” said Frederica when Lord Granton had come to the end of the watercolors.
