I stood straight and still, trying to ignore his proximity, as he held me circled in his arms. For the Marquis’s part, he seemed to ignore me in return. In addition to the oddity of our stance, he began to mutter. His voice was a very soft steady repetition of words I could not catch, a droning chant that almost had a tune. After about four bars of this, I realized I could hear the orchestra again, a faint distant music through the trees.
“There,” said the Marquis. “Nothing elegant, but it ought to do the trick.” His right hand still on mine, he clasped hard and pried it off the bark of the tree. And indeed, when it did come free, it felt to me as though I left every bit of skin on my palm stuck to the bark. It hurt like blazes and I would have liked very much to exclaim aloud, but I did not wish to do so before the odious Marquis. He kept my hand clasped firmly in his right while he fumbled in his pocket with his left. After a moment he produced a silk handkerchief and did a fairly clumsy job of bandaging my hand with it, muttering under his breath the while.
Perhaps it was the muttering or perhaps the silk handkerchief, but in a few minutes the pain eased and I was able to say, “I can’t think how you knew I was here.”
“Luckily for you,” he said, “you shed hairpins the way Hansel and Gretel shed crumbs. I followed your trail.” He pressed a half dozen hairpins into the palm of my left hand. “Now let us return to light, safety, and society.”
He led me out of the thicket back to the little temple, and we found ourselves in the ring of lamplight. In the center of the ring were both Grenville twins, Alice Grenville, Frederick Hollydean, and Georgina, who had her head on Alice’s shoulder, sobbing lustily.
I glanced back at Thomas Schofield to find him gazing down his nose at me in a most annoying way. “What’s happened?” I demanded. “Is she hurt?”
“I suggest you ask her,” he replied. “I do so hate to intrude in a family squabble.”
“Truly,” Georgina was saying, between sniffs and sobs that made the Grenville twins look thunderously upon Frederick Hollydean, “I never meant to flirt with all of you. I never meant to flirt with any of you. I only meant to make Oliver angry. And now it’s all gone wrong, for I sent him a note telling him I would be here and he didn’t even bother to come rescue me from the consequences of my folly.”
“But Oliver is here,” I said briskly. “I sent him after you. I can’t imagine what’s keeping him. He was quite angry enough to suit even you, Georgina.”
Georgy lifted her head and regarded me with reproach. “Kate, where have you been?”
I looked back at Thomas but the wretch was gone, melted back into the shrubbery. If he guessed what the rest of that particular squabble would be like, I can’t blame him. If I’d known, I’d have gone slinking off myself. At the end of Georgina’s tirade I was finally able to distract her (for she seemed strangely eager to forget her behavior by complaining of mine) by asking, “Yes, but where’s Oliver?”
And no one knew. We searched the gardens until the lamplighters came to put out the lanterns, without success. The Grenvilles brought us home so late Aunt Charlotte had dozed off in her chair beside the door, so we were able to avoid her first wrath. But now we are no better off, for I am confined to my room and we cannot send anyone to search for Oliver without giving the entire business away.
It’s all the most dreadful muddle, and I’m sure I have quite a thousand other things to tell you but I can’t think of a thing but poor Oliver. I’m so worried I could scream, and I can’t betray more than faint concern lest I set Georgina off into tears again.
I can’t help but wonder if Aunt Charlotte allowed me to have a bedroom all to myself expressly so she could lock me up when I was disobedient. Only think how difficult it would be for her to confine me to my room if I still shared with Georgy.
Believe me, I shall write the instant I have any news. Meanwhile, do try not to go mad with concern. It would be quite foolish for all three of us to fuss ourselves into fits when none of us can do anything.
Love,
Kate
13 May 1817
Rushton Manor, Essex
Dearest Kate,
Miranda Griscomb is just as dreadful as Dorothea says she is, and though I am not perfectly certain she is your Miranda, I do not have the least difficulty in believing that she would try to poison people with chocolate.
She arrived yesterday while I was taking tea with Dorothea and Lady Tarleton. They were awaiting her arrival, of course; in fact, she was two days later than her letter had led them to expect. When we heard the carriage drive up, Dorothea turned quite white. A few minutes later, the footman threw open the sitting room door and announced Mrs. Griscomb.
