by Sandra Heath
“Miss Richmond?”
She looked at him. “If Jane told me she loved you, sir, that would, of course, be an entirely different matter. But she hasn’t told me any such thing,” she added.
He smiled a little. “You’re a very rare woman, Christina Richmond, for your thoughts are indeed entirely of Jane’s happiness, and it hasn’t occurred to you to encourage my suit in order to secure Robert’s freedom.”
She was deeply affronted. “I’m offended that you should even consider me capable of such duplicity.”
“Perhaps I should be equally offended that you should criticize my regard for Jane. I really and truly love her, Miss Richmond, so much so that I cannot turn my back upon the feeling. The difference between us is that you have found the strength to look away, whereas I have not.”
He took her hand, raising it suddenly to his lips. “If there was any justice in this world, then you would win your heart’s desire, and I would win mine.” He smiled disarmingly.
She had to smile reluctantly in return. “I still disapprove, sir,” she said quietly.
“I know, but at least I am comforted that you don’t dislike me personally. Please rest assured that your secret is safe with me, but now I suggest we join the others, or our absence will be remarked.”
He drew her hand over his arm, and they proceeded toward the great parlor.
Chapter Twenty-one
For the next two hours they amused themselves playing cards, but then the conversation turned to music, and Lady Chevenley discovered that Jane was a very accomplished pianist. It was immediately agreed that they would adjourn to the music room across the hall to hear her play the harpsichord.
The music room was a little cooler than the great parlor, and shadows leapt wildly over the paneled walls as the dinner party entered with candles. Jane took her seat at the beautiful gilded harpsichord, while Robert and William sifted through the pile of music sheets on a nearby table.
Mr. Richmond positioned himself at Jane’s shoulder, ostensibly so that he could turn the pages for her, but really so that he could keep William well away from her.
Lady Chevenley sat with Christina on a sofa, and when settled, looked inquiringly across at her nephew. “What are you selecting, Robert?”
“I thought you’d like to hear ‘Greensleeves,’ Aunt,” he replied, smiling at her.
“Oh, excellent. It’s so very appropriate for this house. Its author, King Henry the Eighth, may not actually have graced Bellstones with his presence, but his daughter did, and so things Tudor are quite perfect here.”
William found the relevant sheet, placing it in front of Jane, and Mr. Richmond immediately edged closer, forcing William to step back out of the way.
Jane began to play. The plain, beautiful notes rang through the room, and Christina closed her eyes, imagining Bellstones in the sixteenth century. She could see ladies in velvet gowns, with little lapdogs in their sleeves, rush-strewn floors perfumed with meadowsweet, and gentlemen in rich brocades.
As the last notes died away, they all clapped appreciatively, and Jane blushed prettily. “What shall I play next?” she asked.
Lady Chevenley thought for a moment. “Is Mr. Cotton’s ‘Early Thoughts of Marriage’ there, by any chance?” she asked Robert.
He went through the pile of music sheets again, and soon found what he was looking for.
Lady Chevenley smiled at Jane. “I’m sure you sing as beautifully as you play, my dear, and the words are very, er, telling.”
“I ... I don’t know it terribly well, so you will bear with me, won’t you?” asked Jane apologetically, studying the sheet.
“Of course, my dear,” Lady Chevenley reassured her, sitting back comfortably again.
As Jane began to play again, William annoyed Mr. Richmond intensely by leaning on the harpsichord to watch her. Robert didn’t seem to notice anything.
Jane’s voice was sweet and clear:
“Attend, my fair, to wisdom’s choice,
A married life, to speak the best,
Is all a lottery contest.
But if my fair one will be wise,
I will ensure my girl a prize,
Though not a prize to match thy worth,
Perhaps thy equal’s not on earth.
The song continued, but Christina didn’t hear it. The words were, as Lady Chevenley so innocently remarked, very telling. It was indeed all a lottery contest, with fate decreeing that she and William should be the losers. She glanced toward Robert, and found that he was looking at her, almost as if he too was affected by the words.
