First Season / Bride to Be

by Jane Ashford

  Richard pushed past him and into the front hall. He experienced a flicker of surprise at how easy this was, despite the servant’s impressive physique, before saying, “Fetch Henley.” It was no good asking a stranger for his mother.

  “Mr. Henley is not available,” answered the footman, looking ready to wrestle him out the door again.

  “Nonsense. He will be sitting in his pantry at this hour, probably reading some tedious volume of military history. If you don’t summon him at once, you will be very sorry.”

  The footman took a step back, clearly impressed by the way Richard spoke as well as his knowledge of the household.

  “I’ve known Henley since I was a boy,” Richard added. “Get him.”

  The servant retreated another step from the look in his eyes, and then obviously decided that this was a matter for the butler to judge himself. He disappeared through the rear door with a flutter of coattails.

  The place looked exactly the same, Richard thought, gazing at the gilt sconces and curving staircase, the furnishings of the parlor on the left. Which was odd. His mother had a penchant for redecorating, particularly in those rooms most seen by guests.

  He heard no sound of conversation or music from above. He could just run up the stairs to the drawing room. But he hung back, postponing the moment a little longer. Henley would know everything that was going on in the house and how his mother was likely to receive his return. He envisioned the coming scene with a grimace.

  The door at the back of the hall opened, and the tall spare figure of Henley strode through. “How may I assist…?” he began in freezing accents, then stopped. He peered at Richard, came closer. “My lord?”

  “Hello, Henley. I’m back.”

  The old butler seemed stunned.

  “I survived the shipwreck,” said Richard, to give him time to recover. “But I was flung ashore in the middle of a jungle. It’s taken me all this time to make my way home.”

  “Is it really you?” Uncharacteristically, Henley approached and took hold of Richard’s forearm, as if to verify that it was indeed living flesh.

  “Alive and well.”

  The butler released him, then glanced up the stairs apprehensively.

  “My mother’s all right, isn’t she?”

  “Her ladyship is at this moment holding a séance to contact your spirit, my lord,” was the emotionless reply.

  “What?”

  “She began them three months after you were declared lost.”

  Richard started up the stairs.

  “My lord, if you appear in the middle of…” But his lordship obviously wasn’t listening. It really was young Richard, Henley assured himself. He did recognize him, although it had taken a moment to see that pampered exquisite in the powerful man who had taken his place.

  * * *

  The drawing room was so dim that Richard couldn’t see anything at first. An odd humming sound emanated from the center of the chamber, where he gradually made out a group of people sitting at a round table illuminated by one wavering candle. They were holding hands, he realized disgustedly. And the rather disturbing sound was coming from someone who faced the other direction. All he could see was a bulky silhouette with an outsized head that must be some sort of turban.

  “We call across the great gulf of dissolution to the other realm,” chanted a high, nasal voice. “We reach through the mists and darkness that obscure it. We seek this woman’s son, Richard, tragically lost at sea in the flower of his youth.”

  Richard snorted softly.

  “Bring him hither my messengers,” commanded the voice. “Azrael. Phileto. Bring him!”

  Richard was about to interrupt when he was startled by a whoosh like a great rush of wind. How the devil did they manage that?

  “He is coming!” claimed the voice. “He is near. Spirit, give us a sign. Show us your presence.”

  Richard could take no more. He strode forward. “Mother, what the devil are you doing?”

  An ear-splitting shriek rent the air, followed by a confusion of other shouts and exclamations. People started up in the dimness, overturning chairs, stumbling into each other, and crying out again. Someone started sobbing. Realizing that he had not chosen the ideal moment to address his mother, Richard moved to secure the candle, which was in danger of being knocked over. Taking it up, he began lighting others in the sconces around the room.

  “There he is!” cried a male voice. “Good God!”

  Richard continued lighting candles. The drawing room grew brighter, and he was able to see that it held eight people besides his mother. He didn’t know any of them, though the orchestrator of the supposed séance was obvious—a burly, square-shouldered man wearing a massive jeweled turban with a feather. Ignoring them, he went to the chair where his mother sat and knelt beside it. “I beg your pardon for bursting in on you at such a moment,” he said.

  “You did it, Herr Schelling. You brought him back!” was the dazed reply.

  To Richard’s disgust, the large turbaned man put a hand on his breast and bowed in acknowledgment.

  “Mother, I was not dead.” He felt ridiculous saying it. “I was cast ashore in South America, and I had to make my way back on foot. I’m sorry I could not get word to you.”

  His mother simply stared at him as if he were indeed a ghost.

  She was a bit thinner, but her gown was still in the height of fashion and her hair and ornaments exquisite. She looked like the mother he had left—a dedicated member of the haut ton. He took her hand, both to comfort her and to show her that he was solid flesh. “The ship I took began to go down in a storm,” he added, hoping that details would make his return real to her. “The sailors put me in a longboat. Before they could join me it was swept away. I came ashore in a jungle.”

  His mother put her free hand on his cheek. Her hazel eyes, very like his own, brightened with a haze of tears.

  How could he have considered not coming back? Richard wondered. It would have been cruel, unforgivable.

