The Bumblebroth

by Patricia Wynn

  Mattie found that Gilly had been correct. It was not long before the young people found each other and launched themselves into happy chatter. Their parents did as well, lounging about the perimeter of the room in chairs that had been provided while keeping eyes on their charges. Mattie's own duties soon devolved into making certain that none of their guests dropped back shyly or succeeded in feeling left-out.

  Pamela mingled with the guests as best she could, though Mattie observed sadly that her daughter did not shine in company any better than she had herself. Pammy's manners were a shade abrupt perhaps; when something surprised her, her skin flushed as readily as her father's and Cosmo's. Mattie could only hope that her daughter would make a new friend or two from among the group.

  The arrival of William and Gerald appeared to cheer her, and it was not long before Gerald and she put their heads together. From that moment on, Mattie felt few worries on Pamela's score. Gerald, as one of the oldest and liveliest boys present, an acknowledged leader among them in sports, managed to engage the others in a spirited round of games.

  Mattie had greeted William no differently from any other guest and quickly turned her back on him to speak to someone else. He had not tried to dominate her time, but instead chatted in a neighbourly fashion with her guests. She tried not to think of him at all, but she could not keep her gaze from wandering to him. She noticed how effortlessly he fell into conversation with people he scarcely knew.

  She could see, too, how pleased her guests were to receive his attention. He was accomplished at putting people at their ease— as he had her, she reminded herself painfully. An ache so intense she could hardly bear it made her turn away from him again.

  At the stroke of ten, when the party was winding down, someone was heard to mention how diverting it would be to dance. It was never clear where the suggestion had come from, but it was soon taken up by all the young people. Mattie gave the order for the tables and chairs to be swept aside to make a dance floor.

  Gilly took her place at the pianoforte. Some couples formed quite readily, and Mattie was relieved to see that Gerald, instead of his brother, led Pamela out. She had not yet had time to warn Pamela about William's false attentions, although with a heavy heart she acknowledged that she must do so soon.

  She walked about the room to see if any others would venture to dance if she could find them a partner.

  This job was no sooner completed than William appeared at her elbow. Mattie could feel his presence long before she saw him. The heat from his body set her cheeks aflame, though she tried as hard as she could to ignore him.

  "Mattie."

  He claimed her attention as she had known he would. It would take more than a little ignoring to dissuade a Norton.

  "Would you honour me with this dance?"

  His request robbed her of composure. A fluttering began in the pit of her stomach and spread through her, making her both angry and flustered at once.

  "But I cannot dance! It wouldn't be at all appropriate."

  "I cannot think why not. I believe you promised me one."

  "I— " It was true, she remembered, he had spouted some nonsense about reserving him a dance, but she had thought that was only part of his teasing. The trouble with William was one never knew exactly what he was thinking.

  "I did not mean it," Mattie said painfully. "I do not intend to dance. I have my guests to think of."

  She ventured a look at his face and saw that he was frowning in a way she had never seen before. Was there anger in his eyes? Hurt? Surely not! But there was something that weakened her resolve.

  "Mattie, is something the matter? You are not acting your usual self. Has someone said something to upset you?"

  She attempted a laugh. "Lord Westbury, I am afraid you are reading more into my manner than there is. I am quite busy you know. Hosting."

  A hint of a smile lit his eyes, but his brows were still lowered as he searched her face. "And doing a fine job of it, too. One would think you had entertained all of your life. Your party is a roaring success, Mattie."

  It would not have been if it weren't for you, Mattie wanted to say. But the thought made her sad. William knew just what help she had needed and how and when to supply it, but she would never have his help again. The price she had paid in broken trust could not be worth the gain.

  Her expression must have betrayed her thoughts, for he said quickly, "I know there is something wrong. You've been avoiding me all evening, and I know when you are unhappy."

  "I— " Mattie found that her chin was quivering. "I cannot discuss this now. Not with guests here. But if you care to call again— in another week or so, perhaps— "

  "Another week? I think we should discuss it now." With a tightening of his jaw, he turned her and started steering her towards the door to the saloon.

  Mattie tried to protest that she must not leave her guests, but he guided her firmly, saying, "Your guests are all happy. We will not be a moment," and managed to usher her through the crowded room without giving the appearance that anything was wrong.

  The company all parted for him, bowing amicably, and he returned their notice sufficiently so that none appeared to suspect that he was pushing her out of the room. Mattie cast a glance behind her and saw that everything was, in fact, under control. The first dance had come to a halt, and the children were mingling with little restraint. Gilly had found another piece of music and was already picking out the first keys by the time she and William reached the door.

  He took her through it, down the corridor, and into her morning room, which was deserted, then closed the door behind them. Mattie's heart beat loudly in her ears, so that she barely heard his questions as he turned to face her.

  "What is it, Mattie? What has happened? Have I done something to offend you?"

  Yes, she wanted to say. He had done something to wound her deeply, but to say so would not really be fair. He had never been anything in her presence but polite and considerate. It was not really William's fault, perhaps, that society was so mercenary, it had led him to court her daughter for all the wrong reasons.

