The Luckless Elopement
Page 21
Lady Honoria came swiftly back to the present. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”
“That’s all very well in gambling or sports, but I’d prefer better odds before venturing into matrimony. The risks are greater.”
“Chicken heart!” mocked her aunt.
“You have said it. At least too chickenhearted to accept Sir Hugh.” She leaned closer to her relative, whose hand was now on the doorknob, and lowered her voice to a stagy whisper. “You see, I am persuaded he is staid and unromantic.”
Lady Honoria chuckled richly, and her pale blue eyes held a faint reflection of the mischief dancing in the warm golden-brown ones confronting her. “You know, I believe you are right,” she whispered back before switching to her normal voice. “You are certainly going the right way about it to frighten him off. That exhibition today of high-powered charm and fascination would scare away any man of sense. I was fagged to death just witnessing it!”
She was out the door on the words, so missed the bleakness that settled over Vicky’s countenance as she recalled the real reason for her feverish gaiety at tea. She wandered farther into the room, picking up a jade ornament from a small rosewood table and turning it absently in her hands. If marriage with the pleasant, even-tempered Sir Hugh was a gamble, what would one call a union with the volatile and bossy Andrew Massingham?
Her hands stilled abruptly at the horrified realisation of whither her thoughts were wending. The man was a fortune hunter, for heaven’s sake! Nothing more needed to be said, but even if he were the soul of integrity, he disliked her actively despite a mutual attraction that she was too experienced to fail to recognise and too honest to deny. It was the fatal attraction of a snake and a mongoose. No good could come of it, and she would stamp it out from this moment forward.
She replaced the jade figurine on its table with a decided crash and headed for her bedchamber with resolution written in every line of her bearing.
CHAPTER 15
During the next week or so, Vicky discovered that framing a sensible resolution and carrying it out were two separate and unrelated activities. Only a simpleton would acknowledge a tendre for a fortune hunter, but each time she saw Andrew Massingham it was necessary to reaffirm her resolution to drive his image out of her heart. She had decided after careful analysis that it must be a case of infatuation, an unreasoning disorder of the senses that had never been known to be fatal. This must be counted a comfort, of course.
While it lasted, though, the pangs of infatuation resembled those of unrequited love closely enough to make a sufferer from the malady acutely miserable, she admitted with an unconscious twist of her mobile lips, as, from her excellent vantage point at the pianoforte, she covertly watched Mr. Massingham putting himself out to entertain Drucilla. She must have been self-deceived when she thought she recognised attraction on his part during their rescue of Jeb Laycock. Certainly there had been no repetition of that moment of shared intimacy and no indication on Mr. Massingham’s part that he even recalled such a moment. Long lashes swept down to conceal the hurt in her eyes as her fingers moved into a soft rendition of “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring.”
Perhaps the change in tempo caught Mr. Massingham’s attention, for he flicked an impersonal glance in her direction before turning back to Drucilla with a flash of white teeth.
Pride and training kept her back straight, her expression composed, and her fingers moving knowledgeably over the keyboard. Before the accident in the field, Mr. Massingham had seemed to possess the omniscience of a mischievous genie where Vicky was concerned — a perpetual, uninvited witness to all her embarrassing moments. She had been constantly steeling herself against whatever he might say to exacerbate the momentary situation. Now he had nothing to say to her beyond polite commonplaces delivered with impeccable courtesy when the occasion demanded. His interest was reserved primarily for Drucilla, though not so noticeably as to incur a charge of incivility. There was abundant charm and good nature for everyone save his hostess, and always time for private converse with Lady Honoria.
This neglect on his part should have ensured the success of her determination to expunge him from her heart, but Vicky felt the removal of his attention keenly. After several days of denial, she had stopped trying to convince herself otherwise. A period of ruthless self-evaluation resulted in the discovery that she had enjoyed her undeclared verbal warfare with Andrew Massingham. Since meeting him, she had felt more intensely alive than at any period of recent memory. This admission altered nothing, of course, except to compound the difficulty of her self-imposed task. At times she had to bite her tongue and exercise the strictest control to prevent herself from issuing challenges to provoke his attention, even his hostile attention.
