by Lisa Berne
Suddenly it got very bright out, and abruptly she realized that Julian had pulled away from her. Apparently he’d been blocking out the sun with his head. He was breathing heavily, as if he had been running or otherwise engaged in intense physical activity, and he was smiling down at her.
“My darling Gwendolyn,” he said, raggedly. “Thank you.”
Gwendolyn was aware of a sudden feeling of conversational awkwardness. Ought one to be thanking one’s beloved in this kind of situation? As if one had conferred a favor upon the other? How puzzling. Then again, Julian was so much older than her and doubtless much more experienced. So that must be the correct thing to do. Automatically, she replied, “You’re welcome, Julian,” even as she was wondering if this was pretty much all that kissing was about.
Surely not . . . ?
Once she had burst into Katherine’s study at home, wanting to show her a watercolor she’d just completed, and found her in Hugo’s arms. They were kissing each other. They had quickly realized they were alone no longer and had pulled apart. They had both, Gwendolyn recalled, looked extremely happy.
That had obviously been a good kiss.
Was what she had just shared with the Earl one, too?
Gwendolyn now recalled something else. Dear Bertram, he of the brilliant analytical mind, had more than once talked about the scientific method, and the value of careful experimentation.
Well, she’d just better try it again.
So Gwendolyn took a firm grip on the Earl’s lapels once more, went up on tiptoes, and pressed her mouth against his.
He gave a soft laugh and the next thing she knew, it was the same sort of kiss. His tongue, vigorous, explorative. She thought of eels again. Dueling eels. She couldn’t help it this time and she giggled.
Apparently it must have been an entirely acceptable noise, for when the Earl lifted his head again he was smiling down at her. “Thank you, my darling.”
“You’re welcome,” Gwendolyn answered politely, and released his lapels. Oh dear, she’d crumpled them. In the throes of passion? She brushed her hands against them, trying to smooth out the wrinkles. “Julian, I’m dreadfully sorry, but I think I’ve ruined your jacket.”
He captured her hands and squeezed them. “It was worth it.”
There was a sound of crunching gravel and swiftly the Earl squeezed her hands again and released them. Two little boys, aged eight or so, came barreling around a hedge, skidded to a stop some ten feet from where Gwendolyn and the Earl stood, and one said to the other:
“It’s a dead end, you sapskull! I told you to take a left turn!”
“Ah, go on, shakebag!” retorted the other scornfully. “Follow me!” And he darted away. The other boy, looking harassed, paused for a few moments of painful indecision and then plunged after him, managing at the very last second to avoid cannoning into the Duchess of Egremont who had come around the hedge. Behind her was Lady Almira, who gave a cry of alarm, pressing herself against the shrubbery, and exclaimed:
“Do watch where you’re going, little boy!”
It was a futile exhortation as the boy was already out of sight. Lady Almira shook her head. “The youth of today,” she said dolefully. “I don’t know what’s to become of them, I truly don’t.”
“I daresay they’ll grow up to become perfectly respectable citizens,” said the Earl. “With a very colorful vocabulary.”
Further noises of crunching gravel came to their ears, and within a few moments Christopher came strolling around the hedge. He came to a stop, looked at all of them, and laughed. “Fancy meeting you here.”
Just then Percy flung himself around that same hedge, giving a loud yell. Lady Almira screeched and shrank back further into the shrubbery, and the Duchess frowned at Percy.
“My dear young man, what on earth are you doing?”
Percy had the grace to look ashamed. “I’m very sorry, ma’am. I heard the Earl’s voice, assumed Gwennie was with him, and thought I’d give her a little surprise, that’s all.” He turned to Lady Almira. “Please forgive me, ma’am. Won’t you let me make it up to you? Pray allow me to escort you out of here.” He said it with such winning cajolery, and held out his arm with such a charming flourish, that Lady Almira was immediately wreathed in smiles again.
“Oh, thank you, Percy dear.” She slipped her hand around his extended arm and as they turned about, it became apparent that she was covered in little green leaves from collar to hem.
The Duchess sighed, and the Earl gallantly extended his arm to her. “Your Grace? I fear you’re a trifle fatigued.”