  "No, of course not." Mattie spoke with a breathless hitch in her throat. Her knees were shaking. "But perhaps it is as well that we have this talk. I have come to a decision that may— a— a decision regarding your visits to this house."

  His brow descended then, in a heavy black line that might have frightened her if his tone had not been so gentle. "And what is that decision, pray?"

  "I— have decided— I am afraid I must ask you not to call again."

  "Why?"

  How like William, she thought, not to accept what she said.

  "You must not dangle after Pamela any longer." She was on firm ground now. She could be strong for Pammy.

  "Dangle?"

  "Yes."

  "After Pamela?"

  "No— I mean, yes— " Mattie girded herself for his next question, which was sure again to be why.— "you must not do it."

  "You silly goose!"

  He released her elbow, which she had hardly been aware of his holding, she had been so unnerved. With a sharp, sudden laugh, he ran one hand through his hair.

  "What do you mean?" she asked. She had not expected his reaction to be amusement.

  But when he raised his face to speak to her, she saw that amusement was only one of his emotions. Frustration, confusion, and a touch of anger lurked in his eyes as well.

  "Mattie, what made you think I was dangling after Pamela?"

  "But aren't you?"

  "No, you foolish darling. I'm 'dangling', as you put it, after you. You're the one I want."

  "Oh, dear." Mattie felt as if the air had been knocked from her lungs. She had already been having trouble breathing, for she did not like scenes. She had managed to avoid them all her life, but she could not avoid this one and the anticipation of it had robbed her of her breath.

  And now this . . . .

  She peered at William, and saw that behind his amused look was anot
her quite serious.

  The strength went out of her knees. She fell onto the chair behind her. "Oh, dear . . . . What a bumblebroth!"

  "Is it so very bad?" William dropped to one knee in front of her. This position brought his handsome face closer than it had ever been to hers before, and in spite of his question, she saw that he was laughing at her response.

  But this could not be happening, Mattie told herself. He must be confused. And there was a reason for his confusion, if she could only ignore his proximity long enough to think of what it was.

  "You can't want me," she said, remembering the problem in a sudden burst of lucidity. "The property belongs to Pamela."

  "Which property?"

  "The one you want." She did not know why he was looking so puzzled. If anyone knew what he wanted, it should be William. "Westbury Manor. This house. It belongs to Pamela, not to me."

  Understanding swept his features, followed by a tightly controlled anger. For one moment, Mattie felt a flash of guilt-filled regret that the house was not hers.

  "I do not care one whit about Westbury Manor. But I can see that someone has told you that I do, and I would like to know who that someone was."

  Mattie felt a rush of emotion warming her cheeks. Mortification— mixed with— mixed with hope? "I— yes, someone did mention to me that you wanted to recover the property, but I— I could not really tell you who— I— "

  William nodded, his jaw clenched with restraint. "Very well. You do not have to tell me. That is not what matters most, although I can guess that either my mother or some crony of hers was responsible. The important thing is that I am in love with you."

  "But— you can't be!" What would Gilly have to say? William could not love her. He was younger than she was.

  "Why?" There he was again with his whys. "You are quite lovable, you know."

  "But— " Mattie knew she must put an end to his declaration. He had taken her hand in his warm, masculine one, and the strangest things were happening to her. A tingling had invaded her palm, as if her hand had been frozen and now was thawing. . . .

  "I am older than you," she managed to choke out, even though her speech was hampered by a shortness of breath. She must be firmer. "You are nothing but a boy."

  A glint lit his eyes. "It's been many years since a woman has called me that."

  What woman? How many women? Ridiculous questions flittered through her brain, but she pushed them aside. "You must feel the difference in our ages," she protested feebly.

  "Would you like to know what I feel?"

  Before she knew it, William's face had moved closer. She focused on his eyes, such deep dark pools of mystery. His nearness had her pinned in place. He seemed so purposeful. So sure.

  Mattie closed her eyes just as he touched his lips to hers. She could breathe his aroma, a wonderful scent that filled her nostrils with sweet tobacco, leather, and soap. His lips moved softly against hers, like some luxurious cloud urging her to float, drawing her upwards out of herself. A languid heat stole through her body, a warmth more deeply satisfying than a sip of brandy on a cold winter day . . . .

  It was a second or more before she realized that William had pulled away. Her lips were still puckered, her eyes still closed dreamily, when he asked in a far-off voice, "Do you still think I am too young?"

  Mattie's eyes flew open to find William regarding her with laughter in his gaze. His tender look, a hint of deeper desire, caused her heart to flutter.

  "I— I don't know. This is quite sudden— you see, I thought you wanted— "

  "You thought I wanted Pamela. Yes, and that was quite silly of you, if you think about how much time I've been spending with you."

  A blush and a smile ran together on her cheeks. "I— perhaps so— but still— "

  A consciousness of where they were suddenly burst in upon her. "Good Lord! I've forgotten my guests!"

  "Yes, you have. And I think that is a very good sign," William teased. Then his face grew serious. "Mattie, I did not mean to spring this on you. If it weren't for these gossips, I would have taken more time. Not that I need it, but perhaps you do."

