Both Chelsea and the girl gasped.
"No!" Chelsea cried, "you cannot . . . !"
Rathbone turned a cool gaze on her. "I cannot," he mouthed with disbelief. "Indeed I can, Miss Marchmont, and I have. The girl will quit the premises at once."
"But . . . " Chelsea's bosom rose and fell as she fought to contain her rage. "Dulcie, you will please await me upstairs."
A stricken look on her face, Dulcie scampered from the room.
When the door had clicked shut once again, Chelsea whirled on Ford. "I forbid you to dismiss that poor girl. She has done nothing wrong and I will not have it!" She knew she was overstepping the bounds, but she could not, would not, be responsible for causing Dulcie to lose her position.
"You forbid me?" Lord Rathbone stared at her, his eyes wide with shock and disbelief. "It appears I am seeing your true colors once again, Alayna." He moved to take a seat behind the massive desk. "I refuse to retain a servant who cannot be trusted. Apparently you have forgotten our recent experience with Sully."
"This is hardly the same thing!"
"It is precisely the same thing!" He flung open a drawer and withdrew what appeared to be an account book. Chelsea watched with horror as he deliberately reached for a pen.
"But, Dulcie was merely carrying out my orders this morning! That is the whole truth, I tell you. There is nothing more to the matter, save the fact that the castle servants do not like the girl."
Dipping the pen in the inkwell, Rathbone did not glance up from his scribbling. "The girl goes, Alayna." He blotted the bank draft he had written and held it out to Chelsea. "Here is sufficient money to pay what is owed of her wages and to see her back to London, or wherever else she wishes to go."
Chelsea folded her arms across her bosom. "No! I will not turn her out! You've no idea how difficult it is to find employment."
Rathbone snorted. "You sound as if you have had experience at that yourself, Alayna, which, of course, is quite ridiculous." He waved the draft at her. "Take it. The matter is concluded. I will hear no more of it."
Her nostrils flaring with each breath she drew, Chelsea stood her ground. At length, she said, "If you insist on turning Dulcie out, then you leave me with no choice but to refuse to return with you to Honduras."
Rathbone stood. "Very well." His eyes on her were cold as he let the bank draft flutter to the desktop. "Perhaps I have been wrong about you, Alayna. Perhaps we would not get on well together, after all." His tone was firm as he went on. "Where I live in the tropics, it is very often superstition and magical beliefs that guide men's lives. There, it is imperative to guard against insurrection, rebellion, or disloyalty of any sort. Orders given by the master must be followed to the letter. I have seen danger of the worst sort, to say nothing of costly disorder, caused by a single untrustworthy servant. What type of example would be set if even a planter's wife refused to obey him? It is not to be tolerated, Alayna."
With her heart in her throat, Chelsea listened closely to his words. She knew he spoke the truth, but in this case the decision she had made in the matter could not be reversed. Through the fine mist that was gathering in her eyes, she returned his steady gaze. "Dulcie and I will leave immediately for London once you and I have recited our marriage vows, my lord," she said quietly.
With her head high, she turned and swept from the room.
* * * *
In bleak silence, Rathbone watched her go. In a word, in one small word, she had made a mockery of all that he stood for. No. She had said, no. She had flatly refused to obey him and had done so in the presence of others. Though it broke his very heart to do so, he could not back down.
Chapter Fourteen
“She Had no Right to Wear the Locket to the Ball”
Despite the tears of sadness gathering in her eyes as she made her way back to her bedchamber, Chelsea decided that the sudden turn of events would in all likelihood prove a blessing in disguise. Now, when Alayna returned to the castle she could decide for herself if she wished to accompany her husband to a foreign clime. After all, what the pair of them did after they were married was none of Chelsea's concern. For her part, she was simply glad to have preserved Dulcie's living.
Discovering the little maid hugging her knees like a frightened child in a corner chair in her room, Chelsea cried, "Dulcie, assure me that you did, indeed, take nothing from Lady Rathbone's chamber!"
Dulcie sprang to her feet, her eyes wide. "I meant to return it, miss, right after I showed it to you, but . . . "
"Oh, Dulcie," Chelsea groaned, her eyes rolling skyward. "Give it over this instant! Whatever it is, I must return it at once."
