A Country Flirtation

by Valerie King

  The next morning, however, Celeste received a missive from Sir Henry stating that he had gone to Bath for several days but would hopefully return on the day before the Bramshill ball. He also expressed his hope, his fervent wish, that Celeste would go down the first two sets with him at the ball. How like Sir Henry to leave nothing to chance.

  Everyone felt the loss of his congenial company, including Celeste, who, Constance noted with some encouragement, did not seem quite so lively as when Sir Henry was present.

  Here was hope, she thought with a smile.

  Still, she could not help but wonder just what Sir Henry would have to do—in addition to his daily exhibitions of a fine character, gentle address, and grace in the drawing room—to make himself acceptable to Celeste.

  Three days after Sir Henry left for Bath, an event occurred that filled Constance’s cup to overflowing. Lady Bramshill sent two additional invitations to Lady Brook for her ball, one for Lord Ramsdell and one for Charles Kidmarsh.

  All the Pamberley ladies were ecstatic. Alby, on the other hand, was faced with a moral dilemma. Having refused to adopt his proven identity since he still could not recall his own name, he hesitated accepting the invitation. The ladies pressed him fervently, but he held fast to his convictions until Augusta begged him to seek Dr. Kent’s advice.

  The good doctor was summoned, though he did not arrive at Lady Brook to put everyone out of their misery on the subject until late the following day—the day before the Bramshill ball.

  However, when the dilemma was placed before him, he pleased all the ladies, as well as Alby, by stating that in his professional opinion, Charles—er, Alby—would do well to attend the event since he would be in the company of the Pamberley sisters. With such support, Dr. Kent felt assured that he would be sufficiently well protected from suffering a shock that might set him back in his recovery.

  With that question settled, the only thing that remained was the horrible task of waiting for the day to turn to night and the night to end so that the long-awaited event might be fully upon them.

  That evening, Sir Henry made good his promise and arrived at Lady Brook to join everyone for dinner. He entered the drawing room, smiling congenially as always, but his gaze was restless until he caught sight of Celeste. Constance watched him, faintly amused by the color that crept into his complexion as he greeted everyone politely, all the while working his way to his beloved, who sat beside Katherine.

  Celeste was the last one he addressed, a sweetmeat after a dinner of several entrees. She gave him her hand and he lifted her fingers to his lips. She smiled up into his face but gave only the smallest indication she favored him. Constance sighed. Would Celeste’s heart ever be turned toward so excellent a man?

  He exchanged a few words with her, then sought out Alby. Constance was a little surprised that the conversation between the men became quite animated, even hushed, as though they had some great secret between them.

  She glanced up at Ramsdell, who was standing beside her, and asked, “What do you make of that?”

  Having procured himself a glass of sherry, he sipped the wine and followed the line of her gaze. After a moment he shook his head. “Haven’t the faintest notion, but both fellows seem inordinately pleased.” He smiled after that, which made her believe he knew more than he was letting on.

  Dinner was excellent. Cook had outdone herself, as usual. Thin slices of ham, trout, potted pigeons, boiled cauliflower, and broccoli teased the palates of all. A fine East India Madeira accompanied the feast. With but Morris and one footman to serve, the dinner was enjoyed with only one remove consisting of chicken, lobster patties, fried sole, and apricot fritters. A plum pudding, apple tarts, and a sweet custard concluded the meal.

  The gentlemen remained to enjoy their port while the ladies retired to the drawing room. The subject among the sisters soon became a thorough discussion of the ball gowns each would be wearing to Lady Bramshill’s ball. Celeste had fashioned Constance’s gown for her, having taken apart an old dress of deep purple satin that had hung in her wardrobe for three years untouched. She had covered it with a sheer gossamer tulle, while at the same time cutting the neckline quite low so that her eldest sister would appear very a la mode.

  Constance was immensely pleased with the result and could hardly wait for Ramsdell to see her in the beautiful confection. For the present, however, she began to wonder where the gentlemen were. It would seem they were tarrying longer than usual over their port.

