Two
A little more than kin, and less than kind.
—William Shakespeare, Hamlet
James made his way along the perimeter of the dance floor. The ball was still in full swing; only the music had changed—to a lively polka this time. And there was Amelia Newbold, partnered no doubt by some scion of the nobility and romping like thistledown through the set.
Looking at her immediately brought her sister to mind. Again James seemed to feel Aurelia’s hand resting uncertainly on his shoulder, the arch of her slender—too slender—back against his palm as they stepped into their secret waltz. She’d smelled of lavender. The discovery had startled him; he’d have expected a wealthy young woman—an heiress, no less—to choose a more exotic perfume, like orchid or frangipani. Not simple English lavender. But he’d loved the scent since childhood—hanging in a fragrant haze over his mother’s garden or wafting from the stillroom where she concocted her creams and lotions. Even now, he associated the smell of lavender with a more innocent time, a time when he’d been unreservedly happy.
Happy…James frowned, his thoughts taking a different turn. Aurelia Newbold was not happy, for which he could hardly blame her. It had startled him at first to see such beauty marred. And yet, even with scars she was no Gorgon—her eyes were as blue, her hair as lustrous as her more fortunate sister’s. And when she forgot her insecurities and smiled…
James shook his head. He’d no business thinking of Aurelia Newbold’s smile, any more than he had thinking of her twin’s. What had he to offer but admiration, or, in Aurelia’s case, a momentary act of kindness? Perhaps, in time, she might overcome her dread of being stared at and venture out into Society; there were kind people as well as cruel ones even in London.
He had reached the supper room at last. Lady Talbot, a still-comely matron in her fifties, turned at his entrance and held out her hands to him. “Dear James!”
“Aunt Judith.” He took her hands and kissed her cheek, scented with roses and vanilla.
She smiled at him. “I am so glad you came. I know you’re not overfond of London. You will be attending the wedding, won’t you?”
“Of course. Next month, isn’t it?”
Lady Talbot nodded. “At midsummer—my Jessica’s to be a June bride. And at St. George’s, Hanover Square, of course. The Maitlands won’t hear of anyplace else.”
James did his best to look impressed, though he couldn’t tell one Society church from another. “Was there something more you wished to discuss with me?”
“As it happens, yes. I wondered whether you might extend your stay in town—just for a few days. The Hastings are arriving from Surrey, and I know Felicia, in particular, would be delighted to see you again,” she added. “She’s been sadly pulled with influenza this past winter, and I’m sure she’d benefit from a change of scene and perhaps some congenial company?”
Reading between the lines all too plainly, James stifled a sigh. Felicia Hastings, Lady Talbot’s goddaughter, was a pretty, sweet-natured girl, but he’d never felt the least degree of romantic interest in her. “Well, I wish her a speedy recovery. Unfortunately, I’ve urgent business I must attend to in Cornwall. In fact, I was planning to leave tomorrow.”
“Then, by all means, don’t let us keep you,” a familiar voice drawled from the doorway. “Cornwall’s gain is sure to be ours as well.”
“Gerald!” Lady Talbot’s voice was sharp with disapproval.
James stilled, schooling his face into impassivity before turning to regard his cousin. “Good evening, Alston. Let me assure you, the feeling is entirely mutual.”
The viscount shouldered himself away from the doorway. He’d put on weight, James observed dispassionately. While most Trelawneys were dark and slender, even wiry, Gerald favored his mother’s side of the family: fair and big-boned. For a time, his size had given him the advantage in boyhood altercations, until James had learned other ways of fighting back.
Alston gulped his champagne in the manner of one who’d have preferred whiskey. “I must say, I’m surprised to see you here. I thought you’d be at home, tumbling a chambermaid.”
“I leave such exploits to you, cousin,” James replied pleasantly. “But then you haven’t had much success in that endeavor lately, have you?”
