by Valerie King
“Madeline,” her father called to her. “We must go.”
“Yes, Papa.” She turned to her beaus and offered her hand to each. Though Captain Bladen and Mr. Calvert were satisfied merely to press her fingers, Harris could not resist the opportunity to salute her fingers with a lingering kiss. She finally had to withdraw her hand from his firmly.
“It is rumored,” Mr. Calvert said, “that Sir Roger has been invited to attend the harvest ball.”
“Yes, it is true.”
The gentlemen exchanged glances.
“Madeline,” her father’s voice was sharp.
“I must go.”
The gentlemen prevented her no further, but bowed her away.
Once aboard the coach, Madeline watched intently as the conveyance swept past The Bear. She searched the windows carefully for the smallest glimpse of him, but her efforts went unrewarded. She leaned back against the squabs, her mind wrapping itself instantly about the task ahead of her. She felt it absolutely requisite that she beg for a minute or two of his time to lay her case before him. If he could but see her remorse and her misery, he would more readily believe what she had to say to him.
She set a servant to keep watch on the lane leading from Chilchester to Pelworthy so that she might know when Sir Roger returned to his home. Once the servant arrived at Fairlight with word that Sir Roger had indeed been seen heading in the direction of Pelworthy, she had the same servant take a brief note to the castle, requesting that Sir Roger meet her at the bridge at Halland Creek. Once the servant had disappeared into the lane, again on horseback, she began the one and a half mile march to the bridge.
She waited there over an hour, her heart in a constant state of fretting mingled with the sweetest sensations of lovesickness, until finally she saw a figure coming toward her. How desolate she was when she recognized not Sir Roger but his liveried servant, bearing a note in hand. He approached her in the self-conscious manner of a person delivering unhappy news. He bowed formally, gave her the missive, then turned abruptly on his heel and began walking back up the hill.
Madeline fingered the fine vellum, but even before she broke the seal, tears had already plopped onto her name, the ink immediately smearing and running. Her heart was so heavy that it seemed to have weighed down her feet in equal measure, for she had never felt so lethargic as she turned in the direction of Fairlight and began retracing her steps. She did not open the missive at once, already certain of its contents, but only did so after a half mile had been crossed. She sat on a fallen log beside the grassy lane, broke the seal, and began to read.
Dear Miss Piper,
I hope you will forgive me for not agreeing to meet with you, but I do not believe there is anything that can be said at this juncture to alter the very deep truths of our situation. I wish you every happiness.
S.R. Mathieson
Worse and worse, she thought. He was convinced she was beyond redemption and she had little doubt that with every day that passed, his heart would grow increasingly dead to her. She must do something, and for a moment she considered laying siege to the castle until he did agree to speak with her, but this she dismissed. Her words, it would seem, would not be nearly sufficient to persuade him that she was different, changed. Of that she was convinced. No, words would not suffice. She must make a grander gesture, something that would snag his attention fully, something that would demonstrate the nature of her new heart, something that would allow for discussion and hopefully renewed trust.
Only what? Denied the opportunity to see him or speak with him, how was she to win his heart anew?
She left the log and continued her journey home. For much of the trip, her mind remained completely unresponsive, and only the most banal notions occurred to her, like sending her father to speak to him, or writing him a succession of letters which he might or might not read, or even waiting by the barbican until he should chance upon her.
In the end, she dismissed them all, wondering if she would ever concoct precisely the right method by which she might reveal her reformed thoughts and attitudes. She did not despair precisely, but how was she to win the heart of a Scot?
The moment her mind brought forward his heritage, a notion so stunning followed that she nearly tripped in her steps. She knew now precisely what she must do, and the moment she arrived at Fairlight, she went to her father, begging permission to travel to London immediately.
When he heard her reasons, he smiled broadly, nodded his assent, and bid her good hunting. “But will you have returned in time for Lady Cottingford’s fete? We should not offer a slight on this, our first invitation to her harvest ball.”
“Never fear Papa,” she responded gaily as she quit the room. “I shall run all the way home if need be.”
“I shouldn’t do that,” he said. “You will be too exhausted to dance otherwise.”
~ ~ ~
As it happened, Madeline returned on Saturday from London with but two hours to spare. She was sore from having been jumbled about in a carriage for so many rigorous miles on end, but had succeeded in her object so much to her satisfaction that she could not complain. Her sisters were all agog to see what it was that had sent her to the metropolis in the first place, so much so that when the footman brought a large package into the entrance hall and handed it to her, they clustered about her like hens gathered about a fresh throw of seed.
Prudence began plucking at the brown paper.
“You may not look.” Madeline said, gathering up the bulky package more securely in her arms and beginning to mount the stairs. “But if you will send my maid to my room, you shall very soon have your curiosity satisfied.”
She heard her sisters groan behind her and made her way to her bedchamber.