  She had just begun to worry that some disagreement or other had detained them, when the door of the drawing room slid open partially.

  Alby, a warm glow to his face, stood on the threshold quite dramatically until every eye was upon him and each feminine voice had fallen silent. Neither Ramsdell nor Sir Henry had yet come into view, but Constance could hear their voices in the hallway beyond.

  “We have a surprise for you,” Alby said at last.

  Constance felt her heart flutter. She knew her mother was somehow involved.

  He slid the door open the rest of the way and there, sitting in a Bath chair, was their mother, dressed in an evening gown of dove-gray silk with her peppered hair caught up in a knot of curls atop her head. She looked absolutely beautiful, though decidedly thin and frail. Even her white silk gloves hung quite loosely on her arms.

  All the ladies froze in their seats, and a moment of electric tension swirled in the blue drawing room. Alby availed himself of the opportunity to speak. “Mrs. Pamberley has something she wishes to say to you.”

  Constance heard her sisters gasp and exclaim.

  “Speak?” Marianne said. “But how?”

  Constance’s vision shimmered with tears.

  “Good . . . evening, my . . . daughters,” came from slowly moving, crooked lips, but the words were sufficiently clear to cause the youngest sisters to leap from their places and rush toward the Bath chair in a rustle of silk, satin, and lace.

  Constance, who had already been blessed with the knowledge of her mother’s progress, went instead to Charles and hooked her arm about his. She kissed his cheek, thanked him, and blessed him. She held his arm tightly, her gratitude causing her limbs to tremble. He covered her hand with his own and gripped it in a wondrously painful clasp as the sisters pelted their mother with every manner of question.

  Mrs. Pamberley was not yet capable of responding, except with lifts and squeezes of her fingers, which elicited further excitement.

  Constance glanced at Ramsdell but found that he was looking at his cousin with an odd expression on his face, one of distance, surprise, and admiration. She felt he was beginning to see Charles as a man and not a man-child, which she thought boded well for Charles’s full recovery.

  When a quarter of an hour had passed in the ladies’ affectionate assault on their mother, Constance watched Celeste remove herself to address Sir Henry.

  “Did you have a part in this, then?” she asked quietly.

  Sir Henry beamed and nodded.

  “Is that why you went to Bath? To fetch the chair?”

  “Yes. When Mr. Albion made his request known to me, I knew I had to go. I would do anything for your mother, who has always been an excellent friend to me as well as to my father when he was alive.” He then softened his voice slightly as he continued. “And . . . I would do anything for you, Miss Celeste.” He gazed into her youthful eyes, which were shining back at him with intense gratitude.

  “I have never known such a kindness as this,” she responded quietly. “Sir Henry, I will be honored to go down the first set with you at Lady Bramshill’s ball, if—if you still wish for it.”

  Sir Henry lit up like a firework exploding at Vauxhall. He lost all ability to speak, but his face gave full expression to every thought. When he took her hand, Celeste did not demur, but allowed him to lift her gloved fingers once again to his lips and to place a kiss on the back of her hand. “I am most honored,” he declared.

  It was some time before Celeste actually with
drew her hand from his enamored grip, something Constance felt certain bespoke a settled future for her sister. Her belief was further confirmed when Celeste permitted Sir Henry to keep her locked in conversation in a dimly lit corner of the withdrawing room for the next hour, until her sisters demanded she play the harp for their mother.

  Constance stayed at her mother’s side, as did Augusta. Alby sang ballads with Marianne and Celeste, entertaining them all with his rich baritone voice.

  Constance tilted her head as she watched him. His shoulders had broadened during his time at Lady Brook with so much physical exertion, the color of his face was a beautiful healthy bronze, and his legs in black pantaloons appeared stronger and more shapely than ever. He had transformed from a lovely blond cherub into a man of excellent proportions and athletic presence. He was no longer a child figure with wings, but a mythological Adonis.

  She glanced at Augusta, whose face had lost its studied passivity and at that moment was openly rapt in admiration as he sang “Her Hair Is Like a Golden Clue.”

