by Mary Nichols
`That is the whole idea.'
`If you do, I shall never speak to you again, do you hear me?'
He laughed. 'Very well, for your sake, I shall not kill him, I shall merely give him a little sword prick he won't forget in a hurry.' He turned to the other men. 'Where is he?'
'Not arrived yet,' Arthur said.
The sky grew lighter as they stood about and waited, but no one else appeared.
`Well, well, it seems he is not coming,' James said, hiding his relief in joviality. 'The coward has failed to turn up. What are we to make of that, eh? What will they say in town?'
`He has more sense than you,' Juliette said, half-relieved and half-disappointed. She had not wanted the men to fight, but she had never thought Philip Devonshire was a coward. But it seemed he was. Why else would he fail to appear? Already she was beginning to understand the implications. He would be ostracised. No one would want to know him. He would be invited to no more social gatherings. It would be the end of his career; he would not dare to show his face in society again.
Supposing something had happened to him to prevent him coming, something dreadful, like illness or death? Some would say that was the only acceptable excuse for an honourable man. But if he had come, he might now be lying dead at her feet. Which was worse? The thought that she might never see him again was too much to bear and she suddenly burst into tears.
`Come, come, my dear,' the older man said, taking her hand and patting it. 'It is all over and no harm done, for which I am truly thankful. Doctoring duellists is not something I do with any enjoyment.'
`We had better get the ladies home,' Arthur said. `Though how to get them back in their beds before they are missed, I do not know. The morning will be well advanced before we arrive.'
The impossibility of hiding the night's adventure from her parents struck Juliette like a blow. Oh, there was going to be the most dreadful fuss and her punishment would be dire. She rode home in a very subdued frame of mind, her head tumbling with confused thoughts; what to say to her parents and wondering why Mr Devonshire had not arrived.
Could he have mistaken the time and place? Was he really a coward? Did she care what he was when to be with him, to have him beside her, laughing with her, teasing her, talking to her about all manner of things that interested them both, was all she wanted? At this particular moment it was unimportant whether he loved her or not.
And why was James grinning like a cat that had stolen the cream?
Chapter Four
Anne, going to wake her mistress at nine, had discovered the empty bed and the open window, and a search below it had revealed footmarks in the flower bed. It had been assumed that Juliette had been abducted - for what reason no one could tell. Servants were sent to scour the countryside in search of her, while her parents paced the house imagining all sorts of terrors.Their relief on discovering that she had been indulging in a little adventure of her own and was unharmed, turned quickly to anger. Juliette wished fervently that James had not insisted on coming in and delivering her to her parents in person and thus witnessing her humiliation.
`Ungrateful wretch!' her mother said, as soon as they were assembled in the withdrawing room and Arthur Boreton had left to take Lucinda home. 'But then what more can one expect from someone so thoroughly indulged all her life? Your father is to blame, no doubt of it. I wish I had never...' Here she stopped because her husband's thunderous look quelled her.
`Now, what are we to do?' This to the Viscount. 'Her reputation will be quite in shreds and ours too, for allowing it to happen...'
`Oh, come, my dear,' his lordship said. 'You put too high an import upon the escapade. No one need know. I doubt Carstairs will want his daughter's involvement noised abroad and we can rely on James, I am sure.' He looked at his nephew, who nodded acquiescence. `Besides, Juliette did not go alone and her intentions were good, though I wished she had told me of the duel instead of trying to stop it herself.'
`In the event it was not the least necessary,' James drawled. 'The coward did not turn up.'
`No doubt he had his reasons,' his lordship said. 'And I, for one, am glad of it. Duelling is a barbaric custom that no civilised society should condone.'
`So it may be, sir, but the challenge was issued. Had he been the gentleman he purports to be, he would have been honour-bound to afford me satisfaction.' He sighed heavily. 'But then, it is well known he is a nobody, dragged up from nowhere and used to all kinds of trickery to make his way in the world.'
`That is enough!' Lord Martindale snapped. 'I have always found Mr Devonshire totally reliable.'
`What is that to the point?' Lady Martindale cried. 'I do not care two pins who did or did not turn up. What I want to know is what we are going to do about Juliette. Lucinda Carstairs can be forgiven, she is already betrothed to Mr Boreton, but Juliette is not even properly out...'
`Mama, I would like to go home to Peterborough,' Juliette murmured. 'I would like to live quietly in the country.'
`No! That would instantly become a talking point for all the tattlemongers in town with your own come-out ball only two days away and all the arrangements made. We must divert the gossips with something else to occupy their tongues.' She turned to her husband's nephew. `James, I know it is asking a great deal, considering Juliette's behaviour, but do you think...'
`Certainly!' he said, understanding immediately. Then to Lord Martindale. 'May I speak with you in private, my lord?'
Reluctantly his lordship agreed and the two men retired to the library.
`Mama, please!' Juliette cried, her eyes full of tears. `I do not want to marry James Martindale. I do not want to marry anyone. I am truly sorry I have displeased you, but it is not fair to punish me for the rest of my life for one small misdemeanour.'
