by Ella Edon
I never imagined a dance could feel like this.
The music changed, the middle movement livelier, the music brighter, more playful. They drifted around the corner of the dance floor, and then back to the side they started on. Raymonde felt her skirts whisper about her ankles, flowing with the speed of the dance.
“It’s nice music,” the Lieutenant said.
“Sorry?” Raymonde frowned, not sure she’d heard correctly.
“The music is nice,” the Lieutenant repeated softly. “Not like some dances. They can sometimes be so gloomy.”
She smiled. “I know. I like minuets. It’s hard to find a gloomy one, isn’t it?”
“That’s why you don’t play sonatas?” He was smiling at her.
“Yes,” she said, unable to stop smiling. “That’s exactly why. I can’t bear sad music. There’s more than enough misery in the world without making more.” She nodded emphatically.
“I agree.”
He wasn’t smiling anymore, she noticed. His face was set, eyes sad. She wondered if he was thinking about the war. She made a mental note to try and find out more about his military career. The music returned to the minor key of the first movement, the tune similar to the first one. She stepped around the side of the dance floor and the ending cadence sounded. He bowed.
Sketching a low curtsey, Raymonde straightened up. His face was right before hers. His eyes looked into hers, and there was a question in them. His lips were inches from hers.
Raymonde swallowed hard, letting her gaze fall. She focused on the silk fabric of his cravat, ignoring the impulse she felt to kiss him. She blushed.
How can I be thinking like this?
She looked up into his eyes. He was still looking at her with that fervent sweetness. She felt her stomach tighten and she cleared her throat quickly.
“Shall we go and sit down?”
He blinked, as if he had been elsewhere in thought. He nodded. “Yes. We should, shouldn’t we? It’s a bit hot here.”
They made their way off the dance floor to where the seats were set out. Raymonde blushed, noticing that almost all the other couples had already moved off. They were almost the last couple still there.
They sat down on the chaise-lounge. A mournful piece started up as the dance began. She smiled at Wingate, who grinned back.
“It’s one of those miserable damned things again,” he said with a chuckle. “Beg your pardon – excuse my swearing.”
“By all means,” she said and tried to keep a stern face, though she wanted very badly to smile. “I reckon it’s quite common in the army.”
“You wouldn’t believe it,” he grinned. “There’s words bandied around there I’d never heard in my life! Real whizzers, enough to make your ears burn off.”
She laughed. It felt so natural talking to him, so easy. And dancing with him had been effortless, like nothing she’d experienced. It felt as if they were one person, they moved so easily. She had never imagined that it could be so pleasant and natural to spend time with anyone.
“Would you like to take some air?” he asked.
“Um, mayhap,” she said guardedly. There was something in his expression that made her feel a little alert – one brow lifted, a frown on his face. He seemed agitated about something and she felt uncertain. She also felt a little excited. Did he have a reason to wish to see her on her own?
“I would be pleased to escort you,” he said, and stood, bending one arm, so she could place her hand in his elbow to steady herself.
She slipped her hand into the crook of his arm, feeling her face flush.
The air was definitely cooler outside, the soft sweetness of it settling on her skin. She leaned on the rail, listening to the sounds around them. The garden was alive with the soft hisses and chirps of the wind and night creatures. The terrace was a flurry of whispers, delicate laughter falling like rain where the couples stood and talked. They were by far not the only ones, seeking some cool and privacy.
Raymonde looked out into the shrubs. As she did so, she fancied she saw someone move. She peered into the darkness. Whatever it was had stilled. She saw a slight movement again and looked back there. She tensed.
Under the big tree, just behind the mass of box-trees and flowering privet that grew there, was a man. At least, when looked at carefully, the shadow that she saw there was certainly man-shaped; somewhat of the same height as Cutler Wingate or slightly taller. As she watched, the man stepped back and disappeared into the shadow of the tree.
Odd, she thought. She shivered. Cutler was looking out towards the rose-arbor; he hadn’t seen the form, or the movement she’d detected. She didn’t know whether or not to mention it. She was still half-sure that it was a trick of the light, and after all, Cutler hadn’t noticed anyone moving.
Mayhap I imagined it.
“A fine evening, is it not?” Cutler asked. “Though a trifle warm in there.”
“It’s cooler here,” she noted, feeling the stone of the railing under her forearms. About ten other couples were outside, she counted, talking and laughing. The scent of champagne mingled with the smell of cologne. It was not as fresh out here as it had been half an hour ago.
“Should we see the rest of the garden?” Cutler asked, making her eyes widen in surprise. “I’ve heard the water-garden is stunning, at night.”
Raymonde went red.