Alston scowled, doubtless remembering one “chambermaid” James had forcibly prevented him from tumbling. But before he could respond, their aunt stepped between them.
“That’s enough, both of you!” Lady Talbot fixed her nephews with a steely glare. “This is Jessica’s evening—and I won’t have it spoiled by a vulgar brawl. I realize that you’ll never like each other, but I expect you to be civil while you’re under the same roof!”
Out of respect for his aunt, James refrained from pointing out that, where he and Gerald were concerned, it was far easier to be civil under different roofs. Instead, he summoned a conciliatory smile and bowed over Lady Talbot’s hand. “I beg your pardon, ma’am. As it happens, I’ve an early start tomorrow, so I’ll take my leave now.”
“But James—”
He shook his head and turned away, pointedly ignoring Gerald. “Good night, Aunt Judith—and my love to Jess. I’ll see myself out.”
***
“Wasn’t it a splendid evening, Relia?” Amy asked as the maid brushed out her hair for the night. “Lord Kelmswood and Lord Glyndon both asked for two of my waltzes!”
“Splendid,” Aurelia echoed. Already dressed for bed, she drew the covers up over her knees and settled back against the pillows. Her mind was far away, however, remembering a deserted conservatory and a dark-eyed man guiding her around the flowerbeds. Where had he gone? She’d looked but hadn’t seen him for the rest of the evening.
Amy lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I think Lord Glyndon wanted to claim a third waltz, but I understand that would’ve been tantamount to a proposal here!”
Aurelia frowned, eyeing her twin more closely. “Do you like him, Amy?”
“Oh, well enough. He’s good-looking and considered quite the catch. Lord Kelmswood’s handsomer, but he’s only an earl. Still, an earl trumps a viscount, even if he is heir to a dukedom. Aunt Caroline says the Duke of Harford may live a good twenty or thirty years yet.”
Aurelia bit her lip. As the wife of Baron Renbourne, their aunt—godmother, really—was well-acquainted with the intricacies of British society; who better to shepherd two American girls through their first London Season? But it troubled her to hear Amy parroting Lady Renbourne’s remarks with a jaded air more suited to a dowager of sixty than a girl of nineteen.
Amy dismissed Mariette and headed, yawning, for her own bed. “Such a night!” she declared, snuggling down into the bedclothes. She glanced at her twin. “Did you have a good time too, Relia? I know you didn’t want to come at first—”
“Oh, yes,” Aurelia hastened to reassure her. “Better than I expected.” And strangely enough, that was the truth. While she hated being stared at, no one had been overtly unkind to her. And there had been Mr. Trelawney.
“Oh, good. I did so want you to enjoy yourself.” Amy paused, then continued a bit diffidently, “Aunt Caroline says that the English have much better manners than Americans, at least in public. They aren’t as likely to pry into one’s business or ask…awkward questions.”
Such as, how did you get that awful scar? Aurelia thought. She had to admit that Aunt Caroline and Amy were both correct on that score. While she’d seen curiosity and even speculation in the eyes of several people, no one had been intrusive enough to ask. But she herself had told Mr. Trelawney outright…
Her sister’s voice cut into her musings. “You’d tell me, wouldn’t you, if someone said something to upset you? Promise you’ll tell me?”
Aurelia smiled into her twin’s anxious eyes. “As long as you do the same, dearest. You and I, contra mundum.” She quoted the Latin motto from one of their brother’s old schoolbooks.
“Contra mundum,” Amy agreed, smilin
g back. Abruptly, her smile became a yawn. “Goodness, I’m sleepy! I can barely keep my eyes open.” She turned down the lamp beside the bed, and the room sank into shadow. “Good night, Relia dear.”
“Good night,” Aurelia echoed. She lay down, listening to her sister’s breathing. Within minutes, Amy had drifted into an enviably sound sleep.