`Now you are making a Cheltenham tragedy out of something commonplace, Juliette. There are half a dozen girls I can think of who would be ecstatic to marry Viscount Martindale's heir. You must think yourself fortunate that he does not hold your hoydenish behaviour against you and is still prepared to offer for you.'
`But I do not love him!'
`Heavens! What is that to the point? He is personable and charming and he is the Martindale heir. If anything happens to your father, it is the only way we shall be allowed to stay at Hartlea. You must see that.'
Juliette was suddenly alarmed. 'There is nothing wrong with Papa, is there? Oh, tell me he is not ill.'
`You know he works too hard and the government will not let him rest. I have said, time and again, that it will be the finish of him. It is not helped by behaviour from you such as we have endured today. It is a wonder he did not have a seizure when he learned you had disappeared.'
`I am sorry, Mama. I did not think.'
`No, you never do. Now we must do what we can to contain the damage. With you safely settled, he might relax a little.'
It was blackmail, even Juliette recognised it, but she could not withstand it. She loved her father above all people. It was to his lordship she had gone as a child with all her troubles, grazed knees, broken dolls, schoolwork that would not come right. He seemed to have the cure for everything. It was her father who had taught her to ride and drive the curricle, who encouraged her to read and ask questions, who explained the war in terms she could understand. She loved her mother, of course she did, but Lady Martindale was always a little distant, holding her at arm's length, as if she were afraid to show her feelings.
Papa had explained that it was because she had lost three babies, one before it had even been born, one at birth and the other who had lived three weeks before being carried off, and all of them had been boys. He said she was afraid to become too attached to anyone, because whomever she loved, she lost.
Mama herself never mentioned the dead little ones. She went about her household duties with a back that was ramrod straight and suffered no slackness, either in herself, in Juliette or the servants. If they were to lose her father, how could they go on?
`Very wel
l. If that is what Papa wishes, then I will consider a proposal from Mr Martindale,' she said in a voice so low it was hardly audible.
The strange thing was that James left the house immediately after his interview with his lordship and did not return to the withdrawing room. Hearing him leave, Lady Martindale hurried to the library to speak to her husband, leaving Juliette to toil upstairs to her room, where she flung herself on her crumpled bed and wept. Now, too late, she realised the consequences of her escapade. She had wanted to make something happen, but not this. She had no love for James Martindale, could not even like him, but he had to be her choice. She wished, with all her heart, they had never come to London, then she would not now be mourning a love that was lost. And all because of that portrait. It was nothing more than paint on canvas and yet it had ruined her life.
No one came to her, no one offered her any comfort, and eventually she fell into a troubled sleep in which she dreamed the duel had taken place, but she could not tell who had survived and who had not, but there was blood everywhere, even on her own hands. She tried to wipe it off on her clothing, rubbing them this way and that, but it would not go away.
She could hear sounds, voices, laughter, a drum. The drum was insistent, thump, thump, thump, filling her ears until she woke up screaming, to find herself kneeling up in bed and all the covers on the floor.
The door was flung open and Anne rushed in. 'Miss Juliette, whatever is the matter?'
`I had a bad dream,' she said, unable to shake it off. `There was so much blood.'
`That comes of rushing off to duels, miss. It would not surprise me if you have caught a chill. I'll bring you a tisane and you had better remain in your room. I'll tell her ladyship you are not well, shall I?'
`No, I am not ill, Anne. I have been very foolish and must face the consequences. Keeping to my room will not change anything. I will go down to dinner.'
So Anne helped her to dress and arranged her hair and she took her place at the dining table with as near a smile as she could manage.
James did not return to the house before the evening of the ball and Juliette began to wonder if he really meant to make an offer after all. The waiting was tearing her composure to shreds and making her mother more than usually brusque with her.
`You have no one to blame but yourself if he has changed his mind,' she said, while busy directing cooks, florists, maids and footmen.
The ballroom had been added to the ground floor at the back of the house by his lordship's father, fifty years before. It was not large by the standards of the day, but it could accommodate fifty couples in comfort and several more at a squeeze and Lady Martindale was determined it would be a squeeze because that would be a measure of the ball's success.
'He will bring another bride to Hartlea and then where will we be?' She spoke as if her husband were already dead and that upset Juliette even more. 'Banished to Scotland, that will be our fate.'
Although the daughter of an earl, Elizabeth had been brought up in the utmost hardship. Her father had not believed in mollycoddling his multifarious brood and had made them take cold baths every day and study in an icy schoolroom in a castle on the rocky shore of the East Highlands. Hardy himself, he was determined that none of his children would grow up soft.
Elizabeth had been fortunate to catch the eye of Edward Martindale when he was invited to a hunting party on the estate. Married and brought south to the comfort and warmth of Hartlea, she would have been content, but for the fact that she had been unable to produce an heir. If Juliette married James, then she would be allowed to stay; James had promised her that in return for her support. He needed Juliette's dowry as much as Elizabeth needed Hartlea.
`Mama, Papa has assured me he is not ill and James cannot inherit until...'
`Have you ever known him to admit he was not in plump currant?'
`No, but...'
