by Kruger, Mary
“Thank you, Letty, that will do,” Sabrina said, rising from the dressing table.
“But miss, let me just fix that strand, there—” Letty protested.
“It is fine, Letty,” Sabrina said firmly, picking up her reticule from the dressing table. If she had to stay there to be fussed over for one more minute, she would scream. It was the night of Oliver’s dinner party, and the hours spent preparing for it had been an ordeal. It had finally come home to her the world she had entered. Would she fit in? Would she know how to behave when the time came? Oh, she had been taught which silverware to use at a formal dinner, how to converse, how to act, but she was very much afraid she would forget those lessons. And this was only the first of such evenings to come. She passionately wished she had stayed at the Abbey.
At the head of the stairs she stopped, taking a deep breath. She did, indeed, have her share of the Carrick pride, and, frightened though she might be, she was suddenly resolved that no one would know. Therefore, she held her head high, and began to descend the stairs.
Halfway down, she stopped. A man was pacing along the entrance hall, and, startled that a guest had arrived so early, Sabrina hesitated. The man chose that moment to turn his head, and she stifled a gasp. It was Oliver.
For a moment she watched him, unobserved, as he continued to pace back and forth, almost as if he were nervous. She’d grown accustomed to his careless elegance in the past few weeks, but until now she’d had no idea of how he would look when properly rigged-out, so handsome that her heart ached with it. He was wearing black and white, in the understated style brought to fashion by Beau Brummel, and his coat fit him faultlessly, with nary a wrinkle across his broad shoulders. His pantaloons were black, also, and in contrast his neckcloth, intricately tied, was so dazzling a white as to be blinding. He was the very epitome of a gentleman, and he was not hers. Not yet, anyway. Sabrina closed her eyes in a brief, silent prayer, and then gathered her courage.
“Good evening, Your Grace,” she said, her clear voice betraying none of her nervousness, and as Oliver looked up she glided down the remaining stairs. Celeste had done her best by Sabrina tonight; her gown of jonquil muslin was demure enough for a girl in her first season, and yet well-enough cut to show that Sabrina was no child. Though the bodice was lightly embroidered in a matching shade, the skirt fell straight to the floor with neither flounce nor trim. Her slippers were of satin, dyed to match, her white kid gloves reached to her elbows, and Letty had deftly tucked yellow rosebuds into her hair, pulled back into a neat chignon for this occasion. She knew she looked well. She only hoped the duke thought so, too.
“Good evening, Sabrina,” he said when she reached him, his voice as grave and inscrutable as his eyes.
Sabrina dropped into a deep curtsy, and Oliver’s eyelids flickered, just a bit. “Will I do, sir?”
“Do?” His eyebrow rose as he extended his arm for her to place her fingers upon. “You aren’t, by chance, nervous, Sabrina?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And this is the girl who came across the Atlantic alone?” That brought her chin up, and she gazed angrily at him, caught by the look in his eyes, slightly mocking. “I assure you, you will do perfectly,” he said. “You look the true lady of quality.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” Sabrina said, as he escorted her into an anteroom, there to wait for their guests. “I think.”
“You must learn to accept compliments, Sabrina.”
“In the spirit in which they’re intended, sir?” she retorted, and Oliver, after glancing at her, suddenly smiled. It lighted his eyes to burnished silver, and Sabrina was abruptly aware of how much she had longed for him to look at her like that, without disdain. Her own smile was tentative as Oliver crossed the room to her, a glass of brandy held negligently in his hand.
“You’ll do, my girl,” he said again, and this time there was no trace of mockery in his voice. “Has Grandmama told you anything of our guests tonight?”
“No, sir, except for the American legation. Why did you wish to invite them, sir?” Her eyes were curious.
“Do you not wish to meet your fellow countrymen, Sabrina?”
She studied his face, trying to fathom his meaning. “Why, certainly, but it seems to me an odd choice of people for you to entertain.”