An hour and a half later, she emerged, bathed, coiffed, and gowned, to make her way to the drawing mom, where she knew her family awaited her. She was horridly nervous, for what she had done was beyond daring, even perhaps beyond the pale. But as she thought of Sir Roger and the manner in which she had used him so very ill over the past three weeks, her resolve strengthened. He would understand this particular gesture, even if no one else did. That her abigail had nearly fainted at the sight of the gown had not helped to calm her nerves, but what was done was done, and unless she actually incited a riot or gave extreme offense to her hostess, she meant to attend the harvest ball as she was.
When at last she arrived on the threshold of the drawing room, she waited until all eyes turned upon her before advancing farther. She saw the gaping stares and heard the gasps of shock. She was not surprised.
Her father, however, hushed any comments that sprang to her sisters’ lips with a quickly lifted hand and instead rose to greet her. “I think it perfection. Absolute perfection. I only wonder how you had it made up in time.”
“It was something of a difficulty and, though I hope you will not faint, I fear it cost you two hundred pounds.”
Though he gulped visibly and her sisters gasped anew, still he did not hesitate, but held his hand out to her and said, “Now let me see you move in a circle, for I believe it sports a demi-train.”
Madeline took his hand, and he guided her in walking in a large circle so that all the Piper sisters could see the pleated train. One and all, they marveled at the workmanship of the unusual gown.
“But it is made of wool,” Hope said. “Will you not be dreadfully hot this evening?”
“Only the overdress is in wool,” she responded. “The rest is silk, so I should not be too uncomfortable.”
“And you did this for Sir Roger?” Prudence asked, her eyes glowing.
Madeline smiled. “Yes, of course. I believe I owed him that much for all the insults I have given him during the past six months.”
“I would wager a thousand pounds you never spoke a harsh word to him,” Charity said, frowning. “So how do you say you insulted him?”
How, indeed? “With every gesture, every pause in a given sentence, every toss of my head. Insults are not
always delivered exclusively by the tongue.”
Charity, the least able of her sisters to grasp subtleties, nodded several times, then finally said, “You love him, then.”
“Yes, very much.”
Hope, the youngest said, “Well you must, to be making such a cake of yourself tonight.”
Having summed up the entire purpose of wearing a gown with an overdress made up exclusively of wool tartan in as close a match to the tartan of Sir Roger’s kilt as she could find, Madeline burst out laughing. “You are so very right, Hope,” she responded, “You have no idea.”
With that, the family enjoyed a dinner together, after which Madeline joined her father in the traveling coach and began the nearly ten-mile journey to Ovinghurst Hall.
~ ~ ~
“Good God.” the Duke of Wellington said.
Sir Roger had been conversing with the duke when he suddenly saw something to his right that took him vastly by surprise. “What is . . . it?” Sir Roger queried, but the words faded on his tongue. He had never been so shocked, so stunned in his entire existence.
Madeline had arrived with her father, and they were presently being announced at the top of the ballroom’s flight of stairs. “Mr. Horace Piper, Miss Madeline Piper.” The butler’s sonorous tones alone might have brought all conversation in the expansive ballroom to a halt, but there was no doubt in Sir Roger’s mind that it was Madeline, or more precisely her gown, that had caused every mouth to fall agape and every sentence to drop unfinished to the floor.
“What does she mean by it?” Wellington asked.
Around him Sir Roger heard a humming of similarly posed questions from, it would seem, the entire assemblage.
“I believe it may be an apology,” Sir Roger said. “And a very grand one, at that.”
“Is this the lady of whose beauty I have heard such extensive accounts?” he inquired, eyeing Sir Roger with a smile.
“She would be the one.”
“Then I say you are a fool to let her go.”
“I begin to think you may be right.” Still, he did not move forward to greet her. He watched, stupefied, as she made a very regal descent into the body of the revelers. Her father leaned near her more than once, undoubtedly to whisper encouragements, but she did not seem to be in the least overset. Instead, she let her gaze drift in some indifference over the crowd, all watching her and murmuring still, until she found him. Only then did she smile.
“My God,” Wellington murmured, “I should have taken the Peninsula five years earlier had I such a smile to return to.”
Sir Roger could only chuckle at the absurd remark, and yet he himself had observed more than once that when Madeline Piper smiled it was as though the whole heavens began to sing.
The crowd parted for them. He doubted she knew many of Lady Cottingford’s guests, so to him was given the pleasure of greeting her.
Madeline’s heart was fairly pounding in her chest. Certainly she was a trifle agitated at having caused such a stir, but that was not the source of her increased heart rate. Indeed, the poor organ seemed to have been having some difficulty in being restrained within her chest from the moment her gaze settled upon the man she loved. Her eyes were only for him, her feet could have made their way in no other direction, and her pulse sang exclusively for him.
She responded politely to his greeting and was even able to manage a proper curtsy and a civil, “Your grace,” when presented to the Duke of Wellington. Even meeting this most famous soldier, her nerves were steadier than when she but looked at Sir Roger Mathieson.
The duke seemed amused, though she was not certain why. She watched him give Sir Roger a nudge, which prompted the knight to speak. “I beg your pardon, Miss Piper. I believe his grace has reminded me of my duty. Would you honor me with the next dance? It is a waltz, I believe.”