“We could take a short walk to the rose-garden,” she murmured. “The water-garden is too far.”
“I understand,” he said, acknowledging her fear that what he suggested could seem improper.
“Yes.”
They both fell silent. She followed him down the steps to the pathway, cheeks burning. It was irregular, what they did: sneaking off into the garden was highly inappropriate. And yet, she thought, with him it felt normal. It seemed as if they did this sort of thing most days. The sounds of the nighttime garden closed around her and her heart thumped excitedly.
“I hope the pathway isn’t too perilous at night,” Cutler said, pausing so that she could catch up with him. “It’s not too hard to see these white stones, though. Makes it simpler.”
“Yes,” Raymonde said.
“In Spain, the cities were easy to sneak up on – the walled cities. The walls were often painted white. It made it easier to locate them at night.”
“I see,” Raymonde answered. She felt a flutter of interest inside her. She imagined him sneaking about in the Spanish landscape, dressed in his uniform. She realized that this was the first mention he’d made of which country he’d been in.
“Yes. Silly, really. I’m getting worse than Major Greenford. He was always hammering on about his time in India. If I don’t hold myself back, I’ll end up as frightful a bore as him.”
“You’re never boring!” she said at once.
“Thank you.”
Again, there was a strange moment as their eyes met and held. Raymonde felt her skin prickle. Suddenly, she was acutely aware of the danger of being out here. She’d let a gentleman – one who was not necessarily even a man of rank – persuade her to do something against all propriety. Now here she was, trapped in the garden with him, without anyone knowing where she was.
“We should go,” she said, hearing how her own voice trembled.
“We should,” he agreed. “I wanted to say something to you.”
“Then say it, if you please.” She heard how her own voice was ragged and schooled it to neutrality. “Excuse me, sir.” She was tense, and she couldn’t explain exactly why: just that all of a sudden, she’d recalled Osburne telling her that other men would only use her and discard her.
Nobody would really be interested in you. If they did, trust me, they’d use you and walk away. Nobody is interested in women like you, except for one reason. All you can rely on is me.
If he’d brought her out here, he must have dishonorable thoughts in mind.
“I’m sorry,” he said. She waited for a long moment, and then looked up at him.
“You had something to say?” she asked. Her voice was a whisper. “It isn’t proper for me to be here, you know.”
“I did. I’m sorry. In the woods, the other day. I misbehaved. I must have scared you terribly. I apologize. It wasn’t intentional.”
“I see,” she said. He wasn’t looking at her, but had his eyes focused on the ground.
“I was foolish. I would love to explain more, but… No.” He looked into her eyes, then away, a nervous gesture. “It’s sufficient for me to say I regret it. Profoundly.”
“Yes,” she said. She felt stung. What was he hiding from her? Was that really all he’d thought, when he’d brought her out here alone? Or was he simply saying that now that she had mentioned her suspicions? She cleared her throat. “Well, if that is all you wished to say, I will return to the house. Excuse me, sir.”
“If you will,” he said softly. He stepped out of the way without words. She moved so that she stood opposite him, her feet on the pathway back in.
“Goodnight, Lieutenant,” she said firmly. She was impressed that she managed to say it without the slightest waver in her voice. Her eyes were cloudy.
My brother was right. Nobody would really pay me any interest. Their motivation would be shallow and dishonest.
“Goodnight, Lady Raymonde.”
It was only as she walked back to the ballroom, eyes blinking rapidly, that she realized that, for some strange reason, she was crying.
A pox on the fellow, she thought to herself, with some annoyance. Who was he to cause her such tears? She was done, she thought, sniffing, with men who made her cry. No, from now on her life was going to be her own, wherever it led her.
She was done with people whose motives she could not understand.
Chapter Seven
A Thoughtful Pause
The night was quiet, the sound broken only by the gentle chirp of crickets. The air smelled of wet grass and loam – exciting and cool. Cutler breathed in the scents that drifted in through the open window of his bedroom, and let the quietness settle his restless spirit.
Why did she suddenly turn away?
He bit his lip. He had no understanding of things like this! Society and the interactions within it were a great mystery to him. He’d been raised by the steward, Mr. Hanford, out on the family property on the edge of the estate and he’d had no experience of balls and parties. After that, the commission for the army had arrived. He’d been preparing for Cambridge – even Mr. Hanford had to agree he was more than talented enough to excel there – when the letter came to the house.
“And then I was off to Spain,” he observed.
It was one of the details of his life that puzzled him more each day. His uncle had bought him the commission, he’d been told. At the time, he’d thought the man was doing him a kindness – impossible though that might seem. Now, he realized the opposite was true.
Spain was a bloodbath.
