Sabrina

by Kruger, Mary

  With Melanie’s arrival, the great house took on a new life, a totally unexpected one to Sabrina. She had just discovered what it was like to have a family; now she knew how it felt to have a friend. There’d been few of those in her life, since the young people of Tarrytown and Sparta had not been encouraged to associate with a bastard. Sabrina was happier than she had ever been, with only one cloud on her horizon. From his letters, she knew that the duke still disapproved of her.

  One morning she came in from riding and entered the house through the kitchen. Mrs. Briggs, the cook, smiled at her as she passed through, and refrained from scolding as Sabrina reached for a freshly baked macaroon. With the skirts of her riding habit looped over one arm and the macaroon held in her other hand, she went on her way, until she reached the main hallway. There she came face-to-face with Oliver, just coming out of the book-room.

  Chapter 6

  For just a moment Sabrina stood very still, her head at a level with Oliver’s chest and her heart racing absurdly fast as her eyes were caught, and held, by his. Then she hastily stepped back. “Oh! Excuse me, Your Grace. I didn’t realize you’d come home!”

  “Good morning, Sabrina,” he said, cordially enough. His eyes were cool, but the enmity she had come to expect was missing. During his stay in London, Oliver had come to terms with the fact that Sabrina was his ward, and that he did have some responsibility toward her. He could hardly have avoided the realization; Gwendolyn, who detested writing letters, had suddenly become an ardent correspondent, sending him missives several times a week, all filled with the doings of his ward. In a way, he was glad of the girl’s presence, since she had given Grandmama a new interest in life. He also had to admit that she seemed to be behaving herself, with, however, a few unfortunate exceptions. “You have been riding, I see.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And raiding the pantry as well.”

  She smiled. “‘Tis just a macaroon, sir. Here, would you like one?” She held out the remaining biscuit.

  She had succeeded in surprising him. She also thought that she had amused him, but, if so, the twinkle in his eyes disappeared very quickly. “Thank you, no. Come into the book-room, Sabrina. I wish a word with you.”

  He turned abruptly on his heel, and Sabrina followed. “What have I done now?” she muttered, but if Oliver heard he gave no sign. Instead he walked over to a window and stood looking out, one finger idly stroking his upper lip.

  “How do you go on here, Sabrina?” he asked, finally, and when there was no answer turned in time to see her finishing the last crumbs of the macaroon. He said nothing, letting his raised eyebrow and his silence speak more eloquently about her manners than words could. She flushed.

  “Excuse me, sir. Riding makes me prodigious hungry.”

  He nodded dismissively. “Well? How do you go on here? Are you making yourself useful?”

  “I don’t know about that, sir,” she said. She wasn’t quite sure how to deal with this new, more approachable side of him, and so she watched him carefully as she spoke. ”I’ve certainly kept busy, but I’m sure that’s not what you mean.” She sank into a chair, one leg tucked under her, though he hadn’t given her permission to sit. “There’s so much I have to learn! Riding, meeting people—and that’s just part of it. I have to learn how to walk, how to speak, how to stand, and all the different titles and such. I don’t know if I’ll ever manage it.”

  An unwilling smile tugged at his lips. After all he had heard of her, he doubted it, too. She was certainly not the lady of quality she appeared. Her manners were atrocious, and there was a certain freeness in her manner that he could not like, not as the duke, not as her guardian. It came, he supposed, of being an American. Far better, indeed, that she stay here, and not come to London, in spite of Grandmama’s pleading.

  “I shall have to be returning to London soon,” he said abruptly. “I hope that while I am gone you will not get into any more scrapes.”

  She flushed again. “Scrapes, sir?”

  “Yes. Scrapes.”

  “I don’t think I’ve done anything so very bad.”

  “No?” He held up a finger. “One. You challenged your groom to a race. Which, by the way, you lost.”

  “Would it have been all right if I’d won, sir?” she asked, greatly daring.

  He ignored her. “Two. You coaxed the Sanderson girls into teaching you the waltz.”

  “But I understand it is all the crack in London, sir.”