  "I must get back to my guests," Mattie said, suddenly agitated on their behalf. She had been dreadfully remiss. What would everyone think of her?

  "Yes, and I will let you get back to them in just a moment. But, please, think about what I have said. Think about how you feel. May I come to the garden tomorrow for your answer?"

  "Yes— tomorrow." She was still unsure how to answer him, but a night's reflection ought to bring her some counsel. For the moment, she could only drift in a sea of amazement. Her lips were still tingling. Her heart was beating like a bird in rapid flight.

  Then Mattie realized she did not even know what William's question had been, but she was too stunned to consider, too flustered to think. All she knew for certain was that she could not ignore her company any longer.

  William helped her to rise. He refrained from taking her into his arms, but he did lift her hand to his lips.

  "Don't worry," he said. "I only want to make you happy, Mattie. I love you."

  He drew her to the door and let her precede him from the room. Her limbs felt heavy and light at the same time, like floating lead. Mattie had never felt so strange before, so divinely tingling yet limp as a sleeping cat all at the same time.

  Somehow she managed to get through the rest of the evening. The party soon broke up; the parents were anxious not to overstay their welcome despite their children's pleas for one more dance. Mattie saw each person to the door, and only hoped later that she had remembered to thank them for coming.

  She was not sure what she had said to them. The only parting that stood out in her memory was William's as he pulled Gerald from the group. If she had been one of the guests, she would not have noticed anything different about him. His manners were so perfect, he might have been taking his leave of any hostess rather than one to whom he had just made a declaration of love.

  This was true until he actually stood facing her, and only then if someone had been standing at her side, would he have seen a difference, the slight softening of William's etched features, a lingering gaze that managed to convey a promise for tomorrow, a hand clasped perhaps a little longer than was customary. If it were not for these signs, Mattie might have thought that she'd dreamed the scene in her morning room.

  Late that night, as she lay awake in bed, she did imagine it again: William's kiss— no kiss of a boy that, or so she supposed. He had said that he loved her. He'd said that he wanted her.

  Mattie had never felt wanted before.

  She thought back to her marriage to His Grace. She remembered his proposal, if one could call it that. She had been sixteen, slightly less than Pamela's age, when he had called her into his library and asked her to sit down.

  His Grace often requested her company after dinner when he needed a partner for whist, but this time the card table had not been set out.

  "Everything well, Mattie? Are you happy here, girl?"

  "Yes."

  "Nothing you find lacking? Nothing you want particularly?"

  "No, I think I have everything I need."

  "Good girl! That's what I like about you, Mattie. None of the foolishness these other girls get up to! I daresay you don't even know what I'm talking about, but you may take it from me that it is all foolishness!"

  Mattie remembered wondering then, what sort of foolishness other girls got up to, and asking herself if she might not like it. She had been feeling lonely for more than a year, and she sometimes wished she had other children her age to play with. Miss Fotheringill had told her stories about London and society and all the balls she would no doubt attend when His Grace brought her out, and Mattie had begun to look forward to them.

  But His Grace had gone on, "Well, since you seem happy enough, I thought I would give you a nice surprise."

  Her ears pricked up. She thought that perhaps he meant to take her on a trip as he sometimes did to visit one of h
is friends, or maybe he'd ordered a special plant as a gift for her. His Grace gave her presents from time to time when the mood suited him or he thought she might be pining for something new.

  "How'd you like to be a duchess, heh?"

  His question did come as a surprise, that was certain. Mattie did not know if she would like to be a duchess; it was not something she had ever given any thought to.

  "You mean, be like you," she asked, "only I'd still be me?" It was an incoherent reply, but it seemed to please His Grace.

  "That's the thing precisely. Mattie, you're as sharp as a tack. One reason I like you, see. You can marry me and be a duchess." His Grace rubbed his woolly blond head and turned a deeper shade of pink. "Need an heir, y' see. Duty to the family and all that. Never much in the petticoat line, y' know, but with you at the reins, Mattie, I ought to come up a winner." He chuckled and mumbled something that made no sense to her, "Nothing to it, they say."

  "Do you want me to marry you?" Mattie remembered asking. Even as accustomed as she was to His Grace's way of speaking, Mattie was not certain she had understood him this time. Marriage was beyond her horizon. She had only dimly begun to think of what it might entail, knowing only that the point of all those balls she would soon attend would be to find her a husband.

  "Don't necessarily want you to," His Grace answered honestly. "Need a wife— thought of you. Good girl and all that. Thought you might like to be a duchess, since they say every girl and her nursemaid wants to be one."

  "Thank you," Mattie said, for she saw that he meant it kindly, although the nebulous dreams she'd been having would now have to be put aside. She did not particularly want to marry His Grace, but she could see that he meant to give her a treat in spite of his own reticence to marry, and she did not want to hurt his feelings.

  He had always been kind to her, ever since the day many years ago when her parents had died and she had been sent to live with him. He had patted her nervously on the head, told her to be a good girl, and stated that he was sure they would go along famously.

  "That's settled, then," he had finished on this new occasion. "We'll be married in a trice. Then, we can go on as we have without too much fal-de-ral."