She did accept the proffered arm but said, “Not a bit of it. But I am ready to be out of this maze. Take a left up ahead, then a right, and two lefts after that.”
Off they went, leaving the distinct impression that it was the Duchess setting the pace of their brisk departure.
Christopher, amused, watched them go. Then he turned to Gwendolyn and stood for a moment looking down at her. He admired the pretty picture she made, tall and slender in a simply cut riding-habit the exact shade of the Mediterranean Sea in calm weather; it made her big, dark-lashed eyes look even bluer. What he most liked about her eyes, as lovely as they were, was the intelligence that shone from them, very bright and quick.
It was easy to picture Gwendolyn as an older woman, even an old woman, with bright gold hair turned to a soft silver, perhaps, and with laugh-lines around her eyes and framing her mouth, even moving without the easy suppleness of youth, but nonetheless an enduringly beautiful woman, with that same intelligence illuminating her eyes and her face and her whole being, really. Then, as now, she would be a pleasure to know, of that he was sure.
Looking at her a little more closely, however, Christopher saw that she seemed a bit pensive. “All well?” he said, and saw how she jumped a little.
“Oh yes, Christopher, thank you.”
He held out his arm to her. “Shall we?”
She smiled, seeming to shake off that pensive mood, and came to him, sliding her hand around his arm. “I’m so glad to have a chance to talk with you. I meant to, on the ride here, but I don’t know how it happened, I was with the Earl the whole time.”
“It’s only natural. He’s your fiancé, after all.”
They began slowly walking along the gravel path.
“There’s another thing, Christopher. I saw how you helped Lady Almira. That was splendid of you.”
“I was glad to help.”
“Well, somebody had to, or she might have fallen off her horse.” Gwendolyn’s expression was now troubled. “Monsieur de Montmorency made a flippant remark about it, and neither Julian nor I did a thing about it. He—Monsieur de Montmorency, I mean—was just talking and talking, and then he said something which irritated me and I got distracted. I’m ashamed of myself, Christopher, I truly am. It would have been dreadful if poor Lady Almira had fallen.”
He was aware of a desire to—what? Reassure her? Comfort her? He said, lightly, “She didn’t, Miss Penhallow, so non ti preoccupare più.”
“Italian? Mine is rudimentary, but I think that meant ‘don’t worry about it.’ Sì?”
“Sì, signorina.” He smiled down at her, pleased to see her expression brightening again.
“‘Signorina’! I feel like I’m in Italy again. But also, you can call me ‘Gwendolyn’ if you like. After all, we’re old friends! Or, perhaps, new friends. Oh, Christopher, we had just started to get to know each other when you went away. Where did you go? What did you do?”
“You really want to know?” Christopher said, unable to repress a note of amazement in his voice. His experiences since leaving home felt to him like—well, like chapters in a book he assumed no one would want to read.
“Of course I do! I was so sure you were off on a splendid adventure, and I was quite envious, you know.”
“Envious? Really?”
“Oh yes. I don’t know what it is, but—well, I do like doing things. Won’t you tell me all about it?”
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br /> So he did tell her about his years abroad. Not in great detail, but enough of a sketch to give her a sense of what it had been like. She heard him without interruption as slowly they paced along the gravel path, turning left and right without really noticing where they were going. And Christopher thought to himself what a good listener Gwendolyn was; he thought to himself, how remarkable it was to feel genuinely heard.
When he had done, Gwendolyn said, “Oh, Christopher, I was right! It was a splendid adventure! Your Mauro sounds such an interesting person, and Tommaso too—I feel as if I know them. How curious to think that I might have seen you in Italy, if not for the little quirks of fate.” She laughed. “I’m sure I would have asked my kind friends the Marksons to stay on with you so that I could help with the horses! I would have enjoyed that so much.”
“How did you like Italy?” he asked. “And where else did you go?” So then it was Gwendolyn’s turn to tell him about her time abroad. And when she was done, he said, “It sounds like yours was very much a splendid adventure, signorina.”