  “Three. You use cant. God only knows where you’ve learned it. And, no, the dance is not all the crack. It is not done at Almack’s. And, four. You have been telling the neighborhood Indian stories. I do not like that, Sabrina.”

  “But they ask, sir. No one knows anything about America, and when I try to tell them there haven’t been any Indians near where I lived for years no one believes me. It’s easier to tell them what they wish to hear.”

  “I don’t believe Miss Hewlett wished to hear that you’d been scalped,” he said, dryly.

  Sabrina lowered her head to hide the laughter in her eyes. “Sir, she was so insufferable. ‘You must be relieved to be out of that wilderness,’” she mimicked.

  “It does not matter whether the woman deserved it or not. From now on, Sabrina, you will refrain from misleading people.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He looked at her sharply, suspicious of this meek submissiveness. “I expect you to comport yourself as a young lady at all times. No more fraternizing with the servants. No more wild behavior. No flirting, Sabrina, with anyone in the neighborhood. Do I make myself clear?”

  “But—”

  “You are not in America now. You are Miss Carrick, and you will do nothing to disgrace this family.”

  Sabrina’s eyes were filled with hurt resentment. “Sir, people seem to like me, the staff, the neighbors. What did I ever do to make you dislike me so?”

  He was trying to frame a suitable answer to that when a bell, sounding far off, rescued him. “There is the bell for luncheon,” he said, relief in his voice. “We will continue this discussion later.”

  “Yes. Oh, heavens, and I still in my dirt! May I be excused?”

  “Yes, go. I will tell them to wait luncheon for you.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Sabrina dropped into a brief curtsy and headed for the door, where she suddenly stopped. “I do try, you know, sir.”

  Oliver glanced up from the papers in his hand, and this time his eyes were caught by deep green pools, candid and sincere. “Yes, Sabrina,” he said, finally. “I realize that. Now, go, or you’ll be late.”

  “Yes, sir,” Sabrina said again, and this time she did go out the door, leaving Oliver to look after her thoughtfully. She was something of a surprise, this girl from America, not so greedy as he’d feared, not so encroaching, and that meant that she was dangerous. He would have to be on guard, he thought, leaving the room himself, against any schemes she might hatch, and against the surprising urge he had just felt to trust her. She seemed so guileless, so innocent, but he could not even guess, yet, if she really were. He would have to watch her carefully. Yes. Very carefully, indeed.

  “No, Rina, it’s like this. Step, step, hop, step, step, hop, now, cross over—”

  “Step, hop, step,” Sabrina muttered under her breath, at the same time trying to keep count with the music. It was a dark, dreary day, several days after Oliver’s return, with rain pouring down outside. In the music room the rugs had been rolled back, and Fanny was at the spinet, a not very accomplished accompanist for Melanie’s impromptu dance lessons.

  “No, step, step, hop, you keep forgetting the second step!” Melanie said.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Melly!” Sabrina released her cousin’s hands and sank inelegantly onto a brocade sofa. “But I fear I shall never get it. I am not a very good dancer.”

  “But you must learn, Rina, it’s only a country dance and it’s done everywhere. Not like the waltz.”

  “Are you done?” Fanny asked plainti
vely from the spinet. “My fingers, you know, so tired—”

  “No, Mama, we’re just resting. Come.” She tugged at Sabrina’s hand and Sabrina reluctantly got up. “Come on. I wish Auntie Gwen had hired that dancing master.”

  “She tried to. It was Bainbridge that disapproved.”

  “That monster.”

  “Melanie!” Fanny exclaimed. “He is no such thing! So kind, so handsome—”

  “He’s not a monster,” Sabrina protested at the same time. “And actually, I suppose I deserved it, after what I did.” Her eyes suddenly sparkled with mischief.

  “Why? What did you do?” Melanie asked, and Sabrina cast a quick look toward Fanny.

  “I persuaded Lydia Sanderson to show me the waltz,” she said in a low voice.

  Melanie clapped her hand over her mouth. “No! That Friday-faced prude? I wouldn’t think she even knew what it was!”

  “Oh, yes, and she had the nerve to tell me that if we had a ball here she intended to waltz with Bainbridge.”