  “I thought you were gone,” she whispered, too low for anyone else to hear. “My God.” She gripped his hand so hard her knuckles whitened.

  “I’m back,” he assured her, “and perfectly well.”

  “You won’t go away again!”

  He wouldn’t be able to, Richard saw. Not for a while anyway. He shook his head.

  “Brought him back from the dead,” someone in the room murmured with a hush of awe. Richard was annoyed to see the turbaned man preen a little in response. He had to get rid of these people. “Mother…”

  A tear spilled and ran down her cheek.

  Richard stood, meeting the fascinated gazes of an ill-assorted group of strangers. “Perhaps you would all go now. I would like to talk with my mother.”

  Several left immediately. Others lingered a few minutes to make formal farewells. Finally, only the large turbaned man was left.

  “Richard, this is Herr Schelling,” said his mother in a shaky voice.

  Schelling gave another of his deep bows. “I have been privileged to study with the Adepts of the East,” he said, with a slight but noticeable German accent.

  “Have you?” said Richard.

  “We have much to learn from the Masters of the Hidden World.”

  “Indeed? But not tonight, perhaps. If you would excuse us?” The man was a pompous charlatan, but Richard had no desire to argue with him.

  “I would not dream of intruding on this tender reunion,” Schelling answered, without making any move to go. “My dear Lady Fielding, you are serene? Your humors are balanced?”

  “No,” said Richard’s mother. “I am feeling quite agitated.”

  “Very natural,” Schelling practically crooned. “Hardly to be avoided in the circumstances. You must visualize the Great Light, allow your unbalance to flow into it and be floated away.” />
  Richard was appalled to see his mother actually close her eyes and take a deep breath. His disappearance had affected her far more than he had imagined it would.

  Schelling, too, had closed his eyes. His hands rose and waved like seaweed in an ocean current. “Yes, I feel the balance being restored, the serenity returning.” He opened his eyes. “Perhaps you would like to join us, Richard?”

  He couldn’t believe the fellow’s effrontery. He gave him a look designed to wither him where he stood and said, “No, thank you. The balance of my humors is perfectly satisfactory.”

  Schelling looked pitying. He shook his head.

  He was going to see that this faker never crossed his mother’s threshold again. In fact, it would be a pleasure to send him back to Germany, if that was where he really came from. “I’ll see you out,” he said to Herr Schelling, and took the man’s elbow in a grip that made him gasp.

  He was not daunted, however. Over his shoulder, he said, “I will see you on Wednesday then, my dear Lady Fielding.”

  “Oh,” replied Richard’s mother. “Yes, I suppose…why not?”

  For any number of reasons, thought Richard as he hustled the man out and handed him over to Henley. When he returned to the drawing room, his mother was still sitting amid the overturned chairs. “You look so different,” she said.

  He could only nod. It didn’t seem the right time to deal with such a large question.

  “It doesn’t matter. You’re home.” She gazed at him as if trying to see the old Richard in the man who stood before her. “Thank God, you’re home.”

  “Yes, Mother.” He took her hand once again. She clutched it like a lifeline.

  Three

  Emily sat beside her aunt and watched dancers turn like flowers across the parquet floor. The musicians at this, her first ball, had struck up a waltz, and she was not allowed to waltz, because she had not yet been approved by one of the powerful patronesses of Almack’s. The rule echoed in her head, along with the many others her aunt had set out for her. There was an intricate code of behavior involved in a London season, she had found. She hadn’t known there were so many rules in the world. It was the chief difference between her former life and the new existence that had so unexpectedly opened up before her. Emily felt as if she had traveled to a foreign country, where the culture was totally unfamiliar. Yet there was something alluring about it, too. This new country was full of clear expectations, of calm routines that were extremely soothing after all her years of turmoil.

  Her aunt Julia was her native guide, Emily thought with a slight smile. She was also a duchess, of course, and just a little bit frightening. It was odd, because her aunt looked so much like her mother—the same red-gold hair and large blue eyes. Her chin was a bit squarer, and her nose a trifle more arched. But anyone would guess that this woman and her mother were sisters. Which made it all the more disconcerting that they appeared to have nothing at all in common. Aunt Julia lived in a magnificent town house in Grosvenor Square. The vast scale of it all had taken her breath away—the tall footmen and butler who had ushered her through the wide door, the richness of the furnishings, and the formality of every small detail. And her aunt’s manner, her bearing, couldn’t have been more different from Emily’s easygoing mother’s. She was serene, cool, affable without sacrificing an iota of dignity. Emily couldn’t imagine her ever shouting or throwing a piece of crockery. No guest at her table would stand on a chair or topple out of one in a drunken stupor. It was quite relaxing.

  And Aunt Julia had thrown herself into Emily’s introduction into society with an endearing enthusiasm, declaring that it had always been a great disappointment to her that she had no daughters. She had been efficient, decisive, always utterly clear—like a general planning a campaign, assembling her stores and ammunition, preparing to launch an offensive. Emily had been impressed, and appreciative, though it was a little uncomfortable being the object of so much concentrated attention after her unregarded youth.

  Her aunt’s efforts seemed designed to refashion her from head to heels. And wasn’t that all to the good? She had wanted a different sort of life. It was logical that she should change to meet it.