The fiercest fighting had broken out there, horrors perpetrated that were unlike any seen in any other conflict against Napoleon. The commission, which had seemed so generous, had been a death sentence.
Now, he wasn’t too sure if that was not intended.
Stop it, Cutler. That’s just a case of being too suspicious.
Why would anyone choose to kill him, and then take such pains to do it secretively?
He heard a knock at the door, startling him out of his thoughts.
“Sir?”
It was Arthur, and he was surprised by how deferential he sounded. Arthur was usually as frank and downright disrespectful as anybody could be. He cleared his throat.
“Come in, Arthur,” he called. “What is it?”
Arthur came in, carrying a bucket of coal for the fire. He nodded to Cutler and set the bucket down by the fireplace, beginning with the task of shoveling it in, seemingly oblivious to Cutler’s presence.
“A fine evening, eh, sir?” he asked.
“In a manner of speaking,” Cutler said tightly. He was not feeling particularly cheerful, and he didn’t have the strength to hide it. Arthur knew him well and understood his moods better than anyone.
“It is, it is…” Arthur affirmed, continuing with his duties of brushing out the fireplace. “And a fine time to sit up here being moribund, eh?”
“You can keep your personal comments to yourself,” Cutler snapped.
Arthur shrugged, and continued to shovel coal, seeming not to hear. “Aye, well…it’s not your fault being moribund, eh, sir? I reckon you have enough to worry you. And that lass and all…”
“What lass?” Cutler asked, with more than necessary anger. “Are you trying to insinuate something?”
“Insinuate, eh?” Arthur bit his lip thoughtfully. “There’s a word, sir. No…I wasn’t insinuating anything. I was just saying that it’s a shame for you to be moping up here when the lass is down in the hallway, looking about as mopey as you.”
“She is?” Cutler was interested, in spite of himself. If he thought Lady Raymonde looked miserable, then he was more than interested to hear about it.
Arthur went back to cleaning the fireplace, talking seemingly at random.
“Aye,” he said, scrubbing the tiles with unnecessary force. “She seems a lovely lass. It’s a pity she’s so standoffish. Makes me think that somebody was giving her a hard time, in the past.”
“A hard time?” Cutler was intrigued, despite himself.
“It stands to reason, doesn’t it, sir?” Arthur asked, reaching for the hearth rug, which he dragged back into place. “I mean, the lass seems not to know where to put herself in social situations. She’s so nervous. It seems to me as if somebody has spent years lambasting her. You know – do this, do that, don’t do this…” He shook his head.
“You have evidence of this?” Cutler asked sharply. “I mean…you know something of her past?”
Arthur breathed in. “Just a thought I had.” He shrugged. “Well, that, and I was talking to her maidservant – just in passing, so you don’t need to make eyes at me like that – and she said that Lady Raymonde had always been so shy and quiet, and that it was a shame she had been so badly scared. I don’t know any more about it.”
“I see.”
Cutler nodded slowly. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that Arthur was right. The standoffish way Raymonde behaved tallied very well with somebody who had suffered a lot of cruelty. He had a man in the ranks who had suffered under a dominating father – the poor fellow could barely lift his eyes to another person.
He felt foolish for not having noticed it in her.
“Yes, well,” he said, as Arthur gathered up his things, heading out of the room again. “You could be right. I will go for a walk, I think,” he added, standing up. “If you could set out my evening-coat?”
“Yes, sir.”
The moment Arthur had gone, Cutler shrugged his jacket on and headed out. He could barely admit, even to himself, that he was going in search of Raymonde.
He blushed. He recalled the way she’d approached him that first day, holding out the handkerchief, touching the blood on his forehead as if it were nothing more than a scratch. She’d been gentle and forthright from that moment. He had never been affected by anything as much as he was by that strong, gentle face.
The way she changed so suddenly was bothering him more and more. He was starting to wonder if Arthur was right – somebody who could be so trusting and then could withdraw so swiftly…there was something odd about her past.
She has suffered too. I’m sure of it.
He shook his head at himself. He wished he could simply be annoyed about her changeability, but now he was angry with himself for not having considered it more objectively. .
When he reached the drawing-room, he paused. The terrace was still crowded, people leaning on the balcony, staring out at the darkened garden, but he could see no sign of Raymonde there. He breathed deeply, to steady himself.
I should go and find Luke.
Wher
ever Luke and Emilia were, the rest of the guests would be. He made himself walk up the steps and into the crowded hall.
He found himself staring straight at Raymonde.
In her dark-blue dress, her hair loosened from its severe style, she was standing with a group, smiling and nodding as somebody spoke. His first feeling was of affront. He watched her interacting, seemingly truly at her ease with them.