"You mightn't want to do that, Miss." So saying, Chelsea watched horror-struck, as Dulcie twisted about to lift the hem of her skirt. In seconds she had produced the stolen article and thrust it at her mistress.
Staring at a perfect likeness of Alayna Marchmont, Chelsea moaned. "Oh-h-h. Where did you find it, Dulcie? And why were you in her ladyship's room?"
"In the top drawer of the commode next to her ladyship's bed. Her own maid said there was a picture of a yellow haired beauty in the package the post delivered up yesterday, and I was worried it was Miss Alayna's."
Still gaping with disbelief at the miniature, which without being told, Chelsea knew to be the missing portrait of Alayna, she murmured, "But who could have sent it?"
"Don't know, miss. Perhaps that foul man wot kidnapped you done it."
"Sully," Chelsea breathed, thinking that if the man were indeed still trying to disprove her identity, it made sense that he would try to elicit Lady Rathbone's help. Yet Lady Rathbone had heard all about Sully's accusations and as well the conclusion drawn by Ford and Mr. Wainwright. Therefore, the portrait alone should not be enough to convict her, should it? "Did you find anything else, Dulcie?"
"No, miss. I looked for the letter, but when I heard Mrs. Phipps approaching, I froze up. That's when I slipped the picture in my pocket and I . . . "
"I know, you skulked from the room." Chelsea shook her head with dismay. "Oh, Dulcie, you should never have entered Lady Rathbone's bedchamber. That was never my intent when I solicited your help in the matter."
Dulcie hung her head. "I'm sorry, miss. I only meant to help."
"Well" . . . Chelsea sighed heavily . . . "I shall have to return the portrait before it is discovered missing." She turned to go, pausing only long enough to say, "By the by, there is no need for you to leave the castle, Dulcie. Lord Rathbone regrets his . . . er . . . hasty decision. Your position with Miss Marchmont is safe."
"Oh! miss!" Dulcie dropped a grateful curtsy. "Thank you ever so!"
Chelsea didn't hear the girl; she was already hurrying toward Lady Rathbone's suite.
Upon reaching the nearly hidden chamber, she spotted the heavy oaken door standing wide open and marched inside as if she had every right to be there. Mrs. Phipps and two housemaids were roaming about, sifting through the piles of dusty books and yellowed newspapers. Without a word to either of them, Chelsea made a bee-line for the little cabinet that stood next to the old woman's bed. There, she turned completely around, her body shielding the cabinet from view. Palmed in her hand behind her back lay the tiny miniature, which she skillfully tucked into the top drawer, all the while gazing calmly at the distracted women who were too intent on their work to notice what Chelsea was about.
After a pause, she said, "I take it neither of you has yet to discover anything amiss?"
"Nothing as yet, Miss Marchmont," the housekeeper replied coolly.
"Very well . . . " Chelsea made a move toward the door, "if you should come across anything out of place, I will thank you to report the matter to me straightaway." Holding her chin aloft, she breezed past the women into the corridor. Then, with an immense sigh of relief, she quickly retraced her steps back to her own suite, confident that she had, indeed, saved the day for Dulcie. She only hoped when all was said and done, she would fare as well.
She decided it best to stay close to her own chamber
for the remainder of the day, and spent the long hours going over and over all that had transpired between herself and Lord Rathbone since his appearance at the castle. She recalled their trips into Chester, the visit to Pemberton Keep, the many long talks they shared each evening in the sitting room, and the pleasant musical interlude they had enjoyed just last night. And of course, the memory of his kiss in the library burned like a perpetual flame in her mind. It would be a lie to say she did not care deeply for the gentleman, which made the rift that had sprung up between them that much harder to bear.
Still, she knew the breach was for the best. With both his lordship and Lady Rathbone angry with her, they might be more inclined to forgive Alayna her part in the subterfuge. And that, Chelsea told herself sadly, was of far greater import than her own feelings in the matter.
She reached upward to curl her fingers around the golden locket that Ford had presented to her as a token of his love. Caressing the warm metal caused tears of sadness to spill onto her cheeks. That Lord Rathbone had selected the betrothal present especially for her had been a fleeting dream. At the time, it had not mattered to Chelsea that the dream would soon splinter to pieces. For a time, it had been real; for a time, it had been hers.
