“I imagine Lord Bevington and his wife have departed?”
“They left yesterday morning.”
“Such a handsome man he is, and I believe the countess is known to you?”
“Lady Serena is one of Caroline’s particular friends. As she has stayed here more than once, I am surprised you do not recall.”
Lady Heathcote waved a hand. “One forgets these things, especially when there are so many interesting and well-connected people with which to spend one’s time. I suppose Lord Londonberry has left also?”
“He had business in the north.”
“Ah. A pity, but I suppose one cannot keep busy men from their duties.” Her expression revealed disappointment, leading Cecy to recall one of Caro’s more blunt comments that Lady Heathcote was as desperate to secure a well-titled husband for Sophia as she was to see Stephen marry money. Perhaps Lady Heathcote thought the Aynsley connections would lead to one sooner.
“And how is poor dear Verity? I understand she was a trifle hurt on the wedding day.”
“She is resting,” Mama said, with an intonation that suggested she did not wish for further discussion of the matter.
Which apparently Lady Heathcote missed as she sighed. “It never fails to astonish me how so very likely it is for calamities to occur when one has something most particular to attend to. Such lack of consideration for others is truly astonishing.”
Cecy swallowed a smile as Mama stiffened. Did Lady Heathcote not hear her own astonishing lack of consideration in her words about Verity?
Before Mama could say anything cutting she murmured, “Such things are indeed a mystery.”
The soft answer seemed to turn away Mama’s appearance of wrath, as did Lady Heathcote’s quick enquiry about whether Mother had any inclination to attend the seaside this year, which led to a discussion about the merits of Brighton versus Worthing.
Cecy was content to listen, relieved to see acrimony put aside, glad to glean from Mother’s conversation that “after all the excitement of the past six months” a visit to the seaside might be postponed this year. No visit meant she would not be forced to encounter fellow debutantes and struggle to remember their names, or pretend to find their silly conversations amusing, conversations that always ran on without her participation, her attempts to speak always talked over, leaving her feeling that her words as well as her presence might as well be dismissed. Wryness twisted her lips. It always seemed to be that way. Perhaps her role in life was always to be the listener …
“Miss Cecilia—” Stephen’s voice interrupted her musings. “I must say, I missed dancing with you at the ball.”
Had he? Her smile grew thin as she said in a low voice, “I don’t know how you could have missed me. I was the one sitting down for most of the evening.”
He flushed. “I … I don’t know how I overlooked you.”
“It is strange,” she agreed in a milder tone.
“I am sorry,” he said, in a voice that sounded genuine enough she was inclined to believe him. “When I looked for you, you had disappeared.”
Ah, that. He must have been seeking a dance whilst she’d been seeking her pillow and the chance to cry out her disappointment. “Oh, well …”
She glanced away, catching Lady Heathcote’s eye as their neighbor paused in her conversation with Mother. “I couldn’t help but notice poor Edward looked a little peaked. He has never really recovered from that incident last year, has he?”
“He seems quite well enough to me,” Cecy murmured, thinking of the way he had shifted boxes two days ago.
“Yes, well, you have always held a tendre for him, have you not dear Cecilia?”
Ice stole across her chest. Everyone knew?
“Mother,” Stephen interposed in an undervoice.
“Edward has always been a friend to my girls,” Mama said, eyeing Cecy sternly, “but anything more is quite, quite out of the question.”
“Forgive me.” Lady Heathcote smiled brightly, glancing between the two of them. “Have I spoken out of turn?”
It would certainly not be the first time. Cecy hitched up her now-brittle smile; she refused to lend weight to any suppositions by appearing the slightest bit discomposed. She drew in a deep breath. “Lady Heathcote, I assure you, he is but a friend.”
“Oh, but—”
Gathering her strength, Cecy interrupted, as others were so prone to do with her. “And I am sure you would agree that Mr. Amherst has suffered enough, and equally sure that no benefit can be gained by such speculation.” She forced her smile not to waver; she would have to practice patience, and forgiveness.