“Ah, but that is because you do not understand our politics. Sit down.” He waved her to a sofa, and she sank down gracefully, back erect and hands folded carefully in her lap. Indeed a lady of quality, he thought irrelevantly as he sat opposite her. “We do things differently here than you do in America, but one thing we do have in common is party politics. The party in power at the moment is the Tory. The Tories are conservative, reactionary, anti-reform, and anti-American.” He ticked each characteristic off on his fingers as he spoke. “The Opposition party, the Whigs, is dedicated to fighting everything the Tories, and, incidentally, the government, stand for. I am a member of the Opposition, you see.”
“I see,” she said, slowly. “That means, then, that you are pro-American.”
“In a manner of speaking.” He swallowed his brandy. “I’d rather not see us get embroiled in some ridiculous war when we have all we can do to fight Bonaparte.”
“It is not us making the quarrel, sir,” Sabrina said, quietly.
Oliver looked at her, eyebrows raised. “Political opinions, Sabrina? I must say, you will be in good company tonight.”
Sabrina’s eyes filled with resentment. “You mock me, sir.”
“Do I?” he said, his tone sardonic, and at that moment Melanie burst into the room.
“There you are,” she chattered to Sabrina. “I have been searching for you this age! Let me see how you look. How clever of you to wear yellow, Mama insisted I wear white. Are you nervous?”
“A girl who came alone across the Atlantic?” Oliver murmured into the depths of his glass. “Hardly.”
To his surprise, Sabrina laughed. “No, Melly, I am not at all nervous. In fact”—she looked directly at Oliver—“I expect I shall rather enjoy myself this evening.”
Oliver looked over at her, his eyes startled, but whatever he had been about to say was lost in the entrance of the two older ladies, and the crash of the door knocker, announcing the arrival of the first of their guests. Soon the anteroom and hall were filled to bursting, and when the gong rang, signaling dinner, everyone was glad to move into the dining room.
It was Sabrina’s first experience of a formal dinner, and only the past weeks of training kept her from showing her awe and amazement at everything she saw. Since both the duke and the dowager preferred to take their meals in the breakfast parlor, the dining room was little used, but tonight it was the perfect setting for the elegant company that filled it. The tall French windows shone with the light of the multitude of candles sparkling in crystal chandeliers and candelabra, caught the images of splendidly bewigged footmen carrying huge, silver-covered trays, flashed with reflected fire from the jewels adorning the throats of the women. All the leaves had been placed in the table, which seemed to be miles long, and its gleaming mahogany surface had been covered by a blindingly white linen cloth. A huge silver epergne dominated the center of the table, while ranging on either side were silver bowls filled with arrangements of hothouse flowers in lavender, blue and white. It was all breathtaking, and Sabrina was feeling rather dazed as she took her place at the table.
From Grandmama she had learned the proper use of cutlery at dinner, and she was only slightly intimidated by the array of flatware set to either side of her plate, heavy, creamy porcelain, glazed with the Bainbridge crest in midnight blue and gold. She had also learned the etiquette concerning one’s dinner partners, and soon she was enjoying herself immensely, talking first to Mr. Foster, who was a member of the American legation, and then to the Earl of Chatleigh, on her other side. As the soups, potage à la Monglas and a spicy mulligatawny, were served, and then followed by the fish, Sabrina found herself involved in two absorbing conversations. After s
pending weeks with her sometimes bewildering relatives, it was pleasant to talk to one of her countrymen again.
She took small portions of the two fish dishes, turbot in lobster sauce and truites au bleu à la provencale, trout in a tomato and garlic sauce, but even so she was nearly full when the fish course was supplanted by the second remove, consisting of truffled roast chicken, ham with madeira sauce, and a baron of beef. When those were followed by the entrèes, she gave up, instead sipping cautiously at her wineglass, which a hovering footman insisted on refilling constantly. No wonder the English looked so well-fed, she thought, as the desserts were finally brought out. Having little appetite for the pudding, or the gateau with its dark, coffee-flavored glaze, she settled instead for a small piece of cheddar and a perfectly-ripened pear. At last, some two hours after the feast had begun, Gwendolyn rose, and the ladies, taking that as their signal, followed her to the drawing room, leaving the gentlemen to their port and cigars and racy stories. Sabrina went with them, wondering if she would ever be hungry again. Life here was a far cry from that in America.