Appalled at her own lack of moral fibre and chafing under self-imposed restrictions, Vicky had become restless after a few days. As always, she sought relief in activity, spending ever longer hours supervising the training of the horses. This left Drucilla on her own more than was desirable, but Lord Ellerby was always most willing to accommodate his fellow guest in whatever activity might take her fancy. The steadily growing intimacy between the two was the one bright spot these days. Lord Ellerby’s manners were too elegant to ever neglect his duty to his hostess, but Vicky was not deceived by his attentiveness into thinking she had any longer the lion’s share of his affections. His quiet surveillance of Andrew Massingham’s attempts at flirting with Drucilla and the unobtrusive measures he took to counteract these were quite intelligible to his former fiancée.
He had stepped in now to draw Drucilla into a discussion on riding. Vicky finished her selection and sat unmoving at the pianoforte, her gaze roving idly over the company. If Mr. Massingham wished to engage his hostess in conversation, there could not be a more propitious opportunity. After a moment or two, when he did not so much as glance her way, Vicky left her perch to sit beside her aunt, whom he was now addressing. Lady Honoria looked up with a welcoming smile and Mr. Massingham repeated his observation for Vicky’s benefit, but though he politely included her in his remarks, she could not persuade herself that any of his efforts were primarily intended for her attention.
When Mr. Massingham took his leave of her aunt, he raised that lady’s hand to his lips in an affectionate salute.
“Ah, that is blatant partiality,” declared Vicky gaily, obeying a defiant impulse and extending her own hand.
With no perceptible pause, Mr. Massingham touched the offered fingers briefly with his lips as he replied smoothly, but with a muscle twitching in his cheek, “I trust I would never be guilty of treating you differently than your aunt, Miss Seymour.”
Vicky kept a smile pinned to her lips, but she mentally acknowledged defeat in that encounter. Her pride rose up in rebellion. Never again would she afford him an opportunity of giving her a polite set-down, she vowed stormily.
A day or so later Vicky was trudging toward the house, having just left the stables, where she had been applying hot fomentations to the fetlock of a promising colt that had been kicked. She had wanted to stay to talk over some of the schedules with Manley, but it was nearly teatime and she did not like to neglect Drucilla two days running. She had noticed Mr. Massingham’s horse in the stable on her way out and had veered through the kitchen garden to avoid the possibility of coming up with him on the way in. She was garbed in her favourite breeches and boots, with a fairly discreditable shirt, thanks to an accident in mixing a bran poultice. Her hair was hanging carelessly down her back, tied at the nape with a piece of string she had found after having had her neat coil dislodged earlier by thrusting muzzles while she worked among the playful colts.
There remained some late blooms in the rose garden, and the scent of one bush enticed Vicky to pause and fill her nostrils with the delicious odour. It would soon be over, this beautiful autumn. The air was still summer warm at midday, but the declining sun meant chilly afternoons. On impulse, she broke off the pink rose and twirled it in front of her nose. Tomorrow it would b
e past its peak. How sad that lovely things like roses had such a brief existence.
As she stood there frowningly contemplating the blossom in her hand, a sound, soft but alien to a garden, penetrated her abstraction. Her head came up in a listening attitude and her eyes scanned the boxwood hedges to her left. If something were moving beyond them, she might catch a glimpse through the occasional gap, but a few seconds’ strained attention produced no change in the green wall and no repetition of the noise. Vicky was preparing to move on, the rose pressed to her nose, when she heard it again, and this time she identified the sound as a stifled sob. Swiftly she moved toward the first break in the hedge, where she entered the ornamental shrubbery, heading instinctively for the wrought-iron seat on the far side of the fountain. Her almost silent entrance went unheeded by the huddled figure on the bench.
“Drucilla, my dear child, what is wrong?”
The young girl sprang to her feet at the first sound of her friend’s voice, averting her face while she tried to wipe the tears from her cheeks with the backs of her palms.
“Nothing is wr-wrong. I … I was startled, that’s all. I did not hear you approach.”
Vicky regarded her friend’s brimming eyes and trembling mouth for a second before walking forward and seating herself on the bench, smiling up at the girl, who avoided her gaze.