  “No!” Melanie stared at her. “Well, I suppose he is handsome enough, but—”

  “But not for you,” Sabrina finished for her, having heard a great deal about Melanie’s dreams in the past few weeks. She was quite fond of Melanie, in spite of the disadvantages the friendship sometimes had. She had no bent toward mischief herself, but Melanie seemed destined to be forever in scrapes. Thus, Sabrina had found herself visiting the shops in Twyford with only Melanie, and while they were perfectly safe, they had later endured long scolds on the inadvisability of young ladies going anywhere unescorted. Thus Sabrina, on a visit to Squire Sanderson’s home with Melanie and Cousin Fanny, had found Melanie flirting and giggling with the Squire’s son, Luke, and thus both had had to endure scolds again. Thus Oliver had decreed that both girls were to be confined to the estate for a time, but when Melanie was found flirting again, this time with an under footman, even he had to concede defeat.

  Only Gwendolyn seemed to understand that Sabrina’s role in all these escapades had been to curb Melanie’s exuberance, and only she understood that the adventures had sprung from high spirits, not malice. Oliver had simply reminded Sabrina, coolly, that she had promised to behave.

  Most likely he thought she was a bad influence, Sabrina thought now, and then shook off the gloomy thought. “Well, it’s no matter, as I shan’t be having a season in any event.”

  “Let’s practice the waltz ourselves,” Melanie said, her eyes suddenly sparkling in the way Sabrina had learned meant trouble.

  “Melanie!” Fanny said, and for once her voice was firm. “The waltz simply is not done.”

  “Oh, pooh! Even the patronesses at Almack’s allow it from time to time, so I’ve heard.”

  “I would like to learn it,” Sabrina admitted. “Is it so very bad?”

  “I should say so!” Fanny exclaimed. “It is nothing less than being in the embrace of a man! Shameful, I call it.”

  “Mm,” Melanie said, her eyes half-closed. “But, Mama, there is no man here. Only Sabrina and me.”

  “Please, Cousin Fanny? Just one?” Sabrina said.

  Fanny stared at them and then sat at the spinet again. “Oh, dear, your reputations, if news of this ever gets out.”

  “Why should it?” Melanie said reasonably, and turned to Sabrina. “Now, Rina, it’s like this, your hand goes here, holding mine, and my other arm goes about your waist.”

  Sabrina had to fight the urge to giggle as her face suddenly came close to Melanie’s. “How very odd!”

  “Don’t laugh. Now.” She waved her hand toward Fanny, who began to play. “We move like this. One, two, three, one, two, three.”

  “One, two, three,” Sabrina repeated. “This feels strange. Are you sure?”

  Yes. Now we turn, like this.”

  “Oh! How do you see where you’re going if you have your back to everything?”

  “I’ll manage. We used to take turns, practicing at school. Mind your feet, Rina!”

  “Oh, sorry, did that hurt? One, two, three, oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to step on you again.”

  “‘Tis nothing, now wait, you’re all out of step again, Rina. Just follow what I do.”

  “I—” Sabrina trod on Melanie’s foot yet again and, face flaming, pulled away. “I can’t! Oh, I shall never get it!” she exclaimed.

  “It isn’t so very difficult, Sabrina,” Oliver said, stepping into the room from the doorway, where he had been watching. Three guilty faces immediately turned toward him, and he ruthlessly controlled his amusement.

  Melanie’s chin went up at a defiant tilt. “We were only practicing dancing, Bainbridge.”

  “So I see. The waltz, yet.” His eyes went to Sabrina, who flushed at being caught again in what he would certainly regard as a scrape.

  “That was my idea.”

  “Oh, I never doubted that for a second.” He stopped in front of Sabrina, whose own chin was tilted a bit. “First Miss Sanderson, Sabrina, and now Melanie. You do pick unsuitable teachers.”

  Sabrina’s chin tilted higher. “If it displeases you, sir, why do you not teach me yourself?”

  He raised his eyebrow. “That sounds remarkably like a dare, Sabrina.”

  “If you wish to make it one.” Her eyes remained locked with his, very steady, and very green.

  “Very well. Cousin Fanny, will you play, please.”

