by Dorothy Mack
Sarah’s step had faltered for a split second, but now she leapt forward, pulling an astonished Lottie with her as she hurried around the corner.
“What’s the matter? Why are you racing along like this?” gasped Lottie when she had recovered her breath sufficiently to speak.
“I … I saw a person I prefer to avoid,” Sarah replied, unable to think up a convincing lie on the spur of the moment.
“Who? Who do you know in Marshfield?”
Sarah didn’t answer immediately. She was continuing her rapid pace down the walkway, while at the same time looking back over her shoulder every second or two. Lottie repeated her question.
“No one. I know no one in Marshfield.”
“Then whom are we avoiding?” Lottie asked in pardonable exasperation.
It seemed as if Sarah was not going to reply. Her eyes were fixed straight ahead now, having ascertained that the danger of being seen was over. After a moment, however, she said dismissively, “No one of any importance. Come, here is Madame Bouchard’s shop.”
CHAPTER 12
She recovered, of course.
One didn’t break one’s heart over an acquaintance of less than three weeks’ standing, no matter how attractive.
Sarah was neither ignorant nor naive. She had been a helpless witness to her father’s grief when her mother had died so suddenly, pitying the deep loneliness that nothing and no one could assuage, and understanding the restlessness that could be soothed by other women.
Lord Eversley had been without a wife for several years. In theory, she was not shocked that he should keep a mistress, but being confronted with the reality of the woman had taught her very quickly that she would never willingly share a man she loved. If, influenced by her own awakening feelings, she had read more into his manner than he intended, then she was the only one to suffer, and she could surely do that with dignity. If, on the other hand, it was his intention to court her for whatever reason, then the sooner she made her position clear, the sooner that farce could be ended.
Sarah was quite pleased with the way she had dealt with the situation. Within five minutes of seeing Lord Eversley taking fond leave of his mistress, she had herself well enough in hand to calmly discuss styles and fabrics with a dressmaker and bring her critical faculties to bear on examining with Lottie some examples of Madame Bouchard’s work before they had committed themselves to engaging her to make up the gown she would wear to the Eversley dinner party.
Though disposed by instinct and affection to get to the bottom of Sarah’s strange behaviour on the way to the dressmaker’s, Lottie had been given no opportunity until they had concluded their business with Madame Bouchard. By that time, Sarah was able to throw her off the scent by conceding in a self-deprecating tone that she had displayed an excessive aversion to meeting someone who, while vulgar, was not so low as to justify avoiding a brief acknowledgement of his acquaintance by such an extreme measure. They had methodically accomplished all the items on Lottie’s list, partaken of a better-than-average luncheon at the inn recommended by her grandfather, and returned to Beech Hill in perfect amity. If Sarah had to invoke all her acting skills to present a serene appearance, the result was worth it. The incident was allowed to be forgotten.
During the days that elapsed before the scheduled dinner party, Sarah succeeded in avoiding Lord Eversley’s visits by having urgent business elsewhere if she knew he was with her grandfather or in the drawing room. The sense of eager anticipation with which she had greeted each day had disappeared, but that could not be helped. There remained a great deal to be thankful for, as she constantly reminded herself.
When not with her grandfather or sewing with Lottie, she was most likely to be found with William. She had always preferred his company to that of her other relatives, and now there was the added factor of gratitude to him for his generosity in employing hours of his time in teaching Richard how to ride. He and Richard were already fast friends, and she was grateful that the boy should take William as a model rather than the more dashing and worldly Vincent. Cecil, having met some friends from his youth in the neighbourhood, had rather faded from the picture as far as the equestrian tutelage was concerned.
Yes, she assured herself, life was going along swimmingly and would improve when her less congenial relatives removed themselves from the house and she made some acquaintance among the local families. She was looking forward to the Eversley dinner party. It would give her a chance, among other things, to make it inescapably clear to a certain party that she was not interested in receiving his attentions.
Actually, the opportunity to accomplish this necessary chore presented itself rather sooner than expected.
