And Then She Fell
Page 6
“Stop struggling!” He had to shout to be heard over the noise of the stream and the cacophony coming from the shocked guests, many of whom were now streaming along the banks.
She gasped again, then he felt her fight her own instincts, trying to ease back from her panic.
“That’s right,” he encouraged, gathering her even closer. “Just relax—go limp—and let me get us to the bank.”
She complied as best she could, but by the time he managed to angle them out of the raging currents and over to the bank, she was tense and shivering uncontrollably.
His feet finally found solid ground, but that wasn’t the end of the ordeal. Kneeling in the shallows, holding her close, trying to impart some of his own fading warmth to her while simultaneously shielding her with his body, he had to wait while Lady Marchmain and her staff shooed the onlookers back and away. The staff had brought flares, the light from which James and Henrietta would need to climb the bank safely, but the water had turned her gown all but transparent, and on top of everything else she didn’t need to feature in tomorrow’s more scandalous on-dits.
Lady Marchmain wasn’t a major hostess because she couldn’t rise to the challenge of a near disaster averted. In strident tones, she ordered all her other guests back to the house and waited, hands on broad hips, until they complied. Then Lord Marchmain came puffing up with the blankets he’d clearly been dispatched to fetch. He handed them over to his wife with a meek “Anything else, dear?”
“Yes,” her ladyship snapped. She pointed imperiously at the house. “Get all those malingerers inside, and then send them home. It was an accident, but thanks to James, Henrietta is safe, and they’re both in my hands, so there’s nothing more for the others to see, and they can all go home with my blessing.”
In the weak light, James couldn’t tell if Lord Marchmain smiled, but he sounded quite chuffed when he said, “Yes, dear. At once.” Turning on his heel, his lordship strode away into the darkness, back toward the house.
Lady Marchmain came down the bank as far as she dared. Setting the blankets down, she shook one out and held it wide. “There, now. Out you get, Henrietta—we’ll have you up to the house and into a hot bath in no time.”
James glanced down at the bedraggled lady he was still holding securely in his arms. He met her gaze, saw her lips weakly curve, then she nodded and, together, they struggled to their feet and clambered up the bank.
As Lady Marchmain decreed, so it was done. By the time, wrapped in the blankets but shivering hard, they staggered into the house—led to a private side entrance by her ladyship—carriages were rolling in a steady stream up to the front door, and then away down the drive and back out onto the road to London.
“I don’t know what Louise will say if I allow you to catch a chill—either of you.” Lady Marchmain shepherded them through the library, into a corridor, and around to a secondary stair, apparently unconcerned by the trail of drips they were leaving behind.
James still had his arm around Henrietta, and she was leaning against his side. She didn’t think she’d yet regained sufficient strength to stand on her own, much less walk. Much, much less climb the stairs.
She’d never have made it if not for James . . . she shuddered as she realized just how true those words were. Whether she would have made it out of the stream alone . . . in truth, she didn’t think she would have.
Once on the first floor, Lady Marchmain led her to a bedchamber ablaze with light and with a huge tub already half filled with steaming water. “There, now, dear—lean on me.” Sliding her arm around Henrietta, her ladyship drew her away from James. “James, dear, there’s another bath and some of my son’s clothes waiting for you next door.”
James nodded.
Henrietta met his gaze. She couldn’t yet find the strength to say thank you, but she let her eyes say it for her.
He smiled slightly and nodded at her to go on.
Turning, she allowed Lady Marchmain to steer her into the room. Two maids were waiting to help her strip off her ruined gown. About to step into the tub, she remembered, and suddenly frantic again, raised a hand to her throat—but the necklace was still there. She sighed with relief and climbed into the tub.
On a soft groan, she sat, then slid deeper into the welcoming warmth.