“I should be delighted,” she said. When he offered his arm, she took it happily. She had achieved at least this, then—by wearing a shocking gown of tartan, Sir Roger had been sufficiently moved to ask her to dance. The trip to London had been worth, she was certain, at least a score of apologetic letters that would have undoubtedly been returned to her unopened.
As he guided her toward the ballroom floor, he murmured, “I believe you have nearly caused at least a dozen ladies to faint. However did you manage to summon the pluck to actually wear that gown?”
“I was resolved, sir,” she responded quietly. “I was convinced you would not speak to me again unless I showed you how greatly my sentiments, indeed, my opinions have been altered by my having known you.”
He led her to a place on the floor in which several couples were now positioned, waiting for the waltz to commence. If their eyes were fixed not on each other but on her, upon the demi-train she had gathered up with the loop attached for that purpose at the side of the gown, upon the pleated swirl of tartan her maid had fixed earlier among her golden curls, upon the man taking her in his arms who was known to be of Scottish descent, she could hardly proclaim her surprise.
However, in this moment, Madeline found she did not care. She was in Sir Roger’s arms, if only dancing, and there was no place else she wished to be, now or forever. She tried not to think of the future or whether though he might value this gesture he would still remain untrusting of her heart. Instead, she concentrated quite profoundly on enjoying every moment of the swirling, up and back, round and round, of the progress of the dance, of the color of his eyes, and the way he always looked so fiercely at her.
“Your thoughts, Sir Roger?” she asked bravely at last.
His smile was slow and determined. “That you are either one of the bravest ladies I have ever known or you have gone mad.”
She laughed. “Neither, I fear or hope as the case warrants. I had but one object, as you must know, to demonstrate that your words have had an effect, a very profound influence, upon my thoughts and beliefs.”
“So it would seem,” he murmured, gazing deeply into her eyes.
Up and back, round and round. The swirling movements heightened the exhilaration now coursing through Madeline’s veins. He did not seem angry. Speculative perhaps, questioning, of course, as was to be expected. However, her gown of tartan had achieved so much more than she had expected. At the very most, she had hoped for a conversation, but this, being swept about Lady Cottingford’s magnificent ballroom beneath the glow of three enormous chandeliers and in the arms of the man she loved, was almost beyond bearing in the sweetest sense possible.
He did not speak the remainder of the dance, but guided her perfectly about the floor, all the while looking at her, smiling at times and at others searching her face intently. For herself, she rested in the knowledge that she had done all she could for the present to ingratiate herself with him and that regardless of what happened in the future, she would have this moment of dancing with him to remember always.
At last, however, the dance drew to a close. Taking her firmly by the arm, he led her from the ballroom floor, through several antechambers, nodding to several acquaintances along the way, until the French glass doors to a broad terrace came into view. Madeline’s heart began to sing. He desired, for whatever reason, to be alone with her right now. She could not have asked for more than this, an opportunity to explain the purpose of her unusual gown and the exact nature of her present thoughts. She longed to tell him that she had since discovered how desperately she loved him, but she still was not certain if he would truly welcome the idea or not.
So it was that when he led her to the far end of the stone terrace, cloaked by several potted conifers, her heart had again begun to pound in her chest. She glanced at the countryside, the downs rising to the north. Even a glow of lights from Pelworthy was visible in the distance.
“Madeline,” he said, calling her attention back to him. When she turned toward him, he took her hands in his. “I must know,” he said, “what is in your heart that you would have risked so much in appearing in society in Scottish tartan.”
She
was not certain precisely where to begin or even when the words were spoken whether he would believe her or trust her. Tears filled her eyes, and a concerned frown slipped over his features. “I hardly know what to say to you, except that when you last spoke with me, you opened my eyes. I did not know, I did not understand the depths to which my mother’s prejudices lived within me. To say I have shed them completely would be a falsehood only in that I do not know the extent to which beliefs have been penetrated by her outmoded strictures. I can only promise that I have worked steadily, and will continue to do so, to change for the better how I view my heritage and the heritage of others.”
“This change seems so sudden. You must forgive me if I do not readily accept that it has happened. Indeed, I am tending to believe it now because of this extraordinary gown. However did you conceive of the notion?”
“You will find it a great irony that my mother once told me that before the new century she had heard of some famous Scottish ladies, the Misses Maxwell, who had had tartan gowns created for the purpose of showing Scottish patriotism. I can still see the twist of disgust on her face as well as her animadversions on the subject of the stupidity of the 1782 repeal of the 1746 Act for the Abolition and Proscription of Highland Dress. It was from their example that I chose to have this gown made up.”
“You could not have found tartan in Chilchester?” he asked, incredulous.
She chuckled. “No, not at all. I went to London.”
“Indeed?” His gaze grew increasingly intent. “All the way to the metropolis merely for a bit of Scottish plaid?”
“1 can think of few better reasons to have gone,” she responded, smiling, “particularly since you refused to meet me at Halland Creek. I had so much l wished to say to you, but I do not blame you in the least for being unwilling to hear me. My conduct was horrid in the extreme. I cannot think of it without feeling the worst mortification, for you were right on every score, and I would not have blamed you had you never acknowledged my existence again.”