  Oh, dear, she thought, what would be the end of this tendre?

  * * * * * * * * *

  On the following morning, the day of the ball, Constance emerged from her study near the morning room at the same moment that her sisters and Charles entered the house through the wide carpeted hallway leading to the terrace. Summer light poured through the glass doors, which caught the sprays of water that spilled around Charles when he removed his hat. She realized he was soaked from head to toe, a circumstance that explained in part why all the ladies were laughing.

  As she surveyed her sisters, she realized that Augusta as well was damp nearly to the shoulders of her walking dress.

  “What on earth happened?” she called to them, cradling several black ledgers in the crook of her arm.

  Katherine immediately responded. “You cannot credit what happened! I had persuaded everyone to cross the stream near the large oak tree by way of the fallen log, which, as you know, has blocked the stream and created a deep pool. Everyone was willing to do so, even Augusta, who is generally hen-hearted, but only because Alby said he would help her. But what must she do but slide on a bit of moss and Alby, in trying to keep her from falling, actually tumbled her into the pool. She had enough sense not to lean with her shoulder, but jumped lightly with her feet, whereas poor Alby went in headfirst!”

  All the ladies then added their particular rendition of what happened—how Augusta shrieked, then Alby tried to steady her but only served in pushing her, how Augusta’s gown flew up to her knees, and how Alby stood up in the waist-high water with his hat about his ears.

  “And when he lifted his hat, a trout flew out and back into the water,” Marianne said.

  “No!” Constance said. “You’re telling whiskers again.”

  Celeste added her laughing voice. “We all saw it, Constance, a small trout with such a wiggle of panic that it glided down Alby’s arm and dove off his elbow.”

  The hall rang with laughter, which echoed down the white walls for a full minute. When the last of the chuckles and giggles died away, a woman’s voice was heard at the end of the hallway coming from the entrance hall.

  “But that is my son’s voice. I know it is!”

  “Madame,” Morris was heard to say in response. “Please. I beg you—”

  “Nonsense. I will see him.”

  Everyone had fallen silent as a petite woman with suspicious blond hair appeared in the doorway.

  “Charles,” she called to Alby. “It is you! My poor child, my poor son. When I heard of your accident from Mrs. Spencer, I had to come.” The lady walked briskly down the hall, casting away from her a swans down muff and matching reticule. With her arms outstretched, she descended on the group clustered around Alby. A stunned silence fell abruptly as all eyes turned toward the woman, who, it would seem, was Charles’s mother.

  Mrs. Kidmarsh further said, “Dearest God in heaven! What has happened to you, Charles? You are damp from head to foot. Come. Let Mama care for you.”

  The effect was nothing short of a burst of grapeshot fired from a cannon. The aftermath was the smoke in Alby’s eyes and the stillness of the bruised air surrounding the five Pamberley sisters and Charles Kidmarsh.

  Constance had been stunned by the sight of first Mrs. Kidmarsh descending on her son in a furiously brisk stride, and now at how Charles eyed her with an expression of nothing short of rage.

  The sisters parted before the lady like Moses lifting his staff over the Red Sea. She flung her arms about her son’s neck and instantly began to weep and say, “You shall contract an inflammation of the lungs and then you shall be no more.” The wailing of her voice nearly made the paint peel from the walls.

  Constance was frozen with shock, consternation, and disgust. She understood so many things about Alby at that moment. Had he professed to be Zeus himself when he awoke from his coaching accident she would not have been surprised.

  His features were stiff with ire as he placed his hands forcibly on his mother’s shoulders and detached her from him in a single, hard movement.

  “Contain yourself, madam,” he said in a clipped voice. “For I haven’t the deuce of an idea who you are.”

  Constance watched him closely as he looked down into the smaller woman’s eyes. She knew then he was indeed feigning his amnesia. The only emotion he should have felt, given the circumstances, was one of confusion about who the lady was who was hanging on him. The rage, in her opinion, exhibited certain knowledge.