Lady Marchmain, deeming herself in loco parentis, fussed. More than an hour passed before Henrietta, dressed in a warm day gown appropriated from her ladyship’s daughter’s wardrobe and further bundled up in a warm pelisse, with a knitted scarf about her throat and wound over her still damp hair, with someone’s half boots on her feet, was allowed to walk down the main stairs to where James and Lord Marchmain waited in the front hall.
Henrietta noted that, although decently clad, the clothes James wore fell far short of his usual standards of sartorial excellence, a point over which he seemed supremely unconcerned.
His attention was all for her, his gaze streaking over her as if to reassure himself that she was indeed all right, taking close note of the way she moved, checking that she’d sustained no injury.
Beside James, Lord Marchmain beamed encouragingly.
James’s gaze returned to her face; he caught her eye, then swept her a bow. “Your carriage awaits, my lady.”
It was clearly an attempt to get things back on an even keel. She found a smile and inclined her head. “Thank you.” Her voice was slightly gruff, a touch hoarse. Turning to Lady Marchmain, she made her farewells, assuring her ladyship for the umpteenth time that she was indeed entirely recovered, and by tomorrow morning would be fully restored to her customary rude health.
After various repeated assurances from both her and James, they were finally allowed to climb into her parents’ carriage. The door was shut, the coachman gave his horses the office, and finally, finally, they were rolling home.
She sank back against the squabs with a sigh. “That was an adventure.”
Seated beside her, James replied, “One I, for one, could have done without.” After a moment, he asked, “What exactly happened?”
He’d taken her hand to help her up into the carriage, and had followed close behind; he hadn’t released her fingers. His were still wrapped about them, his grip gentle, but warm and strong.
Reassuring. On multiple levels.
Making no effort to retrieve her hand, she thought back to the moments on the bridge. After replaying them several times, she shook her head. “Whatever caused it, it happened at least two people away from me. It seemed that someone tripped, or slipped and fell.” She thought some more, then said, “It was an accident—unforeseeable and unavoidable.”
“Hmm. Well, I heard Lord Marchmain giving orders to his steward to get an ironmonger in to look at putting up railings on the bridge, so I doubt that such an accident will happen again.”
She let a mile roll past in the comfortable dark, then said, “Thank you. I . . . am not at all sure I would have managed to get out of the stream on my own. And the Thames was only a hundred yards away.”
He glanced at her through the dimness. His thumb stroked gently, apparently absentmindedly, over the back of her hand. After a moment, he shifted and looked forward. “You don’t need to thank me. You’re helping me, so of course I helped you. That’s what friends are for.”
Friends? Is that what they were? He didn’t, she noted, let go of her hand.
Would a friend still be holding her hand, as he was? Would a friend have held her so tightly to him, as he had held her in the stream?
Would a friend have been nearly as terrified as she had been that she might drown?
She was too exhausted to work out the answers, much less define what she would prefer them to be. So she sat in the dimness of the carriage, his hand wrapped about hers, his presence beside her reassuring and anchoring, and looked out of the carriage window, watching as the outskirts of London gradually gave way to the streetscapes of the capital.
Eventually, the carriage drew up outside her parents’ house.
Inwardly, he suspected, she would still be shocked; he knew he was.
Gaining the top step, she turned to him. Drawing her hand from his, she met his eyes. “Again—thank you.”
He inclined his head, unable, for once, to find a flippant reply. “I’m just glad I was there.” And so very glad I was able to reach you in time.
Her lips curved lightly, then she gestured to the carriage. “Please—use the carriage to go home.”
He shook his head, smiled faintly. “I’m only in George Street—the walk will clear my head.”
She hesitated, but then nodded. “Very well. What have we organized for tomorrow . . . oh, I remember. Lady Jersey’s alfresco luncheon. If we leave here at eleven we should make it in good time.”
He frowned. “Are you sure you’ll be well enough?”
“Of course.” She looked faintly offended. “Falling into the stream was a shock, but I’ll be entirely recovered by tomorrow.”
He raised his brows, but capitulated. “If you’re sure.”
