Sabrina

by Kruger, Mary

“I wondered,” Sabrina said, sinking into a chair by the bed. “Were you sick at all?”

  “No. Now, don’t reproach me, child, I had to do something, did I not?” She stared at Sabrina, whose face held a trace of censure. And she had to do something now, which meant the time for pretense was past. “Really, child, I’m sure you’re not as unhappy as you pretend. I assure you Oliver is quite an eligible parti and many a girl in the kingdom would wish to be in your shoes.”

  “There’s more to it than that, ma’am.”

  “Nonsense. We shall have to get to London somehow. He’ll find it all too easy to ignore you if we do not.”

  “Ma’am, he’ll ignore me, anyway.”

  “Really, Sabrina, I grow impatient with you! Do you really have to be told how to attract a man?”

  That stopped Sabrina for a moment. “Oh, ma’am, if it were only that simple—”

  “It is that simple, Sabrina, and you are not alone, you know.”

  “Yes, but you don’t know. You see, my father—”

  “Your father was a scoundrel and a rogue. I know that. Nevertheless, you are a Carrick. You can hold your head high.”

  “Ma’am, you don’t understand—”

  “I understand quite well, Sabrina. No more arguments, now, and I expect you to keep quiet about this. If Oliver knew, he’d be furious.”

  “Would you blame him?”

  “Yes. It is for his own good. Go away now, and let me think of what to do. I shall contrive.”

  Sabrina rose slowly. Tell the truth, she thought, but if she did, she would lose everything. Everything. Had she been honest from the beginning, she would not have this problem now, but she had been blinded by the luxury, the love. Now it was too late, and the choice was no longer hers. She was trapped by her lie.

  Chapter 8

  Some days later an ancient traveling carriage drove up to the Abbey. Partridge, after greeting the guest, went to the book-room, where Oliver was working on the estate accounts. “Excuse me, Your Grace.”

  “What is it, Partridge?” Oliver asked without looking up.

  “Lord Everett Carrick has arrived, Your Grace.”

  “My uncle Everett? Here?”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “Good God. What the devil can he want? Where is he?”

  “In the morning room, Your Grace.”

  “Thank you, Partridge,” Oliver said absently as he set off for the morning room. Good God, Uncle Everett, here! He rarely left Yorkshire, preferring as he did to hoard his pennies. It was only when he felt it necessary to deal with some point of honor due the Carrick name that he left his home. After the announcement of his engagement, he should have expected this, Oliver thought.

  “Well, Uncle, this is a surprise,” he said, entering the morning room. Everett turned from viewing, with narrowed eyes, one of Gwendolyn’s latest paintings, a portrait of her mother. He was corpulent and his suit, some ten years out of date, was rusty black and straining at the seams.

  “Good day, Oliver,” he said, making a leg, and Oliver bowed in return.

  “I trust you had a pleasant journey?” Oliver continued as he went across to pour himself a brandy.

  “No, I did not. The roads are bad and the inns are worse.” He eyed the glass in Oliver’s hand with disfavor. “Is it not early in the day for that?”

  “Is it?” Oliver said, coolly. “Pray, why have you come?”

  “To save you from making a mistake.”

  “Oh? And not to meet your granddaughter, or see your mother? Grandmama is doing better, thank you for asking.”

  “Of course she is. I did not come for that.”

  “Of course not. You wish to save me from making a mistake. Again.”

  “I wish to warn you against marrying some unknown girl.”

  “Your son’s daughter.”

  “Worse. If she is Gerald’s child—”

  “She is.”

  “Have you proof?”

  “Proof enough.” Oliver held up his hand, displaying the Bainbridge signet. “And she looks much like Grandmama’s mother.” He indicated the portrait.

  “If she is Gerald’s child, then that is worse. I don’t mind telling you he was unstable. And who was her mother?”

  “Some American. Local aristocracy, to hear her tell it.”

  “It won’t do, Oliver. A man in your position—”

  “She is a Carrick.”

  “Of dubious birth. If you would just be guided by me—”

  “If I were to be guided by you I would have married the Murdock girl last year.”