  “B-but—” Fanny stammered, “what Auntie Gwen will say—”

  Oliver’s lips twitched, but when he spoke he was at his haughtiest. “I shall answer to the dowager. Play, if you please. Sabrina? Are you ready?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Very well. Then we start like this.”

  Oh, my heavens! Color suddenly flooded into Sabrina’s face as Oliver’s arm went about her waist. This was nothing at all like waltzing with Melanie. Though he held her at the prescribed distance, she was acutely aware of his nearness, aware of the breadth and strength of his shoulder under her hand, aware of the hardness of the hand holding hers and the warmth of the one touching her, burning her, at her waist. A dizzying, heady mixture of scents reached her: tobacco, horse, bay rum; and to steady herself she raised her eyes from his shoulder, only to find that he was looking down at her. His eyes were inscrutable, but something in them held her, so that she was unable to look away. She forgot to count her steps, forgot to mind her feet, forgot there was even music playing. They glided across the floor together, and if Oliver were aware of the world outside he, too, gave no sign.

  For long moments after the music had stopped they continued to gaze at each other, and then Fanny spoke. “Very pretty, Bainbridge,” she said, rising from the spinet, and her voice broke the spell. Stepping away, Oliver made Sabrina a correct, courteous bow; her own face grave, she curtsied. “If that is how it should look then I wonder the patronesses still disapprove of it!”

  “It did look very nice,” Melanie said, a hint of envy in her voice. “So romantic.”

  “So lovely,” Fanny said. “Such a beautiful dance.”

  Oliver’s eyebrow rose, and again his mouth twitched. Sabrina’s eyes, brimming with laughter, met his, and for just a moment the magic was there again. “I quite agree, Cousin Fanny,” Oliver said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

  “Excuse me, Your Grace.”

  Oliver turned toward the footman at the door. “Yes, what is it?”

  “It’s the dowager duchess, Your Grace.”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m afraid she’s taken ill, Your Grace.”

  “Grandmama?” Sabrina gasped, and moved forward.

  “What happened?” Oliver asked.

  “She collapsed, Your Grace.”

  Sabrina gave an inarticulate cry and ran from the room. Oliver watched her with a thoughtful expression, diverted for a brief moment from his own worry. “Has the doctor been sent for?”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “Thank you. I shall be there directly.”

  “Oh, Cousin Oliver,” F
anny said, and Oliver turned toward her.

  “Come,” he said, putting a comforting arm around her. “Let us go see what we can do.”

  “You may see her now,” said Saltmarsh, Gwendolyn’s dresser, from the doorway of the dowager’s bedroom. The small group of people in the sitting room looked up. “But only for a few moments. She tires easily.”

  “Thank you, Saltmarsh.” Oliver rose and let his cousins precede him into the darkened bedroom, his eyes thoughtfully watching Sabrina. He could have predicted Fanny’s reactions, from her frequent bouts of tears to her incoherent flutterings, but he would never have guessed at Sabrina’s. After her first cry of distress, she had lapsed into silence, the stricken look in her eyes the only indication of her feelings. Of course, the chit knew that without Grandmama she stood to lose her comfortable life, but even so she would not be thrown out to starve. Difficult as it was to believe, the girl seemed genuinely to care for Grandmama.

  Gwendolyn lay propped up by pillows and her eyes were closed. They gathered about the massive bed in silence. Again Oliver noticed that fine-drawn quality he had seen in her his first day back, though it was more pronounced now. Gwendolyn’s cheeks seemed shrunken, her nose more prominent, all her features sharpened, and it was all too easy to recall what the doctor had said. Her heart was not strong and she was old. She could go at any time.

  Fanny sniffed audibly. “I ain’t dead yet,” Gwendolyn said without opening her eyes. “Don’t go having a wake for me.”

  “Grandmama, you’ll outlive us all,” Oliver said, smiling at the familiar acerbic voice.

  “Nonsense, boy, I am old. Sabrina.”

  “Ma’am?” Sabrina came forward from the other side and Gwendolyn’s hand caught hers in a surprisingly strong grip.

  “I want to make provisions for your future, child.”

  “Don’t talk nonsense, ma’am. You’ll be well soon.”