Grace Medlark’s little girl, a five-year-old called Minnie, was making a slow recovery from the influenza that had assumed the proportions of a small epidemic in the locale. Sarah had insisted that Grace remain home with the child during her fretful convalescence. One sunny afternoon, she had the cook make up some gingerbread men and gathered together a few delicacies from the still room to tempt the little girl’s appetite, which Grace said was sadly lacking. Thinking Richard might wish to accompany her on her walk into the village, she checked the library and her grandfather’s rooms. Not finding him, she headed upstairs and entered the day nursery, where Lottie was busily sewing on some fabric they had not been able to resist in Marshfield.
Richard was there also — playing spillikins with Arabella!
From the slightly defiant look her cousin shot her, Sarah must have looked as astonished as she felt, but Richard said easily, “Do you know, Sarah, that Cousin Arabella never learned to play spillikins when she was a child? She has clever fingers, though, and is getting to be a dab hand at it already.”
Arabella scrambled to her feet. “Mama is resting and all the men have ridden off somewhere,” she said by way of explanation.
“I was planning to walk to the village with some things for Grace’s daughter,” said Sarah. “I thought Richard might like to come with me.” Something about Arabella’s downcast face prompted her to add, “Perhaps you’d care to take a walk, cousin? It’s a lovely warm afternoon after all that rain this morning.”
“Too nice a day to spend indoors,” Lottie said comfortably. “Go along with them, Miss Arabella.”
Darting a look at the clock on the wall, Arabella surprised Sarah by assenting. “I’ll run down and get my bonnet and pelisse.” She added with a grin to Richard, “I’ll beat you next time.”
When Arabella had gone to fetch her wrap and Richard was picking up the spillikins, Sarah said, raising her brows at Lottie, “Well, that was a surprise. I never thought she’d come with us.”
“That poor child is just plain lonely,” Lottie gave as her opinion. “She never sees her brother and sees too much of that mother of hers and her cronies. If you ask me, she needs friends of her own age.”
“Has she come up here before?”
“Once or twice. She likes Richard. He taught her to play cribbage last time.”
Sarah, a basket over her arm, was occupied in revising her ideas of her young cousin as the three set off in the direction of the village. Richard and Arabella chatted away, unconcerned with their companion’s silence as they strolled down the lane that wound its way between greening fields to come out eventually at the common in the village. Apparently absorbed in the pleasant scenery, Sarah stole a long look at the pretty, dark-haired girl from time to time.
Arabella’s manner toward the boy was not that of an adult condescending to a child but of two persons meeting on equal conversational ground. Though Richard’s insecure and eventful life had matured him beyond his years in some ways, he retained a child’s enthusiasm and bright outlook. Arabella was the surprise. Gone were the affected mannerisms and flirtatious style that sought to fix all attention on her admittedly appealing person. With Richard, she was unselfconscious and genuinely interested in his impressions of the neighbourhood, revealing a sweetness and empathy that Sarah had n
ot so far suspected in one whom she had considered completely self-centred. Her heart warmed to Arabella for liking her little brother. Could Lottie be right in her contention that the girl was lonely? Her life would seem to be a continual series of social engagements, but if these were all with her mother’s circle of friends, she might indeed feel emotionally isolated. Perhaps all this desperate flirting was an unconscious search for someone of her own to be close to.
Sarah was so preoccupied with the new picture of her cousin that was taking shape and colour in her mind that Richard had to speak to her twice to capture her attention. She shook off her introspective mood and made an effort to join in the others’ conversation for the rest of their walk.
They were quite a merry little party by the time they entered the scrupulously neat cottage that Grace shared with her husband, little Minnie, and Minnie’s two elder brothers. Grace was almost tearfully grateful for the visit as she apologetically ushered the callers into the homey kitchen, where a pot of something savoury simmered over the fire.
“I’m sorry to bring you into the kitchen, Sarah, but it’s the warmest room for Minnie, and she won’t let me out of her sight since her illness.”