“I am—and we can’t afford to dally in assembling your short list. We really should try to have the best candidate selected by the end of this week.” She inclined her head in farewell. “Good night. And . . .” Holding his gaze, she paused, then softly said, “Thank you.” Turning away, she opened the door.
He watched her go inside, raised a hand in salute when she glanced back as the door swung shut. When the latch clicked into place, he turned around and went down the steps. Waving off the coachman, telling him he’d elected to walk, James wriggled his shoulders, settling the not-so-well-fitting coat, then set off for George Street, striding briskly along.
He wasn’t cold, yet he still felt chilled inside; the shock of nearly—so very nearly—losing Henrietta wasn’t going to fade anytime soon. Still, he had found her, rescued her, and they were both hale and whole, and he was inexpressibly grateful for whatever fate had smiled on them.
Which fact very neatly led him to the question he was going to have to find an answer to soon: How long could he pretend—to himself, to her, and to everyone else—that he wasn’t falling, in whatever way there was to fall, for The Matchbreaker?
Head down, eyes fixed unseeing on the pavement ahead of him, he strode quickly home.
Chapter Four
The next day, they reached Osterley Park, on the outskirts of the capital, just before noon.
Lady Jersey greeted them with open arms. “My dears! The hero and heroine of the hour—you must tell me all about your ordeal.”
Henrietta exchanged a cynical glance with James; neither was surprised by her ladyship’s demand. Nicknamed “Silence,” Lady Jersey was an inveterate gossip and, not having been present at the rout the previous evening but overseeing a ball at Almack’s instead, she was simply avid to hear the story from the best possible source.
“It was merely an accident,” Henrietta informed her. “There were too many of us squeezed onto the bridge—the one over the stream that gives the best view of the fireworks—and I was accidentally tipped off.”
“And James here jumped in and rescued you.” Lady Jersey sent James an arch glance, then drew back to examine Henrietta. “Well, you don’t appear to have taken any lasting harm, which is the main thing.” Her ladyship’s somewhat protuberant eyes shifted again to James, and she smiled. “And James had the chance to play knight-errant to your fair maiden.” Lady Jersey’s smile deepened and she looked back at Henrietta. “Excellent! Now you must come and join the others—we’re gathering in the conservatory. Once everyone arrives, we’ll head off on our ramble.”
They allowed themselves to be ushered into the conservatory, then Lady Jersey whisked back to greet more arrivals, leaving them to the mercies of those already assembled.
Immediately, they were besieged, not just by matrons willing to be appalled by the horrors of a near brush with death but even more by the many unmarried young ladies present, all eager to vicariously experience a real life-and-death rescue.
James would have slunk away, would have run away if he’d been able—anything rather than face the bright eyes of the young ladies so eager to ooh and aah over his manly exploits—but even though Henrietta seemed to be bearing up well, he didn’t want to, couldn’t make himself, quit her side. Even when she cast him a sidelong glance, then embarked on a more colorful rendition of his rescue of her for the edification of Miss Chisolm, Miss Griffiths, and Miss Sweeney, he stoically endured and remained beside her, and pretended not to hear.
When, finally, everyone had heard the tale and the surrounding hordes thinned enough to let them wander, he caught Henrietta’s hand, anchored it on his sleeve, and strolled down one of the many avenues of palms and potted plants arranged about the well-stocked conservatory. He glanced at her face. “Are you all right?”
Reliving the horror again and again could hardly be pleasant.
But she nodded. “Yes.” Glancing up, she met his eyes. “I expected the interest, and with any luck, that should be the worst of it behind us.”
“Hmm.” He studied her eyes, then looked ahead. “Next time we’re about to walk into an inquisition like that, do, please, warn me.”
She chuckled.
“And,” he went on, “I’m not at all sure I approve of being labeled a Sir Galahad. I’m not even certain Sir Galahad could swim.”