She quickly lowered her glance, hardly noticing when Jane finished the song, and the others applauded again. Mr. Richmond asked Jane to play “The Happy Nightingale,” one of his favorites, and Lady Chevenley leaned closer to Christina.
“I do so like ‘Early Thoughts on Marriage,’ for it offers such sensible advice. Don’t you agree?” The older woman shivered suddenly. “Dear me, I appear to have left my shawl in the parlor. Christina, my dear, would you be so kind as to fetch it for me?”
“Of course.” Christina got up gladly, for it was almost as if Lady Chevenley knew the truth.
But as she reached the door, Robert picked up a candlestick. “I’ll accompany you, Christina.”
“There’s no need, truly,” she said quickly.
“I’m too much the gentleman to allow you to go alone,” he replied, smiling as he walked toward her.
She could only smile reluctantly in return. They crossed the hall to the parlor, where the leaping flames in the hearth warmed the air, sweetening it with the scent of roses from the open potpourri jars standing by the fender.
Christina retrieved Lady Chevenley’s shawl from the chair where it had been left, and then turned immediately to hurry out again, but Robert barred her way.
“You’ve been very quiet tonight, Christina.”
“Oh?”
“You hardly joined in the conversation at the dinner table, and you weren’t exactly the life and soul of the card party, were you?”
“I don’t have a very gregarious disposition, I’m afraid.”
“Is it that? Or is there something else on your mind?” he inquired quietly.
Her fingers crept nervously to toy with her pearl necklace, but as she touched it the clasp gave way, and the necklace fell to the floor.
“Allow me,” he said quickly, bending to pick it up. He inspected the clasp. “It seems to be all right.”
“Yes, but I think there’s something wrong with it. I’m going to send it to the jeweler in Stroud when we return.” She tried to sound matter-of-fact, but her voice was trembling because she was so disturbed by him.
“I’ll put it on for you, and make sure it’s fastened properly,” he said, moving behind her and placing the necklace around her neck.
She couldn’t entirely disguise the shiver of pleasure passed through her the moment he touched her. Subtle emotions she wished to suppress rose inexorably to the surface, and she closed her eyes, trying desperately to conceal the effect he was having upon her.
She didn’t succeed. The necklace was fastened and secure, but he didn’t take his hands away. Her skin was warm beneath his fingers as he moved them softly over her naked shoulders.
Her heart almost stopped at the caress. She knew she should pull away, but she couldn’t, she was trapped by her overwhelming love for him. Her breath escaped on a long, telltale sigh.
“Christina?” he whispered, turning her toward him and cupping her face in his hands. “Christina, I—”
A savage shame swung through her as she realized she’d given herself away, and at last she found the strength to pull sharply away. “No! Please!”
“Christina—”
“Don’t say anything, I beg of you!” Distraught with guilt, she pressed her shaking hands to her cheeks. “I ... I’m sorry, I didn’t want you to know anything. I can’t possibly go back to the others now.” Choking back a sob, she gathered her skirts, d
ropping Lady Chevenley’s shawl as she hurried agitatedly past him and out into the entrance hall.
“Christina, come back!”
She didn’t look back, but fled blindly up the staircase, too guilty and distressed to think of anything but the safety of her room.
He crossed the hall behind her, but as he was about to follow up the staircase, the music-room door opened and Mr. Richmond came out.
“Ah, there you are, Robert, my boy. We were wondering what had happened to you.” He glanced around. “Where’s Christina?”
Robert hesitated, and then turned toward him. “She, er, has a headache, I’m afraid.”
“A headache? Oh, dear, should I send Jane to her?”
“No, I don’t think that will be necessary,” replied Robert, glancing up at the empty gallery.
“Are you coming back to join us?” asked Mr. Richmond.
“Yes. Of course.” Picking up the shawl, Robert reluctantly accompanied him into the music room.