  “And what would be so bad about that? She comes from good stock.”

  “Yes, like a horse, which is what she looks like. At least Sabrina is pretty.”

  “Looks ain’t everything.”

  “Perhaps.” He stepped across to the bellpull. “Partridge, please send Miss Carrick here when she comes in from riding.”

  Partridge bowed. “Very good, sir.”

  “American, eh?” Everett said when Partridge had left. “Savage, is she?”

  “She has not had the proper upbringing,” Oliver admitted, “but that can be corrected.”

  “Can it? Mark my words, Oliver, she will disgrace you. Why do you never take my advice?”

  “Perhaps because it is invariably bad. Ah, here she is now.”

  “You wished to see me, sir?” Sabrina said from the doorway. Her face was flushed with exercise, and she looked remarkably pretty.

  “Yes, Sabrina. Come in and meet Lord Everett Carrick, your grandfather.”

  “My grandfather?” Sabrina turned her face to the other man, such joy beaming from it that Oliver, against his will, was touched. Family meant so much to her. He had not realized the depths of her feelings until he’d seen her reaction to Grandmama’s illness. Though he still did not like the forced engagement, thought he still did not trust her, he knew that in some ways he had badly misjudged her. “Sir, it is good to meet you at last,” she said.

  Lord Everett did not bow in response to her curtsy. “Ain’t even in mourning,” he said, eyeing her dark blue velvet riding habit disapprovingly.

  “Papa asked me not to go into mourning for him,” she said, giving the excuse that she and Gwendolyn had decided to use for this apparent breach of etiquette.

  “He would. It’s disrespectful, girl.”

  “Yes, sir,” Sabrina said, more subdued now.

  “Go upstairs and change into something more suitable.”

  “No.” Oliver held out his hand. “Stay here. Sabrina is my ward, sir,” he said to Lord Everett, “not yours, and also my fiancée. You have no right to order her about.”

  “I have every right, since you are so clearly shirking your duty. The girl looks like a doxy.”

  “I will not have her insulted!” Oliver exclaimed, jumping to his feet. He wasn’t sure why he was so angry at a sentiment he himself had voiced, or why the look of hurt in Sabrina’s eyes affected him so. He only knew that he could not allow anyone, especially her grandfather, to say such things about her. “I expect an apology for that.”

  “I only say what I think.”

  “What you think doesn’t signify, Uncle. It never has.”

  “I like that! I have only your good in mind, Oliver, and what is due your position. What will the ton think of her? Mark my words, they’ll not accept her.”

  “We shall see. We shall be removing to London soon.”

  “Good God! You will be totally ostracized.”

  “I think not. I grow tired of this, Uncle. If you’ve nothing else to say, you may leave.”

  “I might have known you’d react this way. You never listen to reason. Well, I wash my hands of you. If you wish to ruin your life it is on your head.”

  “Thank you, Uncle. You will understand if I ask you to leave.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “There is a tolerable inn in the village.”

  “You are turning me out of the house?”

&nb
sp; “Yes, I believe I am.”

  “You will live to regret this, Oliver!”

  “Perhaps.” He tugged on the bellpull again. “Partridge, Lord Everett is leaving. Please show him out.”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” Partridge said, barely covering his surprise.

  “On your head be it, Oliver! I’ll have no more to do with you,” Lord Everett said, and Oliver bowed.

  “Good riddance,” he muttered when Lord Everett had left, and turned toward the door.

  “Sir?” Sabrina said. Oliver turned. “Thank you for standing up for me.”

  He shrugged. “Oh, well, if anyone’s going to insult you it should be me.”

  She smiled at that. “He was rather disagreeable, wasn’t he?”

  Oliver grimaced. “Disagreeable is not the word. Meddling, interfering old—”

  “Yes?”

  “Never mind.” He smiled at her for the first time she could remember. “Do not regard him.”

  “Oh, I shan’t. It is just—he is my grandfather.” Her brow wrinkled. “Why is he that way?”

  Oliver came to sit beside her on the sofa before he answered. “I expect it has to do with Grandmama’s money.”

