by Farr, Diane
“I said it might have been unfortunate,” said Lady Ballymere testily. “All’s well that ends well.”
“Mama, I almost married him! And it was all your doing.” She dropped her hands and stared at her mother, anguished. “I did not know what you were about, but you surely did. You sold me to Sir James.”
Lady Ballymere stiffened. “Cynthia, really! Marriage is not slavery.”
“My life would have been a living hell.”
“Pooh! You exaggerate.”
“You don’t know.” Cynthia tried, and failed, to keep her voice from shaking. “You don’t know the things he did to me. The things he said. He had a... a penchant for extremely young girls. He told me so. And he seemed to think that my reserve, my aversion to being touched and kissed by him, was...” Her voice dropped to a shamed whisper. “Exciting.” Tears of revulsion welled in her eyes. “The more frightened I was, the better he liked it. He—he went out of his way to frighten me, Mama. To make certain that I loathed and feared him.” She shook her head in helpless horror. “I can’t tell you how it was. I have no words to explain such... such wickedness.”
Lady Ballymere looked genuinely aghast at this. “My poor darling! Is this true?”
“Of course it is true! Would I invent such a tale?”
Her mother wore the oddest expression; a mixture of shame and disbelief. “I cannot believe it,” she said in a low tone. She seemed to be talking to herself. “Oh, no. I cannot believe it.”
Cynthia was silent. It was obvious to her that her mother did, in fact, believe her. The words of denial were a reflex, no more.
Eventually Lady Ballymere lifted troubled eyes to hers. “Why did you not tell me at the time?”
It was Cynthia’s turn to look surprised. “I tried to tell you, Mama.”
Her mother almost flinched. It was true that Cynthia had tried to tell her. She must remember as clearly as Cynthia did, the times when Cynthia would beg her to listen and she would refuse, slamming out of the room while Cynthia collapsed in tears. At any rate, Lady Ballymere seemed unable to face the memory of those days. Her restless hands clasped tightly in her lap.
“Sir James’s death was a judgment on him, I daresay,” she said hurriedly. “To pass so suddenly, almost as if struck by the very hand of God—well! People whispered at the time that it was a judgment on him. His reputation, I think, was... unsavory. I liked him less and less, the more I saw of him. But indeed, child, I did not know the whole.”
“Mama, you should have known.” Cynthia took another deep breath, bracing herself to say what she must say. It was so hard, to criticize her mother! “You should have made it your business to know. You should have inquired on my behalf. Or you should have had Papa do so. Did you not know that Sir James made an offer for one of the Laxton girls, only a few years before we met him? And that she ran away to escape him?”
“That was only a rumor,” said Lady Ballymere defensively. “I thought it untrue. He paid court to her, to be sure, but she married Lord Mablethorpe directly afterward, and everyone said it was a love match—”
“But you knew the rumor?” Cynthia exclaimed. “You had heard it? Why, oh why, did you not investigate?”
“That will do,” said Lady Ballymere sharply. “Cynthia, you forget yourself. I have always had your best interests at heart. Sir James made a very handsome, very flattering, offer. His terms exceeded everything even contemplated, let alone proffered, by your other suitors. We were not in a position to turn down such a generous offer. Although,” she added hastily, “you may rest assured that we would have protected you somehow, had his behavior passed the bounds of decency.”
Cynthia gazed bleakly at her mother. “You would have done nothing. Once the knot was tied, you would have had no power to help me.” She lowered her eyes to her lap, afraid of displaying her rising anger. “You cared more for Sir James’s thirty thousand pounds than you cared for me.”
“Rubbish. And, besides, he had a great deal more than thirty thousand pounds,” said Lady Ballymere with asperity. “You would have been an exceedingly rich woman. Thirty thousand is merely what he agreed to pay in marriage settlements. Not, of course, that any amount of money would have compensated us, had he mistreated you. But he did not mistreat you.”
“Only because he did not, after all, marry me.”
“But he did not marry you,” snapped Lady Ballymere. “This is a fruitless discussion. You are bemoaning a fate that did not befall you.”