She swept into the room, Kate, looking for all the world as if she were returning to her own house after a morning’s shopping instead of arriving at Tarleton Hall after goodness knows how long in a traveling coach. I do not know how she achieved such an effect, for she is quite short and, considering matters dispassionately, not at all imposing. When she is present, however, it is not possible to consider matters dispassionately. I believe it is because she has what Aunt Elizabeth refers to as a forceful personality. It does not hurt in the least that she is so prodigious elegant that she makes even Lady Tarleton seem a dowd. I cannot picture her with her hair powdered, but her eyes certainly fit your description—hard and cold and very dark.
In any case, there she was, looking down her nose at all of us. Lady Tarleton presented me, then asked if Mrs. Griscomb would like a cup of tea, in the sort of polite tone that means one would really rather she didn’t. Mrs. Griscomb, of course, accepted. I was strongly tempted to ask whether she wouldn’t prefer chocolate instead, but I restrained myself. Under the circumstances, it would have been an entirely goose-witted thing to do.
“Rushton,” murmured Mrs. Griscomb as she seated herself on the sofa, where she could watch all of us at once. “Surely I have heard that name before. Did we meet in London?”
“I’m afraid that isn’t possible,” I said politely. “I have never been to London. Perhaps you are thinking of Papa; his histories are very well thought of in certain circles.”
“I daresay.” Mrs. Griscomb turned to look at Dorothea, apparently dismissing me from her mind as unworthy of notice. (I must own, Kate, that I felt unreasonably relieved.) “Are your trunks ready, my dear?” she asked Dorothea.
“N-no, Mama,” Dorothea said in a scared little voice.
“Miranda, you can’t mean to carry the child off at once!” Lady Tarleton said, sounding shocked. “It is quite impossible.”
“Nonsense,” Mrs. Griscomb said coolly. “Go up and finish your packing, Dorothea, and don’t dawdle. We will not reach Brentwood tonight as it is.”
“My dear Miranda, you cannot be serious,” Lady Tarleton said sharply. “You must stay the night, at least.”
“Are you concerned with what the local gossips will say?” Mrs. Griscomb asked. “I assure you, it does not concern me in the least. And Dorothea will be in London, making her curtsey to Society, so it cannot matter to her what opinions are in Rushton.”
“But you cannot mean to present Dorothea now!” Lady Tarleton said. “The Season is half over! Have you no regard for Dorothea’s prospects?”
“I am quite capable of taking care of Dorothea’s prospects,” Mrs. Griscomb said. She favored Lady Tarleton with an extremely cold smile. “More so than you may think. Dorothea comes to London with me, this very day.”
“I—I would rather stay here, Mama,” Dorothea put in. “At Tarleton Hall, I mean.”
Everyone looked at her in surprise. “You are being ridiculous, Dorothea,” Mrs. Griscomb said sharply. “Anyone would think you did not wish to be presented.”
“I don’t wish it!” Dorothea said, and burst into tears. I set my teacup down at once and did my best to soothe her, but she was quite overset. Miranda Griscomb just sat watching us with a stiff smile and a tiny frown line between her eyebrows.
“Really, Miranda,” Lady T
arleton said, and stopped. She looked at me as though she had just realized I was still there. Which was probably exactly what had happened, for I very much doubt that she would have argued so openly with Mrs. Griscomb had she remembered my presence. I took the opportunity to suggest that Dorothea and I retire until Dorothea was more composed and, perhaps, packed. This found favor with both ladies, so the two of us departed with great relief on all sides.
I accompanied Dorothea up to her room, where she gradually became calmer. To be quite accurate, she stopped crying and simply sniffed dolefully into a handkerchief. Though I certainly sympathized with Dorothea (and, after all, Kate, my own hopes to join her for a Season next year were quite as cut up as hers), I could not see that anything was being gained by continued weeping.
“Dorothea, do try to control yourself,” I said. “It is too bad, but perhaps Lady Tarleton will be able to persuade your Mama to see reason.”
“She is not my Mama!” Dorothea said passionately.