But, now . . . now that she had come to her senses, she knew she had no right to wear the locket. It did not belong to her. It belonged to Alayna. She reached behind her neck to unclasp it when a sudden rap at the door alarmed her.
"Alayna!"
Recognizing the deep timbre of Lord Rathbone's voice, Chelsea froze.
"Alayna, open the door."
Springing from the sofa where she sat, the necklace slipped from Chelsea's fingertips and disappeared between the worn velvet cushions of the couch.
Pressing her cheek against the oak paneled door, Chelsea longed to do as Lord Rathbone requested, but if she did, she feared she would not have the strength to keep from hurtling herself into the gentleman's arms and declaring how very much she loved him and that she missed him greatly.
"Alayna," Lord Rathbone said again, his tone growing insistent. "Open the door. I must speak with you."
"I . . . I do not feel well, sir," Chelsea stammered.
A pause followed. When next the gentleman spoke, his tone had altered considerably. "Nor do I. Will you please open the door?"
Chelsea bit back the rush of hot tears that threatened to erupt and betray her feelings. "I . . . cannot, sir." She felt her throat tighten painfully. "Please, leave me to my rest."
"Alayna, I must speak with you. I cannot bear it that we . . . please, darling . . . " his plaintive tone trailed off.
Chelsea's eyes squeezed shut. "I . . . do not wish to see you just now, sir," she lied.
There was another pause. "Very well, Alayna."
The next sound Chelsea heard was the echoing of his receding footfalls on the bare stone floor of the corridor.
Stumbling toward her bed, she slumped onto it. Her dream had indeed come to an end. A sudden stab of longing made her double over in pain, then with horror she realized that if Alayna were to return to the castle this evening, or perhaps early tomorrow, she might never see Lord Rathbone again. That thought filled her with the most horrific anguish she had ever experienced in her life. The feeling was so overwhelming she feared she might perish from it.
* * * *
By six of the clock on the following evening, Alayna had not yet returned to the castle. Chelsea received a short but terse note from Lady Rathbone informing her that she must attend the ball being held that evening in her own honor. More a command than an invitation, Chelsea knew that once again she had no choice but to comply. To not attend would cause both Lord and Lady Rathbone undue embarrassment.
Chelsea had again spent that day alone in her room. From her narrow window overlooking the mews, she had whiled away the long hours watching the endless stream of activity below as guests arrived at the castle for the ball and the wedding. Any moment she had expected to see Alayna's face among those emerging from a coach or landau, but she did not.
At luncheon and again at tea time, Dulcie brought up a tray for her meals. In excited tones she kept Chelsea abreast of all the preparations underway for the upcoming festivities.
Though Chelsea had looked forward to the ball and the fair with longing, wishing more than anything that she might be on hand to share in the fun, that had been before . . . before she and Lord Rathbone had come to daggers drawn. Now her greatest fear was, how to get through this evening in his presence?
After removing the tea tray, Dulcie quickly reappeared in Chelsea's chamber, this time carrying one of Alayna’s beautiful ball gowns draped over her arm. With great care, she gently laid the dress across the foot of Chelsea's bed.
"I took the liberty of gettin' it pressed for you, miss. Didn't know which of you'd be wearin' it . . . " she grinned crookedly, " . . . but, at any rate, the packin' wrinkles is gone."
Chelsea eyed the lovely gown. She did not own anything half so grand, and had never in her life expected to have occasion to wear such a garment.
"You'd best be gettin' ready, miss," Dulcie urged. "Orchestra is already settin' up in the ballroom." She darted across the room to drag forth a copper tub from behind a painted screen. Then, with Chelsea looking on, she reached for the bell rope and gave it a hearty tug.
"Dulcie, you know none of the bell pulls are operable."
Dulcie grinned wisely. "They are now. His lordship put a engineer fellow to work this mornin' afixin' 'em. Wouldn't do for the guests to be shoutin' for a maid or a footman when they's in need of somethin', 'e said."
Chelsea managed a sad smile.