“Oh, it was, it was.” She smiled. “Katherine said I should write a book about it all, and use my little drawings to illustrate it.”
“Will you?”
“Oh, no, I don’t think so. But Katherine’s writing career is coming along so beautifully—I didn’t get a chance to tell you all about it last night. And about Hugo, and his ships, and—” Gwendolyn broke off and looked up at him with fresh trouble on her lovely face. “Christopher, you do know that your father and Diana moved to Nottingham, don’t you? And that your father remarried, and Diana’s married too?”
He stopped abruptly. Tried to absorb the shock of the news. “No.” He was vaguely aware that a large family—a man and a woman, with four or five chattering children in tow—walked past them, and that a bluebird, with a beautiful sheen to its sleek feathers, had landed on top of the hedge, and that the sky was filled with big, puffy white clouds drifting overhead. “I tried to write, many times,” he slowly told Gwendolyn. “But Father—well, before I left, he said not to bother.”
“He must have been so angry with you,” Gwendolyn said softly. “But to say something like that—oh, Christopher, I can’t imagine it.”
He felt himself smiling wryly. “I’m afraid I’m not the son Father was hoping I would be.”
“I think he should be proud of you! For how hard you worked, and how you helped all those horses, and saved poor Mauro from destitution!”
She spoke with such passionate zeal that Christopher couldn’t doubt her sincerity. “You’re a good soul, Gwennie,” he said, and, surprising himself, leaned down to lightly kiss her forehead. “Thank you.”
A little of the trouble left her face then, and she said, tucking her hand more firmly around his arm, “Oh, I like that you called me that! It’s so cozy.”
There was more he might have said, how her championing of him helped lighten the sudden sharp ache in his heart, but then Percy came galloping along the path and exclaimed:
“By Jove, there you are! We’ve all been waiting for you. Did you get lost?”
“No, we were talking, and lost track of time,” answered Gwendolyn, as she and Christopher joined up with Percy who cheerfully went on as they walked together:
“Well, you missed something capital! Lady Almira dropped her reticule in the pond, and as de Montmorency was standing right there when it happened, of course he had to retrieve it and now his precious boots have lost their shine!” Percy laughed. “He’s in a right royal pelt.”
And Christopher saw, when they emerged from the maze, that de Montmorency was, in fact, in a very bad mood, and he wondered to himself how anyone could care so much about a pair of boots.
Chapter 6
They were all on their horses again, and Gwendolyn said quietly to the Earl, “Julian, I’m going to ride with Lady Almira.”
“Good Lord, must you?”
“I beg your pardon?”
He grimaced good-naturedly. “She does talk. Well, I’ll keep you company. Besides, I fancy Étienne needs some time alone to nurse his grudge.”
So they rode alongside Lady Almira, who did indeed talk all the way from Richmond back to London, but was so volubly grateful for the escort that Gwendolyn couldn’t help but feel glad of her decision.
Occasionally she glanced around to see where everybody else was. Owen and Francis were riding together, Percy and the Duchess had once again taken the lead, and Helen was next to Christopher, with Monsieur de Montmorency some distance behind them. Gwendolyn couldn’t hear what Helen was saying to Christopher, but she certainly seemed to be enjoying herself.
What a change from earlier in the day!
Gwendolyn was surprised to notice that she wished she knew what the two of them were talking about.
As the afternoon wore on, the bright spring sunlight gave way to thick, pale gray clouds massing overhead. In this softer, more subdued light the auburn of Helen FitzClarence’s curls seemed to glow with life, and the green of her eyes made yet more vivid. A striking girl, Christopher thought, if, perhaps, a moody one. She had been hostile and resentful while their party had been seated in the pavilion—reminding him quite a bit of himself a few years back—but when he had emerged from the maze with Gwendolyn and Percy, she had met them with smiling eagerness. And as soon as everyone was mounted again, she had skillfully brought her horse alongside his own.
She talked and talked, the words tumbling from her, about steeple-chasing and riding to the hounds, about tack and saddles and bridles and reins, about hay and oats, about pastures and stables. On and on she went, eager, hurried, and Christopher listened, nodded, wondering at the sparkling glances she gave him, the broad smiles, the way she leaned in her saddle toward him.