In the drawing room the ladies broke into separate groups scattered about the long room, which ran the width of the house and looked out onto Mount Street. The classical design of moldings and statues in the rest of the house bore the unmistakable stamp of Robert Adam, but in this room Gwendolyn had long ago indulged her taste for more exotic designs, as she had at the Abbey. The walls were hung with crimson silk, the floors covered with priceless Oriental carpets, and the furniture was carved and japanned. Even the spinet was enameled and gilded. The total effect was charming, especially by candlelight.
Conversation was light and general, the ladies all marking time until the gentlemen rejoined them. A young lady of quality was expected to have thoughts only of clothing and matrimony, but, as Sabrina was quickly learning, things could be far otherwise once a woman was safely married. Many of the ladies present tonight were political hostesses in their own right, some to help their husbands’ careers, others, such as Lady Holland, simply because they relished the power it gave them. Thoughtful, Sabrina sat on a satin-striped sofa and sipped at her tea. Previously she had not considered how Oliver spent his time in London, but tonight had changed that. Clearly, he was involved in the workings of government, and he would always be interested in them. Just as clearly, his interest would govern her life, if she were to marry him. Sabrina didn’t think she’d mind that, except for one thing. She was an American, and in the current political climate, that meant she could only be a liability.
The door to the drawing room opened and the men came in, talking, smiling, bringing such vitality with them that the very air suddenly seemed to become charged with excitement and anticipation. Sabrina sat up a bit straighter, her eyes going unerringly to the one man who interested her, her duke. He was deep in conversation with Jonathan Russell, the American chargé d’affaires and temporary head of the legation, and though his attention was not on her Sabrina felt her heart contract. Would he always affect her this way? she wondered. When they were old and had been married for years, would she still feel this way whenever he came into a room, or would she, by then, be far away, and he only a memory? The thought sent an odd pain stabbing through her.
“I understand you are from New York, Miss Carrick,” a voice said near her, and she looked up to see a man, a member from the American legation. She had been introduced to him earlier, of course, but tonight she had met so many people that his name had slipped her mind. It wasn’t really surprising, for he wasn’t so very remarkable. Not above medium height, he was slender and fair. Like most of the other men he was attired in black, but though his clothes were of good material, Sabrina’s eye had been educated lately and she knew that they were not English made. They lacked the air of distinction that so marked Oliver’s clothes, casually worn though they were.
“Yes, I am, Mr.—forgive me, but this is my first time in company and I met so many people tonight,” she said, with a little smile of apology.
“Tenbroeck,” the man said, briefly taking her hand. “May I sit down?”
“Why, yes, of course. You are a New Yorker, too, Mr. Tenbroeck? I should have guessed, by your name. You are with the legation?”
“Yes, I am an attaché. I wonder if we have any acquaintances in common?” he said, as he sat.
Sabrina shifted uneasily. She certainly hoped not. “Oh, I wouldn’t think so, Mr. Tenbroeck, for I’m afraid I’m very ordinary, and I suspect that you are patroon.”
His smile was easy and broad, but it didn’t reach his eyes, which were a pale, cold blue. Sabrina, concentrating on setting her teacup on its saucer so that it didn’t rattle, didn’t notice. “And you are, obviously, English. I didn’t realize any of the duke’s family had emigrated to America.”
“Just my father. Which is where he met my mother. She was a Van Schuyler,” she added before she could stop herself, impelled by a certain superiority in his manner, and memories of her childhood. It gave her a small measure of satisfaction to tell this man that she was associated with one of the more famous patroon families, however distantly.
His next words jolted her. “Why, so am I.”
Chapter 10
Sabrina took a deep breath. “Are you.”