  “Oh, no, not that again!”

  “I’m afraid so. Uncle Everett is a notorious cutpurse. To look at him one would think he hasn’t a penny, but he is as rich as Croesus.”

  “Nevertheless.” Her brow furrowed. “That money is going to cause more problems.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it.”

  “Did you mean what you said, sir? About London?”

  “I suppose I did, God help me. I’m not much for the season, but Grandmama is right. You should be presented, and you could certainly use some town bronze.”

  “I thought you didn’t want Grandmama to travel.”

  “She wishes to go, and she does seem better. If it tires her, she can always return here.” He rose and stood politely until she, too, stood. “We’ll leave when Grandmama is feeling more the thing.”

  “I am looking forward to it, sir.”

  “Good. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve a deal of work to do.”

  “Certainly, sir, and I should change.” Curtsying, she headed for the stairs to her room. London! she thought. When they arrived there my lord duke had best be careful. Sabrina had her own plans.

  The removal to London was accomplished with the maximum of fuss. It had been years since the dowager had stirred from the Abbey, even more since she had gone to London, and the staff was in an uproar. Eventually everything that was necessary had been packed, and they set off, Gwendolyn and Sabrina in the traveling chaise with the lozenges on the side proclaiming that the passenger was a widow, and Oliver, ahead, in his curricle. There were also four outriders, and, behind, the lumbering baggage coach, carrying Letty and Saltmarsh. Other things which Grandmama deemed necessary to her comfort had already been sent to town, along with a battalion of servants. Oliver’s laughing protests that Bainbridge House was already furnished and staffed were met with the silent contempt they deserved. Everyone knew what bachelor quarters were like.

  The journey through land blooming into spring delighted Sabrina. She gazed with wonder at the rolling countryside, fresh and green and new. Daffodils bloomed on hillsides and in meadows, orchards of cherry and apple spilled pink and white blossoms onto the breeze, and in the fields tiny lambs and awkward, leggy colts frisked about in the cool, fresh air. Windsor Castle, on its bluff across the Thames, fascinated her for as long as it was visible, and she found the activity at the posting inn where they stopped to break their journey just as exciting.

  As they approached the city the scenery gradually changed. Houses were closer together, and there were more of them. There was more traffic, too, lumbering farm carts, bringing their produce to London’s markets, traveling carriages, and the distinctive maroon and gold coaches of the Royal Mail. Sabrina, who remembered London from her brief, earlier visit as a bewildering place, smoky and sooty and noisy, stared at everything: the narrow, crooked buildings pressed close together; the conveyances of every shape and size and kind; and, most of all, the people. People were everywhere, respectable matrons going into shops, less respectable women flirting with every man in sight; vendors hawking their goods, children darting in and out of traffic and danger, and, everywhere, soldiers. It was a sobering reminder that this peaceful-seeming country was actually at war. Melanie, sitting beside her, was just as excited, and Gwendolyn forbore to remind them that a true lady of quality did not gawk, thus exposing herself as a green girl. London could be quite overwhelming when seen for the first time.

  The cavalcade passed Hyde Park Corner, and soon the hubbub and the traffic lessened. The buildings changed from shops and inns and modest apartments, to stately homes made of brick, hidden behind elaborate iron fences or high stone walls. They had entered Mayfair.

  The carriages here were fine curricles, like the duke’s, or smart phaetons. The pedestrians were maids in uniform, intent on some errand for their mistresses, or elegant ladies walking with handsome gentlemen, or town dandies, lanquidly surveying the scene. Down the street Sabrina caught a glimpse of trees and green grass, before the coach took another turn and the park was lost from sight. At last, they stopped in front of a Georgian gem of a house on Upper Mount Street. It was tall, four stories high, and made of brick with black shutters. The dowager’s carriage pulled up in the circular drive, and Sabrina ascended the stairs with tolerable calm. She gave no sign that she was overawed, since she was becoming quite good at hiding her feelings. All she had learned about London had convinced her that it might be a necessary talent.