Cynthia gave a strangled little laugh. “That’s true,” she admitted. “What a pity that Sir James did not live to see our wedding day. Forgive me if I cannot extend the wish past that date, but had he survived the ceremony you would have had your thirty thousand. And I would have been free of all your expectations.”
Lady Ballymere gasped aloud. “Cynthia! You forget yourself.”
“I’m sorry, Mama.” She bit her lip, as surprised by her outburst as her mother had been. It was unlike her, to express herself sarcastically. “I do not mean to sound ungrateful or—or unfilial.”
“I should hope not.” Lady Ballymere fidgeted with the cuff of her dressing gown. “And you must not think we are ungrateful to you, by the way,” she added grudgingly. “It would have been a sacrifice, I know, for you to have married Sir James. Under the circumstances, I am glad you were spared. And although we had received only the first third of what he had promised, ten thousand pounds is still a considerable sum. Do not think us unappreciative.”
“Thank you, Mama,” said Cynthia hollowly.
Lady Ballymere’s voice softened. “But we—all of us—must sacrifice in the name of duty, dear child. It’s a hard world, I’m afraid. And hardest on females.”
“Yes. I know. That is the way of the world.” But why? She longed to ask, but knew there would be little point. Her mother would think she was complaining, and a well brought-up female did not grumble. So she gave her mother a strained smile and kept the rest of her questions to herself.
Lady Ballymere beamed affectionately at her daughter. “I do not think it unreasonable, my love, for you to prefer a husband who will treat you well. I am glad we have found a younger, kinder man for you this time.”
She meant John Ellsworth. Something like panic shot through Cynthia. She plucked at the edge of the coverlet, trying to organize her jumbled thoughts. “Mama,” she said hesitantly, “would it be so very dreadful if I did not marry Mr. Ellsworth? He may not offer for me, you know.”
Agitation propelled Lady Ballymere from her chair. She bounded to her feet with an agonized exclamation. “Cynthia, do not say so! Do not even think it. You must make more of an effort, my love.” She began pacing, her dressing gown swirling around her. “Mr. Ellsworth is very young. Young men require encouragement. Your standoffishness may work very well with older men, men who have found their way in the world. Older men appreciate a challenge. But you cannot keep a man like Mr. Ellsworth at a distance and expect to win his affections.”
“I do not wish to win his affections.”
The statement came from her heart; it passed her lips before she realized she had said it. The words stopped her mother in her tracks. Lady Ballymere turned and stared at Cynthia, apparently thunderstruck.
Cynthia hurried into speech, afraid her courage would desert her if she delayed. “I am sorry, Mama,” she said quickly, “but I think your plan will not work. Pray do not blame me! I learned last night that Hannah loves Mr. Ellsworth.”
Dismay flitted across Lady Ballymere’s features. “Good heavens.” Her mouth worked soundlessly for a moment. “Good heavens,” she repeated faintly. “Does he return her regard? I have seen no sign of it.”
“I do not know. But—”
“Oh, I am sure he cannot. It is impossible. He cannot love her.” She returned to her pacing, obviously thinking hard. “And you are so beautiful, my dear, and so much more experienced than Hannah in attracting men. Whatever he may feel for her at the moment, I am confident you will have no diffi
culty in luring him from her side. So we need not worry overmuch, even if he does feel a slight tendre for poor Hannah.”
“Mama! You cannot expect me to deliberately steal the affections of a man whom Hannah loves! She is my friend.”
Lady Ballymere halted again, rounding on Cynthia with an outraged gasp. “Indeed? And what am I to you, pray?”
Cynthia shrank back against the pillows as her mother advanced toward the bed, her eyes narrowed. “Do you place your friend higher than your parents? Higher, indeed, than your entire family?”
Cynthia felt a little dizzy. This was exactly what she had feared. She had pushed too hard, and had brought down her mother’s wrath upon her head. “No, Mama. Of—of course not.”