“But of course!” Lady Heathcote expostulated. “I truly wish the young man well. Dear Ned has been a good friend to you girls for as long as I can remember.”
“Indeed.” Mother’s glacial tone suggested she was less inclined to demonstrate compassion. But then, compassion and forgiveness were concepts she and Father had never had much time for; they did not believe in God so had less inclination to practice His ways.
Mother carefully steered the conversation to other matters—the latest royal scandals, the weather, the fashions from London worn so well by Lady Bevington—leading Stephen to lean closer. “Please forgive my mother, she is a little apt to speak without thinking at times.”
“As can we all.”
He smiled, the brown eyes holding entreaty. “Please, I would like to make it up to you.”
“There is nothing to make up for. As I said, Ned and I are but acquaintances.”
“And yet you call him Ned.”
“Just as I call you Stephen. We are not so dissimilar to being brother and sister, are we?”
“No.” But the expression in his eyes suggested he did not much care for the comparison. He said, in a lower voice still, “So, you do not care for him?”
“Save as a brother, no.” Her heart protested the lie. To cover it, she said, “I admit I find such a question rather impertinent.”
“Forgive me. I can only hope—but enough. I did not mean to give offense. And I trust you will overlook my ill manners and agree to my scheme.”
“What scheme is that?”
“You know with the midsummer festival how busy everyone is, and with Sophia still home from school I have made arrangements to see the spectacle in the village, and I wonder if you might like to attend also.”
“Oh.” She had little doubt what her mother would say. “That is very kind of you, but—”
“Has Stephen finally asked if you care to attend tonight’s proceedings, dear Cecilia?” Lady Heathcote interpolated. “I’m sure it will be quite fascinating, seeing just what the locals get up to.”
Cecy glanced at her mother. Her face gave no clues. “I am not sure—”
“Apparently there will be music, and dancing, and a little carnival,” Lady Heathcote continued, as if Cecy had not spoken. “Sophia has been quite insistent on seeing the merriments, and now that she is of an age where she might enjoy it, I saw no reason to say no. Girls are only young once, after all.”
Still Mother’s expression gave nothing away.
“We did not want to bother you before,” Lady Heathcote said, “because we knew you to be so busy with all the wedding preparations, and then poor Verity’s little accident put such things quite out of mind, at least for Sophia, for she would not wish to attend without her particular friend. ‘Mama,’ she said, ‘I have no wish to attend without poor Verity.’ But then when Stephen mentioned that you, dear Miss Cecilia, might wish to attend, well, we simply could not let another moment pass by without asking you.”
Cecy smothered a smile before saying quietly, “And would Sophia be amenable to attending without Verity should I go?”
“Oh, yes, of course. She is quite wild with delight at the prospect of attending,” said Lady Heathcote, clearly unconscious of the irony in her two very different pronouncements. “So you see it really behooves you to promise your attendance, Miss Cecilia.”
Th
is statement was concluded with a tinkle of laughter that grated Cecy’s ears; still, she kept the pleasant expression affixed.
“And what precisely will constitute the nature of your evening?” Mother asked, as if the thought of Cecy’s attendance was not completely impossible.
Cecy eyed her with misgiving. To attend the evening’s event would doubtless be interesting, and far more entertaining than one spent at home, but Cecy had no great liking for the Heathcotes, and would much prefer to attend with people she considered kindred spirits. Surely her mother’s adherence to their status—to Cecy’s conduct of strict propriety as a daughter of Aynsley—would not permit her to agree to this scheme.
“… carriage at all times … perfectly safe … have a meal at the Green Man … watch the bonfire …”
Cecy struggled to find much to anticipate in any of that. Granted, watching the bonfire might be somewhat exciting, and she did want to be safe, but to be stuck inside a carriage with Lady Heathcote and her children felt a heavy price to pay.
“Well, Cecilia?” Mother asked. “Do you wish to go?”
If she said no, she would be deemed as holding herself above such things and, more crucially, giving potential offense to Lady Heathcote, who had never before regarded her with so much as a smidge of affection. Why, after all this time, was Lady Heathcote desirous of Cecy’s company? But if she said yes, was she allowing herself to become embroiled with a family she could not truly like?