“How could you hear me over the sound of weeping? Come, my dear, tell me what has happened and how I may help you.” She patted the seat beside her invitingly, and after a moment of indecision, Drucilla sat reluctantly. She didn’t speak, but sat there gnawing her bottom lip and trying to get her ragged breathing under control while Vicky waited.
“Have you received bad news from home?” she probed when another minute went by in silence punctuated by an occasional hiccupping sob.
“No, no, nothing like th-that.” Another pause. “But … but I think I had best go home quite soon now. That is, I am exceedingly grateful to you for inviting me to stay and all you have done for me, teaching me to ride and pl-play cards — I have never enjoyed anything half so much in my life, but now…” Her voice became wholly suspended by tears at this point, and Vicky wrapped a comforting arm about shaking shoulders and waited patiently. When Drucilla had mastered this fresh bout of sobbing and grown calmer again, she removed her arm and handed the girl a handkerchief.
“I b-beg your pardon for behaving like a watering pot,” Drucilla said with a gallant attempt at a smile as she mopped her eyes. “You must think me a perfect ninny for crying for no … no reason.”
There was a tiny vertical line between her brows as Vicky regarded her guest with concern. “I do not think you are crying for no reason, my dear, but I do not as yet know what has upset you so. Has anyone at the Oaks done anything to make you unhappy?”
“Oh no! Everyone is most kind. You mustn’t think … Lady Honoria, Lord El-Ellerby…”
For a second Drucilla’s lip trembled again, and Vicky said hastily in an attempt to coax a smile from her, “Come, we are making progress. We now know that neither Aunt Honoria nor Gregory is responsible for your tears. Did I do something?”
“Of … of course not. You weren’t even here.”
This telling phrase drew Vicky’s brows together, and a picture of a familiar horse in her stable flashed into her mind.
“Did Andrew Massingham have anything to do with this upset?” she demanded abruptly.
Betraying colour stole into Drucilla’s cheeks as she met the smouldering gaze of her hostess.
“Yes, but he didn’t mean to … Vicky, no!” she screeched as the older girl jumped to her feet, her intention of confronting Mr. Massingham written plainly on her indignant face. “He … he only asked me to marry him,” Drucilla blurted, grabbing her friend’s arm.
She soon realised restraint was unnecessary and took her hand from the arm that had gone rigid beneath her touch. Vicky’s lovely features were cold and lifeless as she said quietly, “Did he try to … force your acceptance?”
“No! Oh, I am explaining this very badly! Let us sit down again.”
This time it was the younger girl who led the way to the bench. They sat and Drucilla addressed that mute, questioning face quite composedly. “Drew’s conduct was everything that was correct. He is a gentleman, Vicky.” This was said with a gentle dignity that evoked a faint smile from the other girl. “He said he was prepared to continue with the elopement immediately if my sentiments were the same as in London.”
Golden-tipped lashes sank involuntarily, then lifted in silent query.
“I … I was obliged to tell him that my sentiments had undergone a change, that I no longer felt we were suited to each other.”
Light brown eyes searched dark ones. Vicky had to clear her throat of an annoying obstruction before she could produce a sound. “Was he very disappointed? Is that why you were crying — because you had made Drew unhappy?”
“As to that, it’s my belief that he was relieved, though he tried to conceal it,” replied Drucilla with a flash of something that might have been pique as she tossed her dark curls.
At that moment, Vicky was engaged in that same activity of attempting to conceal relief. Her heartbeat, which had halted for an instant, resumed its normal pace, and some of the tension with which she had been holding herself drained out of her. She pushed her reactions to the background. Time enough later to examine her own feelings.
“Then what were you crying for, Drucilla?” she asked, greatly puzzled.
Vicky almost regretted the question as tears once more crowded into the brunette’s eyes, but Drucilla blinked them away.
“I … must be crying because I’ll never be married now that I’ve refused Drew.”
“Now, that is a farradiddle if ever I heard one!” declared her friend merrily. “I’d venture to predict that there is a very eligible gentleman in the immediate vicinity who would be more than willing to prevent this disaster.”
The teasing smile fleeting across Vicky’s lips as she uttered this prediction was succeeded by an open-mouthed stare of amazement as Drucilla rounded on her almost fiercely.