“It’s the principle of the thing.” She hesitated, then looked up at him and said, “And I assure you it will do your quest no harm to be painted in such a light.”
“Hmm.” How to break it to her that he wasn’t all that keen on impressing even the buxom Miss Chisolm? Not now. “I’m . . . not sure that—”
Henrietta pinched his arm, then smiled amiably as Mrs. Julian and her niece, Miss Chester, walked by. Once the pair were past, Henrietta murmured, “They all have ears, you know. And, incidentally, what about Miss Chester?”
James glanced down at her. “She’s too thin.”
Henrietta blinked. “I wouldn’t have labeled her thin—fashionably willowy, perhaps.”
“Thin,” James insisted; when she glanced up, he’d looked ahead, but she saw his jaw set. “And she’s too young. Not Miss Chester.”
She arched her brows and looked ahead, too. “Very well. Admittedly she is rather young.”
They continued slowly strolling about the conservatory. When it came to him, she wasn’t sure what she wanted anymore—no, she did know. She wanted to learn what he had meant by holding her hand all the way home last night. How was she supposed to interpret that? Yet this morning he hadn’t alluded to those moments, or to any . . . connection between them, not in any way. When in the carriage on the way to Osterley Park she’d talked gaily about the prospects of gaining more names for his list, he’d only grunted and let her rattle on.
So what was she to think?
What was she to make of it all—of the necklace, and him?
After several minutes of silence, she drew breath and said, “Thus far we have Miss Chisolm and Miss Downtree on our list—we really need to expand our horizons. You can’t have a viable short list with only two names.” She’d offered to help him find his necessary bride, and she would fulfill her self-imposed obligation.
“I have to wonder if keeping as short a short list as possible isn’t a sensible strategy. That way, I won’t have to try to remember the attributes of too many females all at once. You must know that male brains aren’t as capable as female ones when it comes to recalling details.”
Henrietta would have scoffed, but Lady Jersey appeared and clapped her hands. “Come along, everyone! It’s time to set out. We’ll be using the bluebell dell today. I know several of you
know the way, so please”—her ladyship waved them to the doors at the end of the conservatory—“do lead on.”
The guests formed into chattering groups as they exited the conservatory.
“I take it you know the way to this dell?” James inquired as he and Henrietta brought up the rear.
“Yes. It’s a frequent site for Lady Jersey’s picnics.” Henrietta looked ahead. “Not that there’s any danger of anyone getting lost. We just follow the path and everyone else, and when we find the picnic hampers and rugs, along with the footmen, we stop.”
James choked on a laugh.
But he quickly lost all inclination to humor; a Miss Quilley and her mother, spying him and Henrietta ambling in the rear, dropped back to walk with them, and better display Miss Quilley’s charms. Such as they were.
Not having any great fondness for artlessly vapid conversation, James wasn’t impressed, but at Henrietta’s warning glance, he hid his disapprobation behind his customary ready charm.
But the necessity irked. And the subtle abrasion of social demands trumping his inclinations, and his instincts, only grew worse.
They reached Lady Jersey’s “bluebell dell,” a large clearing dotted, it was true, with bluebells, albeit a little past their prime. Picnic rugs had been spread beneath the circling trees, and hampers lay with their contents enticingly displayed, inviting the guests to lounge and partake. But the current fashion for rustic charm extended only so far; the paths leading to and out of the dell passed through largely formal gardens and structured landscapes. The illusion of being in the countryside was wafer-thin—quite aside from the liveried footmen who stood beneath the trees, ready to assist with the opening of a wine bottle and the consequent pouring of libations, or providing any other help her ladyship’s guests required.
James lounged on a rug beside Henrietta and suffered the company of a Mrs. Curtis, her daughter, and her niece while munching on chicken and duck, and sipping some rather thin champagne. He kept his charming persona to the fore, smiling and chatting with his customary facility, yet his mind remained distanced from the conversations, engaged with a far more pertinent consideration.