“You have a duty, Cynthia. You are not free to follow your inclinations in this matter. Your father and I have tried very hard to defer to your wishes, as far as we could. You said you wanted a kind husband; very well, we have found one for you. Do you think that men of substance grow on every tree? Has it been easy to locate a suitable partner for you? You know it has not. Unless you wish to look among the merchant class, Cynthia—something that would grieve us very much—you will not find such another as John Ellsworth. Wealthy gentlemen are exceedingly hard to find, and wealthy young gentlemen are even rarer. Once Mr. Ellsworth reaches town he will be surrounded by females competing for his notice. Here in this secluded spot we have the perfect opportunity to attract, and retain, his undivided attention. For heaven’s sake, Cynthia! Do not squander this chance.”
Cynthia hid her shaking hands beneath the coverlet. She loathed her own cowardice, but she could not seem to help it. She feared anger—all sorts of anger—in herself as well as in others. Her mother’s anger was hardest of all to bear. Still, for Hannah’s sake, she must make one more push.
She swallowed hard. “What of Hannah?” she asked. She did not sound defiant. She sounded miserable. “Am I to ignore her feelings entirely?”
Lady Ballymere sat on the bed, studying her daughter’s face with a keen scrutiny that sent alarm bells ringing all through Cynthia. “I think,” she said slowly, “that if you wish to do Hannah a good turn, you should direct her attention to Derek Whittaker.”
She could not hide her shock. “You’re joking.”
“Not at all.”
“But—but that will not do. You hinted at it last night, and Hannah did not care for the idea.”
Her mother smiled cynically. “She thinks she cannot attract a man of Mr. Whittaker’s obvious charms. And in the ordinary course of nature, she could not. But she is, after all, the daughter of a marquess and the granddaughter of a duke. Lady Hannah Chase may marry whomever she chooses.”
Cynthia’s heart was racing like a rabbit’s. She forced herself to breathe evenly. “That may be, but I think she will not choose Mr. Whittaker. She thinks of him as a member of her family.”
Lady Ballymere gave a dismissive snort. “Nonsense. He is her uncle’s brother-in-law; not a true relation. I call it an excellent match. She is sufficiently above his station to tempt him, despite her lack of beauty. And his personal gifts are such that he could easily turn her affections from Mr. Ellsworth to himself.”
Of that much, at least, Cynthia was sure. Still, she blinked at her mother in frightened amazement. “But this is beyond anything,” she blurted. “It is bad enough to set our caps for poor Mr. Ellsworth! Are we now to try our hand at matchmaking?”
Lady Ballymere shrugged lightly. “You said you wanted to consider Hannah’s feelings. Really, my dear, we cannot afford to let Mr. Ellsworth slip through our fingers. The best way to cushion your friend from heartbreak, therefore, is to turn her eyes elsewhere.”
Cynthia played nervously with the edge of the coverlet. “What if—what if we left Mr. Ellsworth alone, and turned our eyes elsewhere? Since Hannah has already formed a preference. What if ...” she glanced fleetingly at her mother’s face, then returned her attention to the coverlet. “What if I set my cap for Mr. Whittaker instead?”
There. She could not believe she had actually said it. How had she dared? One glance at her mother’s angry, incredulous face had told her all she needed to know: she would never be allowed to marry a mere country gentleman. Mama was shaking her head in refusal, just as Cynthia had known she would.
“I knew it,” said Lady Ballymere bitterly. “I knew Mr. Whittaker was dangerous the instant I laid eyes on him. Tall, dark, and handsome! And not a penny to bless himself with, I daresay.”
“He cannot be penniless, Mama. He has an estate near Lord Malcolm’s place.”
“Not one more word!” Lady Ballymere held up a warning finger. She was quivering with rage. “He is a nobody. Do you hear me? His sister’s marriage was held to be an amazing stroke of luck. No fortune, no connections, nothing to recommend her. Lord Malcolm could afford to marry beneath him, but you, my darling, cannot. I will hear no more discussion on the subject.”
Cynthia was properly cowed. She bit her lip and was silent. Lady Ballymere rose from the bed, shaking out the folds of her voluminous garments. “Your father and I have never beaten you, Cynthia,” she said, in a tight, clipped voice. “But if you continue to play the ice maiden with Mr. Ellsworth, I shall be sorely tempted. Sorely tempted. I want you to encourage him. And I want to see you doing it.”
She swept to the door and opened it, but turned to level a penetrating stare at her daughter. “I expect to see a change in your behavior, Cynthia. Do I make myself clear?”