In the garden room, in the shelter of darkness, for there were no candles, and the fire had been banked up for the night, Christina lay weeping silently on the bed. The worst had happened. By relaxing her guard and giving in, so briefly, to the powerful feelings that had beset her from the moment she’d seen him, she’d ruined everything. How could she face him again now? And what if her father or Jane should discover?
About an hour later she heard William’s carriage drive away; then Jenny came to her door. Light from the passage flooded into the dark room as the maid entered. “Do you require me, Miss Christina?” she asked, knowing something was very wrong.
“No. Thank you.”
“Are you quite sure, miss?”
“Quite sure.”
“Yes, miss.” The maid began to withdraw.
“Jenny?”
“Miss?”
“Please tell my father and sister that I’m asleep and not to be disturbed.”
“Yes, miss.”
The door closed softly, and darkness engulfed the room again.
She heard the others retire, and after a while Campion performed his nightly duty of extinguishing most of the lights, leaving only a single candle in the passage outside.
The house had been silent for some time when Robert came to her door. “Christina? I have to talk to you,” he whispered.
She lay in silence, staring up at the shadows of the bed hangings.
“Please, Christina. It’s important.”
Still she didn’t reply.
Lady Chevenley’s room was nearby, and evidently she wasn’t asleep, for she heard the urgent whispering and came to her door. “Robert? Is that you?”
“Damn!” he exclaimed under his breath, then lightened his voice to reply to his aunt, “Yes, it’s me.”
“Whatever are you doing?”
“Er, nothing. I thought I heard a noise.”
“A noise? What sort of noise?” she asked, a note of alarm entering her voice.
“Oh, just a noise. It probably wasn’t anything. Christina appears to have slept through it, anyway.”
“Which is something of a miracle, considering what’s going on outside her door. Well, if you’re sure the noise wasn’t anything to worry about, I think we should retire to our beds, don’t you?”
“Yes, Aunt. Good night.”
“Good night, Robert.”
Christina heard his footsteps retreating, and then Lady Chevenley’s door closed. Silence returned to the house, and for a long while she continued to stare up at the bed hangings; then she hid her face in her pillow again.
Chapter Twenty-two
She fell asleep at last, but was awakened in the small hours when the fire shifted suddenly in the hearth. She sat up, wishing that all that had happened earlier had been only a bad dream; but it wasn’t, it was all too real.
Feeling dreadful, she got off the bed, her gown crumpled and spoiled. Her hair had tumbled loose from its knot, and the satin ribbons fluttered sadly against her bare shoulders. She went to the window, holding the curtain aside to look out.
The moon was still up, drenching the combe and terraced gardens with its chill silver light. She stared down at the fountain. The last time she’d looked at that dancing water, she hadn’t yet made the ultimate mistake of revealing her heart. She’d still been safe then, still able to look her father and sister in the eyes, still able to smile at Robert. All that had gone now.
Suddenly the room felt confining. On impulse she went to the wardrobe and took out her fur-lined cloak, swinging it over her shoulders. The door into the passage creaked a little as she opened it, but although she listened carefully, she didn’t hear anyone else stirring. The solitary candle swayed a little as she hurried past toward the gallery and the staircase.
She emerged from the house into the night. The air was cold, and she drew her cloak close as she moved past the front of the house toward the gardens.
The topmost terrace was paved and surrounded by a stone balustrade on lion supports. There were several statues of mythical creatures—a unicorn, a phoenix, and a centaur—and they seemed almost alive in the pale moonlight as she crossed to the wide flight of stone steps leading down to the next garden.
The second terrace was a place of formal flowerbeds, each one surrounded by a low, precisely clipped hedge, and all the paths converged on a small white marble rotunda in the center. She made her way past the rotunda, where a statue of the god Pan stood in the shadows, and approached the steps leading down to the next terrace, the one where the fountain played in the pool in the middle of the lawn.