“Not your Mama?” I said. “But—”
“She is my Stepmama, but she pretends to be my Mama and makes me call her so,” Dorothea said. “And, oh, how I wish Papa had not made his fortune in India, for I am sure that is the only reason she married him, and if she hadn’t we could be comfortable!”
“I quite agree that she is an odious woman and you would be better off without her,” I said, “but I cannot think that you would be at all comfortable if your Papa had not got a fortune. At least, rented lodgings with leaky roofs and no servants and having to make over your gowns has never sounded comfortable to me, and that is the sort of thing that happens to people with no fortune. Unless, of course, you became a housemaid or a governess, but that’s not much better.”
“Anything would be better than Miranda!” Dorothea said.
I had a strong inclination to agree with her, but I saw that it would only send her back into the mopes, so instead I said, “Well, but one must be practical, after all. Do try to stop crying, Dorothea, and let us try to think of something.”
“It will not be the least use,” Dorothea said gloomily. “She is going to force me to go to London and marry that horrid Marquis, and I shall be miserable for the rest of my life!”
I was struck by a sudden horrid suspicion. “What Marquis?” I said.
“The Marquis of Schofield,” Dorothea sniffed, confirming my worst fears.
I sat very quietly for a few moments, while Dorothea reiterated her passionate desire for an early death and her equally passionate certainty that she was doomed to a long and miserable life. I cannot see why, if Miranda Griscomb dislikes the Marquis of Schofield enough to poison him with chocolate, she would be willing to have her stepdaughter married to him, but Dorothea was quite positive on this point. Dorothea, of course, has no desire whatever to be married to the Marquis.
“But do consider, Dorothea,” I said at last. “If you marry the Marquis, Miranda will not be able to order you about any longer. And you will have a great position as well, which Aunt Elizabeth says is most important in spite of being Vain and Worldly.”
“I don’t want to marry the Marquis! I want to marry Robert!” And Dorothea burst into tears again.
“Robert? You mean, Robert Penwood?” I said numbly. Dorothea immediately gave me to understand that it was indeed so, and embarked on a list of his excellent qualities that made Mrs. Radcliffe’s heroes seem insipid by comparison. I let her talk, as it seemed to do her good and it gave me time to think. Robert is nice enough, certainly, but I find it difficult to see how he could engender such depth of feeling in Dorothea. Still, there is no accounting for tastes.
“Does Robert reciprocate your affection?” I asked, cutting off her panegyric.
“I believe so—that is, he has always been most truly a gentleman,” Dorothea said, blushing.
“In that case, we must clearly do something,” I told her.
“There is nothing to be done,” Dorothea said, reverting to gloom. “Mama will force me to marry the Marquis, and I will never see Robert again!”
“That is a great piece of nonsense,” I said impatiently. “For one thing, your Stepmama cannot possibly make the Marquis of Schofield offer for you if he does not wish to. And from what I have heard of him, I cannot think he would wish to.”
It occurred to me as I said this that my sentiment was not as tactfully expressed as it might have been, but Dorothea did not appear to notice. “Oh, do you really think so?” she said, and her face brightened momentarily. Then she frowned again. “But Miranda will make him offer for me somehow, I know it.”
“Miranda cannot bully everyone into doing as she likes,” I said in exasperation. “The thing to do is for us to make sure that whatever plans she makes go astray.”
Dorothea showed signs of weeping again and insisted that Miranda’s plans are impossible to overset. It took me a deal of time to persuade her otherwise, but at last I got her calmed down enough to discuss matters more intelligently. I thought at first of manufacturing some excuse to keep her at Tarleton Hall, but I quickly saw that it would not do. It must appear far too convenient, for one thing, and I do not wish to make the mistake of underestimating Miranda’s intellect. That would be fatal! So we settled that Dorothea would agree to go to London, and pretend to be eager for the balls and parties, but she is to avoid the Marquis of Schofield as much as possible and never, ever, to be alone with him. And I have told her again to visit you as soon as she reaches London (but without letting her Stepmama know), for I know I can depend upon you to sympathize with her about the Marquis, and to perhaps instill her with a little spirit. I am to speak to Robert Penwood, and between us we will devise some plan.