“Perfectly, Mama,” whispered Cynthia, not daring to move.
“Good.” The door clicked shut behind her.
Cynthia took a deep breath, exhaling with a shaky sigh. She was miserable, as she always was when Mama was angry with her. But there was another, newer emotion playing beneath the surface of her misery. Something hot and sharp, something that made her jaw clench and her fingers curl into fists.
Why, she was angry.
The recognition of it brought her up short. Was it undutiful, to feel anger against one’s mother? Was it a sin, to dislike being ordered about?
No matter. She did dislike it. And she was angry.
Chapter 8
It was a good thing, Derek mused, that he enjoyed wandering about for its own sake. Another man might have worked himself into quite a temper by now, searching high and low for Cynthia and failing to find her. Derek’s feathers, however, remained unruffled. The best feature of a ducal mansion, as far as he was concerned, was that the place was vast enough to offer hours of entertainment. One never seemed to come to the end of it, however far one roamed.
Cynthia had not been in any of the places where one might expect to find her. Had she been seeking him as he was seeking her, she surely would have loitered in the breakfast room, the library, or the morning room. She was not in any of these obvious places. Ergo, she was not seeking him.
This was vaguely disappointing, but understandable. Was she deliberately avoiding him? Probably. But Derek did not despair. He was confident of his ability to find her, wherever she might hide. For one thing, he was highly skilled at... well... skulking and lurking. For another, he was so drawn to her that he half-believed the best way to find her was to close his eyes and follow his feet. He seemed to carry an internal compass that forever pointed him in her direction. So he rambled unhurriedly this way and that, down the spacious, modern corridors and through the ancient, twisting passages of stone, certain that around some corner or another he would encounter Cynthia.
It was simply meant to be.
It was impossible to feel pessimistic this morning. What might Cynthia have said, had her mother not interrupted them last night? The possibilities were tantalizing. He could not rest until he got Cynthia alone and asked her, point-blank. Whatever obstacles fate, or Cynthia, or her family, had placed in the way of their union, he would overcome. He knew he would, because he must. He did not yet know what task lay before him, but whatever it was, he was impatient to begin it.
His wandering feet led
him up a servants’ staircase—admittedly an unlikely spot to search, but he could not resist its cunningly hidden doorway—and into a long, carpeted hallway. He recognized this place. Malcolm’s suite of rooms was here, near the old nursery, which had been recently refitted to house and entertain Malcolm’s little daughters. It seemed nearly as unlikely a spot as the servants’ stairs, but to his surprise he heard Cynthia’s voice floating through the open nursery door. He could not make out the words, but he would know her voice anywhere.
And he was even more surprised when he heard Sarah Chase reply to it. Sarah said, very clearly, “Snowdrops.”
The nursery door was open. That was invitation enough. He strolled over to it with a keen sense of anticipation. Why Cynthia was in the nursery he could not imagine, but there she was—bending over a low table where his little niece sat, hard at work. Sarah always took her spectacles off when she was truly hard at work. She claimed that it helped her concentrate, removing everything from her vision except what was directly in front of her. And there lay the spectacles, tidily folded at her left hand.
Neither Sarah nor Cynthia had noticed his arrival. Cynthia lightly touched the paper Sarah was working on and murmured, “I’d know them anywhere.” Then, as she usually did, she seemed to sense his eyes upon her. She looked up. Derek felt a pleasurable jolt of electricity when her eyes met his, and the colors in the room immediately brightened. Remarkable.
He broke into a grin; he couldn’t help it. “Good morning.”
Cynthia straightened and, to his disappointment, visibly withdrew behind her curtain of reserve. “Good morning, Mr. Whittaker.”
The delight on Sarah’s face almost made up for Cynthia’s lack of enthusiasm. “Uncle Derek! I didn’t expect to see you.” She reached for her spectacles as a blind person would, her hand going unerringly to the place where she had laid them.
“What’s toward? Let me guess. Watercolors.” He walked over to join them in studying the sheet of paper. Since the table contained several tumblers of dirty water, an open paint-box and an array of sable-tipped brushes, his guess did not require a leap of genius.