“Well?”
“Please, Miss Hatherleigh.” Stephen’s eyes held hope, his smile warm enough to thaw his mother’s ice. “Truly, we would enjoy your company.”
He seemed so keen. And wasn’t she supposed to be casting the vestiges of affection for Ned Amherst aside? Perhaps time with another young man would help her do so.
“Very well, then.”
“Excellent! We shall call for you around nine.”
“Excellent,” she murmured, curving her lips in an expression she hoped passed for a smile.
The night, the longest night of the year, held a strange quality, one tinged with raucous amusement as the villagers flung off their normal constraints and engaged in behavior more akin to what he’d expect to see in a bawdy London tavern than a quiet Somerset village. Ned stepped past a couple of young men engaged in a drinking game that appeared to be more about how quickly they could consume the oversize tankards than for any real enjoyment of the liquid, the contents sloshing out onto their shirtfronts.
The houses lining the streets were decorated with garlands and wreaths of green birch, long fennel, Madonna lilies, and the yellow St. John’s Wort—herbs and flowers symbols that harkened back to an earlier age, when people placed trust in such things to purify and protect. If only they trusted the Creator, not merely the products of His creation.
“Watch out!”
Ned stepped back as a burly farmer wove past him into the darkness, chased seconds later by a rotund man.
Around him came the shouts and drunken laughter of more inhabitants than he knew the town possessed, the farmworkers and shopkeepers rubbing shoulders with those more gently born. Ahead, in a field beyond the church, loomed the bonfire—massed not of bones, as the bonefire originally was, but of great clumps of dried branches and twigs—something sure to be a sight when it was finally set alight.
The air held a menace, one perhaps perpetuated by the swarthy faces that indicated the travelers had come to town, those men and women from a land far away who made their living from producing carnival entertainments. He held nothing against such people, and wondered if the mutters about their thievery and skullduggery tended to be little more than opportunistic gossip. Regardless, he knew it would be wise to watch his coin tonight, and prevent his pockets from being plucked.
He pushed into the Green Man, Aynsley’s little tavern, nodding to the various men he recognized, aware from their upraised brows and startled exclamations that his presence was a surprise. Why he had come tonight he knew not, save that he had felt another of those strange promptings to attend, a prompting he was learning to obey as he sought God’s guidance for each day. Besides, he had no desire to be home, wondering how best to employ his time, when his brother had made his intentions known.
“But John, surely it befits neither you nor our rank to associate with such people tonight?” His mother had worn a look of anxiety that mitigated her pompous-sounding words. “I do not want you getting into the kinds of straits that—” She’d swallowed.
“That I got into before,” Ned finished for her.
“Oh, Edward, my dear …”
“I will certainly never bring disgrace to this family,” John said, ignoring her look of entreaty. “No, Mother, I will be perfectly safe, you will see.” As if he did not want to linger with her pleadings, he pushed his chair out and stood. “I shall go now. See you tomorrow.”
And with a kiss on her brow and muttered farewells for Father and nothing for Ned, he had left.
Leaving Ned to face his mother’s soft look of dismay. “I will endeavor to keep him safe.”
“Would you? I … I do not know why I feel anxious tonight, but I do. And I cannot help but think John’s obstinacy is fraught with potential for danger. He’s likely to do something foolish simply because he’s advised not to and wants to prove the person wrong.”
Father grunted. “But he is not a child, Miranda. He needs to learn and not be cossetted all the time.”
His father offered Ned a small smile which eased the tension lining his heart. Well he knew his actions last year had grieved his father, but he also sensed his father’s great acceptance, indeed even a tiny strain of pride, that Ned had experienced and learned from his mistakes, rather than living according to life’s prescribed parameters.
His own smile faded as he finished off his glass and the mutton pie, glancing around the tavern. John was still nowhere to be seen.