This seemed to me to be a rather slender hope, but it cheered Dorothea wonderfully, and in a little while she was composed enough that we could return to the tea table. I remembered to have Dorothea summon her maid to pack before we left the room, for I did not think it wise to further irritate Miranda by ignoring her express commands. Then we went downstairs to inform Miranda that Dorothea would be ready to leave within the hour.
You may, therefore, imagine my surprise when we entered the sitting room and Miranda announced that she and Dorothea would not be leaving for at least another day. I was even more astonished to learn that they were remaining at the behest of James Tarleton, who had come in and joined Lady Tarleton and Mrs. Griscomb while Dorothea and I were upstairs. And he had brought in a bouquet for Dorothea, which he said he had picked himself!
Mr. Tarleton’s behavior continued to be quite unaccountable. He leapt to his feet as soon as Dorothea entered the room, and held her chair (for which there was not the least need), and paid her a great many compliments, which were positively fulsome. I would have said something, I am sure, if I had not noticed Miranda Griscomb watching him closely with her hard little eyes. Upon reflection, I think she found his behavior quite as suspicious as I, though she cannot have known that he has not previously been among Dorothea’s admirers. I can only wonder if that is why she decided to remain at Tarleton Hall. In any case, I am glad I did not express my surprise. For no matter how bad James Tarleton may be, Miranda Griscomb is clearly much worse, and I should not like to be of any assistance whatever to her. Also, it seems to me quite likely that if I had said anything about James Tarleton’s peculiar behavior, he would certainly have taken it as added evidence that I am in league with Miranda.
I was so absorbed in these considerations that I did not realize my teacup was empty until Mrs. Griscomb leaned over to me and said, “Will you take some more tea, Miss Rushton?”
“No, thank you,” I said quickly. James Tarleton gave me a sharp look, and Miranda stared at me in an odd, speculative way, so I added, “I really must be going. Aunt Elizabeth will be expecting me.”
Mrs. Griscomb accepted that and turned back to her conversation with Lady T., but Mr. Tarleton’s eyes narrowed. I could feel him watching me as I took my leave of Lady Tarleton and Dorothea; it was very uncomfortable.
&
nbsp; After I returned home, I thought about that tea for a considerable while. The only conclusions I came to are that I do not like Miranda Griscomb, and that it is positively odious of James Tarleton to think that I am in league with her. And, of course, that something will have to be done for poor Dorothea.
I told Aunt Elizabeth that I had the headache, and went upstairs to finish that book on charm-bags that I took from Sir Hilary’s library. It is far more complicated than I had suspected, and I have quite given up on discovering what sort of charm-bag it was that Mary found in Oliver’s room. I have, however, hit upon the idea of making up a charm-bag or two of my own (do not fret, Kate, for I intend to experiment only with the protective spells, and I will test everything on Canniba first). With Miranda Griscomb about, I feel the need for some protection.
14 May
Your letter regarding Oliver just arrived. I can only hope that you have had news of him by now, because he is certainly not at Rushton! I came very near to telling Papa the whole, for it seems to me that Oliver’s disappearance is far too serious to hide, but as it turned out I did not have to say anything. Aunt Charlotte wrote Aunt Elizabeth a letter, which arrived at the same time as yours, desiring her to have Oliver bring her white work to Town when he returns. Aunt Elizabeth, of course, went straight to Papa, demanding to know where Oliver was and what she was to tell Aunt Charlotte. Papa, when he finally understood, simply laughed and said that Oliver has probably gone to see a cockfight or some such thing, and that he is old enough not to be hovered over by a pair of aunts.
This put Aunt Elizabeth quite out of countenance, and she went off in a huff to write to Aunt Charlotte. Under the circumstances, I decided not to add anything, for once Papa gets an idea in his head it is impossible to dislodge it. If he has decided that Oliver has gone to some disreputable sporting event, nothing will persuade him that it is more serious than that, unless Oliver remains missing. But if you do not have word of him in your next letter, I must tell Papa everything. Write soon and tell me he is safe! He may be the most provoking, tedious, goose-witted brother in the world, but he is the only one I have, and I should hate for anything dreadful to happen to him.
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