  Oliver’s butler, Hastings, greeted them at the door. He was very tall, and very thin. His uniform was immaculate, his white gloves were spotless, and the expression on his face was supercilious. He terrified Sabrina, though she hid that, too. Within a few minutes a footman was leading her upstairs to her room, where a maid would wait on her, until Letty arrived with the baggage.

  The room was not newly decorated, but it was comfortable, dominated by a huge canopied bed with a feather tick so high that a stair was needed to reach it. A wardrobe, dressing table, and escritoire completed the furnishings, save for the seat under the window, upholstered in chintz to match the draperies and bed curtains. Sabrina smilingly waved away the maid’s efforts to unhook her dress and went over to the window, to sit on the seat and survey the scene below her. I have died and gone to heaven, she thought, as she had once before, and hugged herself. I hope I never wake up!

  As soon as the ladies were settled, Oliver set off on his own pursuits, stopping first at Brooks’s, the favorite club of the Whig aristocracy, to catch up on the news of the day. There he found himself the object of curiosity and speculation about his unexpected engagement. He was not pleased to learn that the club betting book now had an entry with odds as to his eventual marriage to some unknown American. Somehow, in the face of that and the questions of his acquaintances, he managed to hold onto his temper before making his escape.

  But in the Foreign Office, where he went next, his engagement aroused more than simple curiosity. Barely had he settled to his work when he was summoned to the Foreign Minister’s office, which made his eyebrows rise slightly. Now what did Castlereagh want with him? he wondered, striding through the corridors of the old building. Robert Stewart, Viscount Castlereagh, had only recently returned to power, but he was not new to government. Oliver, in his capacity as aide, was impressed with the man’s grasp of what needed to be done if they were to defeat Bonaparte. Perhaps now Wellington would get the support he deserved, and they’d see some action on the Peninsula, after January’s glorious victory at Ciudad Rodrigo.

  Castlereagh’s secretary held the door of the office open, and Oliver walked in. “You wish to see me, sir?”

  Castlereagh barely looked up from the paper in his hand. “Yes, sit down, Bainbridge. Those damnable Americans.”

  Oliver took the chair across from the minister’s d
esk and sat back, at ease. “What have they done now, sir?”

  “I have here another note from their chargé, Mr. Russell, about impressment.”

  “Something will have to be done about that, sir,” Oliver said quietly.

  Castlereagh’s eyes met his. “We have the right to stop this ships if they harbor British deserters, Bainbridge.”

  “Oh, most assuredly, sir, but didn’t you yourself admit that we have removed Americans as well?”

  Castlereagh leaned back, his eyes shrewd. “You think they have a grievance, then.”

  “I merely think something should be done before we have another war on our hands,” Oliver said mildly. “God knows we can’t afford it just now.”

  Castlereagh let out his breath. “No, it couldn’t come at a worse time. Don’t they realize we’ve other matters to deal with?” He glared at Oliver. “And I understand you’ve formed a connection with an American.”

  Ah, I see, Oliver thought, and though he leaned back, looking even more at ease, all his muscles were coiled tight. “Yes, sir, I am recently engaged to an American.”

  “I see. Consorting with the enemy, then.”

  “Do you wish my resignation, sir?” Oliver asked quietly.

  “Oh, no, Bainbridge. Not at all.” Castlereagh rose and went to a window. “But it does put you in a unique position, you realize. There are those will question your loyalty.”

  “My loyalty is beyond question, sir.”

  A hint of a smile touched Castlereagh’s mouth at the steel he heard in Oliver’s voice. “Of course. It has occurred to me, Bainbridge, that your marriage could be—useful to us.”

  Oliver’s head rose sharply, but his voice when he spoke was mild. “How so, sir?”

  “The girl you are marrying—what are her sympathies?”

  “I have no idea. I assume she’s loyal to her country.”

  “You couldn’t persuade her otherwise?”

  “I could, perhaps, but why would I?”

  “You are acquainted, are you not, with the American legation?”

  “Yes, I have met them at various times.” His eyes narrowed. “Sir, what are you suggesting?”

  “Is your fiancée pretty?”