"Footmen should be bringin' up hot water for your bath any minute. You'll see, miss."
Chelsea pulled herself to her feet and headed for the dressing room to remove her clothing.
And, just as Dulcie predicted, a parade of footmen soon appeared in the corridor, each carrying a pitcher full of steaming hot water, which they carefully poured into the small tub in Chelsea's room.
"You'll have a grand time at the ball tonight, miss," Dulcie said as she busied herself laying out fresh undergarments for Chelsea. "Even her ladyship is in high alt. The old ba... I mean, her ladyship even smiled at me once. Can you imagine the like? I mean, after yesterday and all." Dulcie shook her head in wonder as she prattled on.
Chelsea barely heard, so overset was she about what lay before her.
"Kitchen's full of delicious smells," Dulcie said. "There's plum duffs and Charlotte's, and raspberry tarts. And puddin’s for tonight's supper and the weddin' breakfast tomorrow."
At the mention of the wedding, Chelsea groaned aloud. "Oh, Dulcie, what am I to do if Alayna has not returned by tomorrow morning? I cannot possibly stand in for her at the wedding ceremony."
Helping Chelsea into the lovely ball gown, Dulcie laughed gaily. "Don't you worry none, miss. She'll be here. Miss Marchmont won't want to miss wearin' her new weddin' finery."
Chelsea thought of the beautiful new wedding gown hanging in the clothespress. How very like Alayna to insist upon outfitting herself properly even though her bridegroom would be absent from the wedding.
With her own elaborate toilette at last complete, Chelsea anxiously appraised her image in the looking glass.
"You look beautiful, miss!"
Chelsea smiled wryly at her own reflection. She did look pretty. The rose silk gown was a perfect fit, as were all of Alayna's frocks. Turning slowly to one side, she watched the whisper-soft folds float gently about her body. Her golden hair, swept into a cloud of curls, was finished off with a pearl encrusted head-dress and a deeper rose-colored feather. Would Ford think she looked pretty tonight, she wondered? At the thought of seeing him again, her heart began to hammer fitfully in her breast.
"You'd best go now, miss. His lordship will be awaitin' you. 'E said to tell you 'e'd be in the withdrawin' room."
"Thank you, Dulcie."
Moving through the castle, Chelsea was aware of the bustle
of activity about her. Servants scurried thither and yon, hardly a one of them noticing her as she lightly trod upon the narrow, red carpet runner that had been especially laid for this evening through the main passageways of the castle, all of which led to the grand ballroom.
Upon reaching her destination, a liveried footman stationed just outside that room sprang forward to fling open the door for her. Chelsea caught sight of Lord Rathbone before he turned from where he stood before the hearth to see her.
Taking in his lean muscular form, smartly attired this evening in an elegant black cut-away coat, black pantaloons and polished black pumps, an almost suffocating sensation threatened to overtake her. But she must remain aloof toward him, she told herself. Exhibiting any warmth toward the gentleman tonight would serve only to destroy the distance inadvertently established between them by yesterday's breach.
She was nearly upon him before he, at last, turned to face her. When he did, Chelsea was stunned by the naked look of hurt and longing in his eyes. But in an instant the look disappeared and his face once again became a mask of cool indifference.
"Good evening, Alayna," he said, a dark gaze raking over her slender form. "You look . . . tolerably well."
A tremulous smile wavered across Chelsea's lips. "I am feeling much better, sir."
"Well, then . . . " A brow lifted cryptically as he extended an elbow. "I expect the ballroom is full of people who are eager to greet the happy couple."
Chelsea bit back the stab of raw grief she feared would destroy the composure she was working so hard to maintain. Despite the anguish they both felt, she knew they had no choice but to see this evening through.
"I am certain we shall manage somehow, Rutherford," she murmured softly. She did not see the look of surprise that flickered across his face.
Moments later, when every eye in the glittering hall was turned on them, Chelsea took strength from the mere presence of the tall gentleman by her side. This being the first real ball she had ever attended in her life, she was not prepared for the additional nervousness she felt for being thrust also into the limelight. Yet somehow it was comforting to know that, despite his cool exterior, Lord Rathbone felt every bit as miserable as she.
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