  Above all else, her aunt was plotting to introduce her to legions of the “right sort of young man.” This was the goal of all their activity, all the admonition and advice. Emily wondered what these young men would be like. As far as she knew, she had never encountered such a creature. The right sort of young man, she repeated silently, watching the dancers. She tried to picture one in her mind. Tall, with an athletic figure, an expression that promised intelligence, strength, generosity. He wouldn’t have to be incredibly handsome, but there would be something appealing about him that… She was picturing Richard Sheldon, Emily realized with a shock.

  Something had seemed very right about him, she acknowledged. When they had walked together across the field, she had felt so…alive. She had felt his heartbeat under her hand.

  Emily shook her head. What was the matter with her? She was never going to see him again. Why had she thought of him at all?

  “Sit like a queen,” said her aunt Julia. “How you carry yourself is very important.”

  Guiltily, Emily straightened. She was so used to leaning back in her chair and daydreaming. It was the one thing she was worried about—her errant imagination and the remarks that came out of her mouth as a result of it. There were things one was supposed to talk about, and many more things one was never to mention. Most particularly, the thousands of questions that buzzed in Emily’s head were not acceptable conversation. Indeed, she had already shocked her seemingly imperturbable aunt more than once with the things she knew—and those she didn’t.

  Holding her head high, she gave her aunt a sidelong glance. Her mother had assured her that Aunt Julia knew everything there was to know about society and that she could have no better advisor in negotiating its intricacies. Emily felt deeply grateful to have such a guide.

  In her aunt’s house everything ran so smoothly that her needs were fulfilled almost before she recognized them. It was completely unlike home, as if she had been transported into one of those fairy tales where magical servitors anticipate every wish. And then the poor heroine makes a mistake and is plunged into disaster, Emily couldn’t help thinking.

  Realizing that she was leaning back again, she sat straighter. A London season couldn’t be any more difficult than the vicissitudes of her life so far. In fact, she was thoroughly trained in dealing with the unexpected. Why, her father had once invited a pickpocket to dinner to meet the dean of the local cathedral. Could she encounter a more awkward situation among the haut ton? Not likely.

  “That is Elsmere,” murmured her aunt, discreetly indicating a young man dancing by. “Very eligible.”

  Emily turned back to the dance floor. The waltz was graceful. To be held so close to a man one hardly knew must be rather interesting. The dancers shifted and Emily gave an involuntary gasp.

  “What is it?” said her aunt.

  “That gentleman there—dancing with the woman in yellow.”

  The duchess searched the crowd.

  “Isn’t that…Mr. Sheldon?”

  Her aunt examined him for a moment. “He looks a bit…different. But yes, his name is Sheldon. Not mister, however. He is Baron Warrington.” She frowned. “Someone told me he had been lost at sea.”

  “Baron,” echoed Emily. He had said nothing about that.

  “You know him?”

  “He…he had an accident on the road and stopped at our house.”

  “Really?”

  Her aunt’s tone made Emily uneasy. “Just for a few minutes.”

  “Don’t tell me you developed a tendre for him?”

  Intimidated by the ferocity of Aunt Julia’s expression, Emily shook her head. “We scarcely exchanged five words.” Which was true. No need to mention the walk across
the field.

  “Quite unsuitable, you know. He hasn’t a sou. That family’s been all to pieces since my father’s day.”

  Mr. Sheldon—Baron Warrington—waltzed quite expertly Emily noticed. “So he is not the ‘right sort’?” she wondered a little wistfully.

  “Emily! You must not say such things!” Aunt Julia looked around, making certain no one had overheard.

  A young lady showed no interest in the question of matrimony, Emily remembered. All that sort of thing was handled by her elders. Which was a splendid thought, really, particularly after years of having to deal with everything herself. “I beg your pardon,” she murmured.

  Satisfied, her aunt turned back to the crowd. “No, he isn’t,” she conceded very quietly. “Not only is he penniless, his manners aren’t exactly…engaging.”

  This surprised Emily. “He was perfectly polite to Papa, even when he wished to paint him as Samson.”

  “Emily!”

  She flushed. “I’m sorry. I forgot.”

  Aunt Julia had informed her that her parents’ ramshackle establishment and their scandalous past was a social liability. The gossips would like nothing better than to revive the story about their elopement, which would be very embarrassing.

  “He met Alasdair?” The duchess looked distressed.

  When Emily nodded, her aunt looked despairing.

  “He will wreck everything.”

  “How?”

  “He is a famous wit,” replied the duchess bitterly. “He will make a fine story of Alasdair. Oh lud, Olivia, too. If I had known…”

  “He didn’t seem like the sort of person who would…”

  “He ruined the Stanley chit. Caused her to retire to some godforsaken place in Scotland and breed terriers. Only because her nose was a trifle…large. What he will say about Alasdair…” She struggled for control. “It was long ago, of course. Perhaps he never heard the story.”

  “He called Mama ‘the Marquess of Shelbury’s lost daughter,’” Emily felt obliged to tell her.

  The duchess moaned.

  “Mama wasn’t the least bit embarrassed.”