The doors pushed open and Stephen Heathcote strode in, acting for all intents and purposes as if he owned the place. “A table,” he requested of the publican, despite the fact no empty tables were to be seen. Ned was half inclined to offer his own when in walked Lady Heathcote, her daughter, and Cecilia Hatherleigh.
A hush drifted through the room. What was she doing here? Why was she with him? Didn’t they know what sorts of mischief nights like tonight were prone to bring? He could understand her scamp of a little sister wishing to attend the revelries, but not shy, sweet Cecilia.
He rose from his seat and met her startled gaze before Stephen pushed in front, blocking her from Ned’s view. “Amherst.”
“Heathcote.” He offered a nod, which seemed reluctantly reciprocated.
“Might’ve known you’d be here.”
Why? Because he’d once had a reputation for such things in London? He gritted out a smile. “I’m surprised to see you here, especially with your fair companions.” He offered the fair companions a small bow. “Good evening, ladies.”
Lady Heathcote nodded, Sophia giggled, and Cecilia blushed and lowered her eyes.
Ned turned to Heathcote. “There is a private room available. You might find the ladies feel more comfortable there.”
“I don’t need you telling me what to do.”
“I’m sure you don’t. But I feel certain Miss Hatherleigh would prefer to be away from prying eyes.”
Heathcote flushed, but turned to mutter something to his mother before striding to speak urgently to the publican, who shook his head.
Ned moved closer to Cecilia, saying in a voice he hoped Lady Heathcote could not hear, “I’m surprised that you are here tonight.”
“Verity was the original guest, or so I’m led to believe. But with her injury she cannot attend.”
“Of course. How is she?”
“She is not happy to be missing out on what she considers a great treat, but I have promised her most faithfully to report everything I see and do upon my return.”
“I see.” Heathcote was pushing some coins at the publican
now. Ned had, perhaps, another minute. “I am most surprised that you won your parents’ permission. I would not have expected them to approve such things.”
“Lady Heathcote can be quite … persuasive when she chooses.”
And she had chosen to include Cecilia as part of the Heathcote party. The reasoning was plain. Ned felt an arrow of protectiveness pierce within. Did the man have any care for Cecilia, or was her inclusion tonight more about his mother’s care for Cecilia’s dowry?
“If you are uncomfortable at all—”
“Why should she be uncomfortable?” Heathcote interrupted, his frown smoothing as he turned to Cecilia. “I have secured us a private parlor. If you would care to join me.” He held out an arm to Cecilia, before tossing off a good-night to Ned that left him in no two minds about Heathcote’s sentiments towards him.
Ned squared his shoulders as he watched the ladies depart, Cecilia disappearing through the doors without a backward glance. Disquiet teased within. Seemed his vigil tonight would not merely be for his brother, after all.
CHAPTER FOUR
MIDSUMMER NIGHT proved vastly overwhelming, every experience so raw and new. But perhaps that was simply the effect of seeing Ned’s disapprobation, and knowing herself to have somehow disappointed him, as evidenced by his questions earlier about her parents’ approval of her attendance at tonight’s proceedings. Not that he had any right to judge. If he was so concerned about her being here, then why was he?
But still, the thought that he did not like such things made her foolish heart whisper stupid hope that his actions resulted from concern for her, misplaced as it had been.
The Heathcotes were quite solicitous towards her, Stephen especially so, and since the clamor and smoke of the tavern had largely been shut out as they ate in the private parlor, there had been little reason to think the experience very strange. Indeed, their conversation had proved so innocuous, she had felt herself relax and begin to enjoy the evening.
Until they reentered the street. The night had grown darker, the noise louder, the people even less inhibited than before. Stephen drew her closer as they walked to the carnival, glowing torches casting sinister shadows over dark and unfamiliar faces. Fear trickled through her veins, but she would not admit to it, not even when Stephen enquired after her every few minutes. The heroines of her novels would not let fear stop them, and neither would she hide away and give Verity disgust of her. But she couldn’t help anticipate the moment when she would finally be in bed, away from the hurly-burly of the festivities.
Underestimating Miss Cecilia Page 4