He found himself thinking of how Gwendolyn looked at the Earl in the same way. How close they had seemed, walking arm-in-arm from the pavilion into the maze.
It came to him then, slowly, subtly—how agreeable it must be to share that kind of connection. To be so close to another person, emotionally, physically.
Although “agreeable” was far too tame a word.
He looked at Helen, smiled and nodded, inside him a new longing.
A new and powerful longing.
When finally they arrived at the Egremont townhouse, Gwendolyn saw Helen tugging at the Duchess’s sleeve, whispering to her; the Duchess nodded, then said to Christopher:
“Would you like to join us for tea tomorrow afternoon, Mr. Beck? There’s to be a little practice dance after, so that Owen can reacquaint himself with the various steps, but of course you wouldn’t be obliged to participate.”
“Thank you, ma’am, I’d like that. And the practice dance as well.” He smiled. “I need to more than reacquaint myself with the steps—they’re strangers to me, I’m afraid.”
“Un naïf, Mr. Beck?” said Monsieur de Montmorency. “And you so advanced in age.” His voice was pleasant but there was within it—to Gwendolyn’s ears at least—the faintest undercurrent of malice.
“Alas, yes,” answered Christopher easily. “I had no interest in what you might call proper dancing. On the other hand, I’m not bad at the pentozali, though I doubt it’s popular in London ballrooms.” He laughed.
“The pento—pento what, Mr. Beck?” Helen said.
“The pentozali. It’s a Greek folk dance. It begins slowly and then gets quite energetic.”
“How fascinating,” replied Helen, with rather loud enthusiasm. “Maybe you could show us tomorrow.”
“How came you to learn a Greek dance, Mr. Beck?” inquired the Earl. “On your Grand Tour, I suppose?”
Christopher laughed again. “I wouldn’t call it that, sir. I lived in Greece for a while, working in the olive groves.”
“Indeed? Overseeing some family property?”
“No, sir. Picking olives.”
Monsieur de Montmorency murmured, “Naturellement,” and Gwendolyn found herself suddenly very glad that his boots had gotten ruin
ed.
“Olives!” said Lady Almira. “Once I nearly choked to death on a pit, and somebody clapped me on the back so hard I’m afraid I quite spat it out and it bounced onto someone else’s plate, right into their boiled potatoes.”
Owen and Percy guffawed, Helen looked mortified, and the Earl said to Christopher, “How very interesting,” with such pleasant civility that Gwendolyn’s heart swelled with love for him all over again. The Duchess graciously extended the invitation to tea to the Earl and Monsieur de Montmorency, who both accepted; after which the party began to break up—those who were returning to the townhouse, and those who were going their separate ways elsewhere—and Gwendolyn took a moment, as she and the Earl said their goodbyes, to add:
“I’m so looking forward to the Aymesburtons’ ball tonight.”
“As am I, my love.”
Later, preparing for the ball, Gwendolyn said to her maid Lizzie, “I’d like to wear the white net and satin gown, please—the one with the blue trim and the little row of points below the bodice.”
Lizzie answered, a little doubtfully, “You wore that just last week, miss. Are you sure?”
“Oh yes, it’s one of my favorites.” When Lizzie still looked hesitant, Gwendolyn laughed. “I know, it’s dreadfully unfashionable to be seen in the same gown! But I don’t care.”
“As you like, miss.” Lizzie went over to the capacious oak armoire and carefully took from it the frock, then laid it on the bed till Gwendolyn was ready to put it on. “It is lovely, miss, it’s easy to see why you favor it so.” She returned to where Gwendolyn sat at her dressing-table, and went on, “How would you like to do your hair, miss?”
Gwendolyn smiled at Lizzie in the mirror’s reflection. “You do take such very good care of me, Lizzie. You’re right to try and set me straight, you know. I’m afraid I’m a stubborn, troublesome mistress to you.”
“Oh, no, not a bit of it, miss,” exclaimed Lizzie, her round, pleasant face flushing up beneath her white ruffled cap. “You’re ever so easy and kind, truly you are.”