“Yes. You are from Tarrytown, I believe?” Tenbroeck said.
Carefully, she set down her cup. “Originally, yes, I was born there.”
“Strange, I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of you. Have you still relatives there?”
This was getting too close for Sabrina’s comfort. “Yes, my grandparents, but I lived these last years in Sparta.”
“Now, that’s a coincidence. I have relatives in the next village. In Sing Sing.”
“What odd names you Americans give your towns,” a voice drawled behind them. It was with a distinct sense of relief that Sabrina turned to see Oliver, looking down at them with that fathomless expression in his eyes.
“And what of English towns, sir? Like Friday Street?” she retorted.
Oliver looked briefly startled, and then he smiled. “Touché. Though you must admit, Sing Sing is an outlandish name.”
“It is Indian, sir.”
“Ah. That explains everything, of course.” He looked past her to the other man. “I hope Mr. Tenbroeck will excuse you, for I have some people I would like you to meet.”
“Of course, Duke,” Mr. Tenbroeck said, getting to his feet, and Sabrina rose and placed her arm through Oliver’s. “Miss Carrick, a pleasure talking to you.”
“Thank you, sir, and you, too,” Sabrina said.
“I hope we may talk more in the future.”
Sabrina’s hand tightened briefly on Oliver’s arm. “Why, of course,” she said lightly, and turned. Away from those hard, probing eyes, she could breathe again, almost as if she had escaped some menace.
“What was he saying to you, Sabrina?” Oliver said in a low voice.
Sabrina looked quickly up at him, and then away. “Nothing, sir. Why do you ask?”
“I had the impression you were upset.”
“Why, Bainbridge. Am I to believe, then, that this is in the nature of a rescue?”
“Of course not.” It was his turn to look away. “I merely wondered.”
“He was prying a bit too closely into my ancestry,” she said, wryly. Thank God she had gotten away when she had, before Tenbroeck had learned enough to guess her secret. As with the British aristocracy, the patroon families of New York tended to know to the last degree any of their relatives. “We can’t have people knowing Gerald Carrick was a shopkeeper.”
To her surprise, Oliver stopped and laughed, the first time she had ever seen him do so. It made her long to bring that look to his face, younger and more carefree, more often. “No, we can’t have that, though I think your countrymen would probably prefer it. I’m not sure they know what to make of you, Sabrina.”
“I know. I suppose I shouldn’t enjoy being an aristocrat, but I’m afraid I do, sir.”
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“That is how it should be,” he said, and then suddenly stopped, gazing down at her with an intensity that made her want to squirm. If it came down to a choice, which would she rather be, American republican or English aristocrat? He didn’t think he wanted to know.
The evening passed pleasantly enough, with Melanie and several of the other young ladies present providing entertainment by playing on the pianoforte, or singing. Sabrina’s lack of such accomplishments kept her from performing, and so she could sit back and relax. She did enjoy this life, and if such republicans as Mr. Tenbroeck thought the worse of her for it, that was their concern. She deserved her happiness, after the lonely years of her childhood.
As if thinking about Mr. Tenbroeck had conjured him up, she glanced up to see that he was staring at her from across the room, his face impassive, his eyes glittering in the candlelight. Sabrina turned away, disturbed.
She was not sorry when the evening came to an end. In the future she would have to meet Mr. Tenbroeck again, since he would probably attend many of the same functions as she, but fortunately routs and balls would afford him less opportunity to quiz her than this small dinner party had.
The thought filled her with enough confidence to hold out her hand to him when he made his farewells. Besides, Oliver was by her side, near the door to the drawing room. What could happen, with him near? “Good night, Mr. Tenbroeck.”
“Good night, Miss Carrick,” he said. “It was a pleasure meeting a relative, however distant.”
“I doubt we are related, sir.”
“I suspect we are.” He turned to go, and then stopped. “Your grandfather isn’t, by chance, Jan Van Schuyler?”
“No, sir, he isn’t,” she said, her smile innocent.