“Of course, Grace. She wants spoiling a little at this stage. Hello, Minnie,” Sarah said softly to the anxious-looking little girl lying on a sort of daybed set near the fireplace. “I am a friend of your mama’s. My name is Sarah, this is my brother, Richard, and our Cousin Arabella. We’ve come to visit now that you are getting better, and to bring you some gingerbread men.”
The winsome child, with the free-flowing fair hair and delicately pointed features of a Botticelli angel, was too overwhelmed by shyness to speak. She stared at them through grey eyes like her mother’s that widened with delight at the iced gingerbread figures, her pale little face brightening as she realized the basket of treats was meant for her. Her joy knew no bounds when Arabella produced a sumptuously dressed doll she had snatched up from a cabinet in the nursery on their way out. In lieu of words, of which she was plainly incapable, the moppet threw her thin arms about Arabella’s neck as the girl bent to place the doll in her lap. Arabella laughed and sat down on the daybed, gathering child and doll onto her own lap while she explained that the doll had belonged to her mother when she was a little girl like Minnie.
Arabella was softly embroidering on this theme to a rapt little girl while Sarah conferred with Grace in low tones when Richard brought Doctor Rydell into the room a moment later. No one but the boy had heard the knock on the front door.
Grace apologized profusely, but it was doubtful if the doctor heard a word. His amazing dark-ringed grey eyes were fixed on the young woman cuddling the sick child in an unguarded stare of adoration that caused Grace and Sarah to exchange a shocked glance of understanding and dismay. Arabella went slowly pink as her eyes clung to the doctor’s.
“Doctor Rydell comes to see Minnie every afternoon, no matter how crammed his schedule,” Grace said hurriedly, her voice sounding unnaturally loud in the charged atmosphere of the cosy room.
At least it had the effect of releasing everyone from the tableau-like postures in which all but Richard had been frozen. Arabella replaced the little girl against the pillows and straightened away from the bed, stepping back to give the doctor room to approach. Minnie suddenly regained her power of speech and proceeded to regale the doctor, an obvious favourite, with a list of the gifts her visitors had brought. Her fluting voice lisped as she thrust the doll under his nose while he took her pulse and went over her with a professional eye and a gentle touch.
A flustered Sarah began saying their goodbyes, hoping to effect an escape before the doctor was finished, but her efforts were stymied by Minnie, who included Arabella in all her remarks and kept that young lady pinned to her side — not unwillingly, Sarah was convinced. In the end, she abandoned her futile attempts to drag Arabella away, and it was she who left the cottage last, lingering to say goodbye to Grace on the doorstep as Arabella and Doctor Rydell walked on ahead with Richard in attendance.
This was the position when a man cantered down the street on a magnificent black stallion. Two magnificent animals, Sarah amended with a sinking heart. She noted that the human one was wearing the same dark-green coat he’d worn in Marshfield. There was no way of avoiding a meeting. Grace had gone back into her house at a call from Minnie.
Lord Eversley had already dismounted and saluted Arabella and Doctor Rydell and had laughingly relinquished his reins to Richard, who had offered to walk the beast with transparent hopefulness.
They met at the gate to the Medlark front garden as Sarah approached on reluctant feet, having seen that, instead of walking back toward the gate, her cousin and the besotted doctor had remained talking together where Lord Eversley had greeted them. Neatly trapped, she summoned up a social smile that froze in the warmth of Lord Eversley’s pleasure in the meeting.
“At last, Sarah. I had begun to think fortune meant never to favour me with a glimpse of you again.”
“Good afternoon, Lord Eversley.”
“Can you not manage Mark?” he asked with a beseeching smile that would have melted her reserve a week ago.
“On a fortnight’s acquaintance? Heavens, I am not so forward,” she declared, producing a light laugh with a supreme effort. It must have sounded as false to him as it did in her own ears, because his brow creased slightly and his look grew searching.
“You’ve known me longer than you have William Ridgemont, whom you seem to have no qualms about addressing by his Christian name. Am I less deserving of your favour?”