Here her steps slowed a little. She walked along a path edged by tall autumn flowers, chrysanthemums, Michaelmas daisies, and goldenrod, and the train of her gown dragged through the fallen leaves of an ancient mulberry tree. The sharp smell of autumn was all around, and she could hear the fountain playing, the water tinkling with the brittleness of approaching winter.
She didn’t see the little wooden summerhouse until she was almost upon it. Overhung with weeping willows, and built on a little stone dais, it had a pagoda roof and a doorless entrance that faced across the lawn toward the fountain. The willows stirred in the faint night breeze, and in the shadows inside the pagoda she could see an elegant little wrought-iron seat. She was drawn toward it, stepping up onto the dais and entering the little building that must be so delightful and cool on a hot summer’s day.
She sat down, gazing across the moonlit lawns toward the fountain. Sounds other than the water carried to her. She could hear an owl hooting somewhere behind the house, and horses in the stableblock. In the distance, much deeper and less distinct, she could hear the roar of the Darch as it swept past the bridge by the lodge, and the thunder of the rapids downstream.
Her thoughts turned to Robert, and all that had gone wrong. Somehow she had to leave Bellstones, but try as she would, she couldn’t think of a reason that would suffice under the circumstances. How could she explain to her father, or to Jane, that she had to return to Stroud before the betrothal?
Her train of thought was broken abruptly by the distinct sound of a wicket gate opening further along the garden, in the high perimeter wall that separated the terraces from the leafy combe beyond. Wondering who could be out and about at such an hour, she rose to her feet, peeping cautiously out of the summerhouse. She could see the wicket gate in the wall, and hurrying in her direction from it, a woman’s hooded cloaked figure.
Christina drew back quickly out of sight, pressing back into the shadows as light footsteps approached along the path. The woman came right to the summerhouse, pausing on the path by it to look back toward the wicket gate. She pushed back her hood and Christina was startled to recognize Jane. For the space of a heartbeat Christina could have spoken, but something kept her silent, and then Jane pulled her hood forward again, turning to hurry on toward the house.
Slowly Christina moved to the entrance of the summerhouse. The cloaked figure vanished swiftly up the steps to the next terrace. Christina
was about to follow her when she distinctly heard the wicket gate again. With a gasp she retreated into the shadows of the summerhouse once more, peeping very carefully toward the wall. Another cloaked figure had entered the garden from the combe. It was a man this time, tall and top-hatted, and he was walking slowly toward the summerhouse.
Her heart began to pound as the steps came inexorably closer, but then, abruptly, she couldn’t hear them anymore. Hesitantly she looked out. The path was empty. Puzzled, she glanced all around, and then she saw him by the fountain. She’d ceased to hear his steps because he’d left the path to cross the soft grass.
He stood with one boot resting on the low stone surround of the ornamental pond, and he’d removed his top hat and was swinging it idly in his hand. She could see him quite clearly in the moonlight; it was Robert.
Christina stared at him, taken a little aback, for somehow, in her heart of hearts, she’d expected to see William Grenfell. Or was that wishful thinking? Did she want it to be William because that would, as William himself had said, leave Robert free? But it was Robert, and only one conclusion could be drawn from seeing him return a minute after Jane through the same wicket gate: they’d had a secret assignation, a lovers’ tryst. So, William was to share her fate after all, and know the deep misery of unrequited love.
She had to remain in the summerhouse until Robert left, but he showed no inclination to move, gazing at the fountain as it splashed into the pond. At last he put his hat on again, adjusting his cloak as he walked away across the grass.
She waited for several minutes before emerging from the summerhouse, hurrying back along the path toward the house. She was afraid Robert might have locked the front door on his way in, but to her relief, it opened at her touch. The entrance hall was deserted, and there wasn’t a sound. Her skirts rustled as she hurried softly up the staircase and along the gallery.
At last she reached her room, closing the door thankfully and leaning back on it. The slight draft she’d caused on entering made the fire shift again, and a shower of brilliant sparks flew up the chimney.