“How could you think I would be so disloyal after everything you have done for me? I… Oh!” Her fingers flew to her mouth as the sense of what she had revealed dawned on her, and she rose abruptly. “I didn’t mean to imply… My wretched, wretched tongue! Oh, can you not see that I can’t stay here any longer? I must go back to London!”
Drucilla was twisting her hands together in her agitation, her face, already blotchy from weeping, a picture of misery. Vicky, on her feet also, was hard pressed to preserve her countenance as she tossed aside the rose she had been crushing and possessed herself of those tense gripping fingers, squeezing them lightly.
“There, there, calm down, my dear, before you make yourself vapourish. This is a case of the dismals indeed, and all for nothing.” She was guiding the younger girl back to the iron seat as she spoke soothingly, and now she pushed her gently onto it, retaining her hold on the cold little hands as she sat down beside her distraught house guest.
Giving delicacy the go-by in favour of frankness, Vicky plunged to the heart of the matter. “Please, I beg of you, rid yourself of any nonsensical notions that I have the least claim on Lord Ellerby’s affections.” She smiled directly into pansy-brown eyes that were looking half-drowned within their tangled frame of wet lashes. Drucilla sat absolutely still, not daring to breathe as she searched her friend’s features with painful intensity.
“But he … he is in love with you!” This protest was uttered in tragic accents.
“I think in your heart you know differently. Gregory and I were betrothed until I realised we were not really suited. I ended our engagement just as you have done yours.” Vicky gave her friend a straight look and continued, choosing her words carefully, “It is my belief that Gregory was in the habit of thinking himself in love with me. He came here believing that, but it has become quite apparent to me that he has overcome his previous infatuation
in these last weeks. I shall leave it to you to seek an explanation,” she finished gaily, getting to her feet after bestowing a final pat on Drucilla’s hands, now motionless and relaxed in her lap.
“Well, I must hurry out of these working clothes if I am not to be late for tea. You might wish to bathe your eyes before you meet Drew or Gregory.”
“Yes, of course. I must look a perfect fright!” Drucilla bounded up, tears forgotten, and prepared to accompany Vicky to the house. “We won’t be seeing Drew, though,” she mentioned as they passed out of the shrubbery. “He decided not to stay for tea.”
“Oh?” Vicky kept face and voice noncommittal.
“Yes, he called solely to renew his offer to me before leaving.”
“Leaving? Leaving for where?”
“Well, London, I expect. He said it was time he wound up his visit with the Lanscombs.” Drucilla glanced at her hostess’ pale, frowning face and clarified her last statement. “He is not leaving today, of course. He would not go away without taking formal leave of us here. He just mentioned that he would soon be bringing his visit to a close.”
The two girls reached the side entrance from the flagged terrace as Drucilla finished speaking. Vicky invented an appointment with the housekeeper to secure her escape. She required time to recover from this latest shock.
After a few minutes of solitude in the library, she had succeeded in rationalising Drew’s imminent departure as just the impetus needed to help her banish him from her thoughts. He and Sir Hugh, sometimes accompanied by Miss Fairchild, had fallen into the habit of calling at teatime most afternoons. The frequency of his visits was responsible for this false notion that she had known him very well for a long time — this and the fact that they had met under circumstances that had thrown them together in more intimate contact than might ever occur with many persons one had known conventionally from childhood. They may have skipped all the initial stages of acquaintance, but what did she really know of Andrew Massingham’s mind and heart beyond her own limited observations? Pitifully little. She could say with some confidence that impatience was the keystone of his personality. Himself quick-thinking and quick to act, he did not suffer fools or plodders gracefully. He was careless of accepted conventions regulating social behaviour, rejecting formality and trading on that flashing smile to smooth his path and atone for his multiple misdeeds. He displayed an inherent tendency to tease his female acquaintances, and she strongly suspected he possessed a rather reprehensible sense of humour. She was coming around to her aunt’s view that there was no malice in his character, but what did she know of a more positive nature? She had no idea of his sentiments on serious subjects. No, once he removed his disturbing presence from the area, she would soon subdue her unruly inclinations in this direction.