Sarah swallowed nervously at the sincerity in his quiet tones. “But William is my cousin, sir,” she protested, still trying to maintain a careless air.
“Are you saying you prefer not to accord me the same privilege?” he asked, refusing to accept his cue to play the scene lightly.
“It … it is too soon.”
“No, it’s more than that,” he replied, reading the evasiveness in her face. “You and I have never stood on ceremony from the moment of our first meeting, so why now? What have I done to offend you?”
“Nothing. Of course you have done nothing to offend me!” She was rapidly losing the struggle to remain cool and composed.
“Methinks the lady doth protest too much,” he said with a bitter curl to his lip. “There is more to this than a simple wish to proceed more slowly down the path on which we have embarked. Everything about you is screaming ‘stop.’ I have grievously offended you in some way, though I promise you it was unintentional.”
“Nonsense, sir,” she cried, feeling more harassed by the moment. “Of course you have not offended me. It is not for me to be offended at anything you might choose to do. How can you think it? We are the merest acquaintances.” Her voice was under commendable control when she finished this speech, but Lord Eversley impatiently brushed aside her words.
“Fustian. We’ve been more than mere acquaintances from the moment we met. There’s something eating away at you, all right, something you consider heinous, and you’ve no intention of telling me what it is. In fact, now that I come to think of it, it wasn’t bad luck that has kept us from meeting this week, was it? It was intentional on your part. You needn’t bother to frame the lie, because I know I am right.” He ran a rough hand through his hair from forehead to nape, squeezing his neck muscles as he gazed at her in impotent exasperation.
“Sir, this conversation is getting us nowhere. Perhaps we had best agree to disagree?” Her glittering smile set a muscle twitching in his cheek.
“By God, we won’t! It is too vital. I can never get a moment of privacy with you at Beech Hill, so we’ll have it out here and now, in front of half the village and your brother and cousin if necessary.”
“Won’t you please believe me when I say you have not offended me, but … but it is for the best that we remain casual acquaintances?”
Distressed amber eyes pleading with him, as well as trembling lips, calmed the flames
that had been burning in his near-black eyes, and he said more gently, “I’m afraid I cannot accept that, my lovely one. It’s too crucial to our ultimate happiness to get to the bottom of this misunderstanding. Your brother is approaching. I’ll come to Beech Hill tomorrow… No, I forgot. I have business in Marshfield tomorrow.”
“Yes, I am sure you have,” Sarah said unwisely, but she was at the end of her emotional tether by then.
Mark’s gaze, which had been on the gatepost as he mentally went over his schedule, snapped back to her face, alerted by something in her voice. “Now, what did you mean by that?” he inquired with soft menace, taking in her rising colour and shifting glance.
“Nothing at all.”
“Has someone been telling tales about me and Marshfield, by any chance?”
“No,” she said with convincing conviction, but he was not put off.
“No one has told you I have a mistress there?”
Sarah gasped at his effrontery, and the look she sent him could have ignited a woodpile in a hurricane. She’d have left him then, but he stood squarely in front of the gate. She’d have needed a squad of cavalry to budge him.
“He’s a wonderful horse, Lord Eversley. What’s his name?”
Two pairs of eyes swung around to focus with difficulty on the eager boy holding out the reins of the handsome stallion. Lord Eversley accepted them mechanically and said, “Heracles,” producing a faint smile for Richard.
“Oh, that suits him right down to the ground,” Richard said approvingly, smiling impartially on the pair on either side of the gate. “He looks strong enough for anything.”
Richard’s timely intervention had served to extricate his sister from the most embarrassing ten minutes of her life. Her relief took the form of falsely bright remarks on the lateness of the hour, which caused Doctor Rydell, wandering nearer with Arabella, to take reluctant leave of the party. Lord Eversley bowed too and said all that was proper to the occasion, his attractive baritone so laced with irony that it was a wonder no one save Sarah seemed to notice. His parting glance at her had a biding-my-time quality about it that had her frantically searching her wits for a way out of going to his mother’s dinner party, now only two days off.