`Juliette, one must be practical about these things and not be selfish. James will be at the ball and I want you to make a push to engage him. We cannot have him backing out now. We will make the announcement after supper, when everyone has unmasked.'
The Countess of Wentworth had persuaded her to make it a bal masque, saying fancy dress was all the mode. After much debate, Juliette had decided to go as Diana, Goddess of the Hunt. Her white crepe gown was draped from her shoulders in soft folds, which hinted at the lithe figure beneath, but revealed nothing. It was decorated with garlands of greenery.
She wore Greek sandals, a circlet of greenery in her silver-blonde hair and carried a small crossbow. A tiny pouch across one shoulder contained half a dozen little arrows.
She dressed on the evening of the ball with little enthusiasm. What might have been a glittering occasion, to remember with pleasure, was something to be dreaded. James would be there and she would have to agree to link her life with his because there was nothing else she could do.
That Philip Devonshire would be absent, she was equally sure. He had not been seen in polite circles since the evening before the aborted duel, though she understood from Lucinda, who got it from Arthur Boreton, that he had returned to town. Even though he had been invited to the ball three weeks before, he would not have the effrontery to attend because he must know that everyone would cut him dead. It was common knowledge that he had reneged on a challenge to his honour. Did that mean he had no honour? And no courage either? It would be easier to put him from her mind if she really believed that, but she did not and she could not stop thinking about him. And wondering. Oh, if only it had been he who had turned up and James who had stayed away; it would have been more credible. And if she had not been so foolish as to dash off into the night, she would at least have been allowed the luxury of making her own decision about whom she should marry. There was something about James's arrogance, his flickering eyes, that unnerved her, as if his manner were all a front to hide his own insecurity. But he must know he was secure in his inheritance, even if he had no money of his own to maintain it now. Her dowry would see to that.
As for Philip Devonshire, she could not see herself marrying him either, even if he were to ask. It was not his lack of background or family, or the fact that no one really knew how much he was worth, that would deter her. It was his ability to keep himself close, to hide within himself. He was completely self-contained and needed to lean on no one. He apparently did not even care about being branded a coward. But most of all, it was his admission that he had found the woman with whom he wished to share his life and she knew it was not Juliette Martindale. He would have spoken if it were and he had remained silent.
It was that which hurt. It hurt because no amount of telling herself that he was totally unsuitable could alter the fact that when she was in his company, her heart beat faster, her limbs trembled and she wished more than anything to remain with him, to learn more about him, to be held in his arms as he had held her in the park, to have those deep eyes looking into hers, soft with love. She brought herself up short. How romantical! And how silly she was being. It was unlikely she would ever see him again.
She sighed and, taking a last glance in the mirror, which revealed eyes a little too bright and cheeks a little too pale, put up her mask and left her room to descend gracefully to the ground floor to stand beside her parents and welcome her guests as they arrived. Her mama was dressed as Cleopatra, but her father had eschewed costume and was elegant in traditional breeches and silk stockings with a high-collared coat in rich burgundy.
The guests came in twos and threes: cavaliers, Roundheads, Greek gods, Roman soldiers, wood nymphs, Henry the Eighth, Queen Elizabeth, complete with enormous ruff and bright red wig, milkmaids, highwaymen, highlanders, courtiers of fifty years before, their coiffures so tall they had been unable to sit upright in their carriages. They lined up to be received and have their cloaks and mantles taken from them, before passing into the brilliantly-lit ballroom, where the laughter and gossip vied with the music and dancing for attention.
James was among the last to a
rrive. Dressed as one of many cavaliers, his fluttering eyes made him easily recognisable. He bowed before her parents, smiling and confident, and then took Juliette's hand and carried it to his lips. 'Miss Martindale, your obedient.'
She tried to smile, but it stuck somewhere between a grimace and a frown. 'Mr Martindale, welcome.'
`Oh, you have found me out! And I had hoped to flirt a little with you before we unmasked. No matter, we can pretend we do not know each other.' He gave a silly laugh which betrayed the fact that he had already been imbibing freely. Juliette was disgusted. Did he have to make himself drunk before he could bring himself to propose to her? He turned to her mother. 'My lady, can you not release your delightful daughter from her station and allow her to accompany me into the ballroom?'
'I do not think there are any more guests to come,' Lady Martindale said. 'Juliette, you may go into the ballroom with James.'
There was nothing for it but to take his arm and do as she was bid. No one else was coming; no gallant hero would arrive to carry her off to some fantasy land where there was no hypocrisy, no equivocation, where truth and beauty reigned with love. Oh, how fanciful she was becoming! There was no such place, no such man. But the image of Philip Devonshire came to her mind unbidden and made her want to cry.
They joined an incomplete set and James bowed before her, smiling with satisfaction.
`You seem exceedingly pleased with life,' she remarked, rising from her curtsy and taking his hand to promenade between two rows of dancers.
`Do I? Perhaps it is because life has come up trumps at last and everything is going well, a pleasant evening to look forward to, and that to be followed by many more evenings, days, months, years, all to be spent in happy contentment with my delightful bride at Hartlea. What more can a man want?'
`May I remind you that Hartlea is not yet yours,' she said, sharply. 'Papa is in the best of health.'