  Another woman arrived at that moment in time to gather a now-weeping Mrs. Kidmarsh into her arms. “Eleanor, what are you doing? I thought we had agreed—”

  “Did you hear what my son said to me?” Mrs. Kidmarsh wailed, cutting her off.

  “Yes, yes, and you’ve suffered a shock.”

  “My son. My poor, poor son,” Mrs. Kidmarsh wailed.

  Constance watched the older woman with growing interest. She was quite tall and her gray eyes wore a concerned apologetic expression as she met her gaze over Mrs. Kidmarsh’s head. To Constance she whispered, “I’ll take her back to the drawing room. Please come to us when you can spare a moment.”

  Constance nodded her acquiescence.

  Mrs. Kidmarsh continued to weep.

  The older woman murmured, “Yes, yes, dearest. Now, pray, collect yourself, for you are giving all these nice young ladies a fright.” She turned her toward the foyer and began guiding her up the hall. She continued. “Mrs. Spencer was very clear in her letter about how it might be, and I must say, you were a bit foolish to throw yourself on Charles before he knew what you were about, but I won’t remonstrate further. Do you wish me to send for a physician, for I can feel you are trembling?” As they reached the swans-down muff and reticule, the older woman stooped and picked them up before continuing on.

  “Yes,” Mrs. Kidmarsh responded. “I wish to speak with Dr. Kent immediately. Though I have no great opinion of him, Mrs. Spencer said he has been consulted throughout the course of both their accidents.”

  Once the ladies disappeared back into the entrance hall, only silence remained. Constance realized she was clutching her ledger books as though they might fly away should she loosen her grip. The edges, however, were cutting into her arm, so she slowly relaxed her fingers and turned to address the matter at hand.

  She saw that her sisters were decidedly downcast, and Marianne, always full of spirit, gave voice to the general opinion as she turned toward Charles. “Alby, she spoke to you as though you were six years old.”

  “Don’t I know it,” he responded bitterly, then hurriedly cleared his voice. “That is, if that is how she normally speaks to her son, I don’t wonder he didn’t leave for the Colonies long before this—or India!”

  Augusta spoke in hushed accents, shaking her head somberly. “And you, a man of seven and twenty. It is not to be endured.”

  He glanced at her and smiled softly as she turned to look at him. A warm glow lit up her face in response.
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  “Thank you for saying as much, Miss Augusta. You give me courage. Indeed, you’ve no idea how much.”

  The color on Augusta’s cheeks turned the precise shade of the pink roses in the garden by the maze. Constance thought she had never looked prettier—or more completely in love.

  “Alby,” Constance said, addressing the sorely tried young man, “why don’t you seek your bedchamber and I’ll send Marchand to you.”

  “I believe that might be best.”

  After the group sallied up the hall and turned into the foyer in order to mount the central stairs, Constance made her way quickly to the kitchens. She sent the footman with a message to Jack to please take Lord-a-Mercy and to bring back Dr. Kent, who she knew would be at Four-Mile-Cross today.

  Morris, much distressed, arrived at that moment and explained how he had just settled the ladies in the blue drawing room and was going in search of her, when Mrs. Kidmarsh—even against the strong protests of her ladyship—followed him into the entrance hall. It would seem Charles’s laughter, along with her sisters’, could be heard all the way to the front door.

  “Don’t fret yourself, Morris. Mrs. Kidmarsh has been under a severe strain and I have just given orders for Jack to bring Dr. Kent back to Lady Brook.”

  “An excellent notion,” he said. “She’s quite a jingle-brains, isn’t she?”

  Constance bit her lip. His comment was wholly inappropriate but far too insightful to be heard without agreement and suppressed amusement. She swallowed her laughter, however, and begged him to bring a tray of refreshments to the drawing room—peach ratafia, macaroons, and an assortment of fruit. “And, Morris, would the other lady be Ramsdell’s mother?”

  He nodded. “Indeed, that she would.”

  “Where is Ramsdell?” she asked.

  “I last saw him leaving through the terrace doors toward the home wood, I think. But that was two hours past. He is partial to walking the paths.”