Not so Aurelia herself. While she could not see the mantel clock from where she lay, she envisioned the minute hand circumnavigating its broad glass face as she stared into the darkness. Sighing, she shifted position and felt her bad leg throb at the movement; it would be worse tomorrow, she knew, because of the unaccustomed exertion tonight.
If she got up and fumbled her way to the washstand, she’d find a small bottle of laudanum there. A modest dose would grant her a night of unbroken slumber, even if she paid for it with lethargy and a loss of appetite in the morning. Not that she had much appetite at any time. She was thinner than she’d been three years ago—her face as well as her figure, which made her scar look disproportionately larger.
She folded back the bedclothes but found herself reluctant to rise—and not because of the pain. In her memory, she heard the lilting strains of waltz music, felt the warmth of a strong, masculine hand at her waist, smelled the sharp fragrance of citrus and clove.
Your scars need not define you.
Easy for someone without scars to say, but he’d spoken with such conviction that she found herself wanting to believe him. And wanting with a sudden, desperate hunger to be free of the prison she’d made of her life. Free of the pain and desolation of these last three years.
After her accident, her parents must have consulted every physician in New York on how to hasten her recovery. Some had prescribed sedatives and tonics to ease the pain of her broken thigh and the gash on her face. Others had suggested European spas and clinics where she might build up strength in her weak leg. Little could be done about her face, unfortunately—save to wait and hope that the scarring might prove to be less severe than feared. Or that it might fade in time.
As far as Aurelia was concerned, the damage was done. One moment of recklessness, and she was lamed, disfigured, and abandoned by the boy she’d loved and dreamed of marrying. What future could she hope for, maimed as she was? Sometimes she felt she’d have saved everyone a great deal of trouble by breaking her neck instead of her leg that day.
“Don’t even think that!” Amy had blazed when Aurelia had confided as much to her during the long dreary days of convalescence. “Not for a single second!”
And then she’d burst into tears, shocking them both because Amy hardly ever cried. Aurelia had never expressed that sentiment again, and in time, she even ceased to feel it. Not often, anyway. To give up on life would be to hurt Amy beyond measure—their parents and brother too, but Amy most of all.
She glanced over at her sister’s sleeping form. My twin, my face, my heart. They no longer had the same face, but they would always have the same heart. Which made the decision she was about to make that much harder. She only hoped Amy would understand.
The waltz in her head tinkled on, insistent as a music box tune. But now she seemed to hear a hidden promise in every chord: health, happiness, a whole new beginning—if she had the courage to reach for it. A whole new Aurelia, who could walk a city block without tiring, meet strangers’ eyes without flinching…and dance the night away with a handsome young man.
Unbidden, Mr. Trelawney’s face rose in her mind: the bold planes, the brilliant dark eyes. They might never meet again, and yet, waltzing in his arms tonight…
For the first time in three years, she had felt beautiful.
***
From Amelia Louise Newbold to Aurelia Leigh Newbold. 21 June 1890.
…I hope you and Mother had a safe crossing and are now comfortably settled at Bad Ems. What an inauspicious name for a spa! I do understand why you had to go, and I hope Doctor Strauss lives up to all of Aunt Caroline’s recommendations, but oh, I miss you terribly! Please get well and strong as soon as possible, because London just isn’t the same without you. In fact, it’s downright insipid, earls and viscounts notwithstanding. Please write soon—love to Mother.
Love always,
Amy
***
From Judith, Lady Talbot to Jessica Maitland, on the death of Joshua Trelawney, 5th Earl of Trevenan. 3 July 1890.
…At the last, your uncle went peacefully—a marked contrast to the choler with which he had lived most of his life. Pray do not worry about cutting short your wedding trip to attend the funeral. My presence and your papa’s will suffice for our side of the family. Gerald and James are both to be pallbearers. I only hope I can keep them from each other’s throats until the service is concluded. At least Helena was absent. According to Durward, any sort of carriage or railway travel nauseates her in her present condition. I shudder to think how much greater the tension would be if she attended…
***
From Lucretia, Lady Featherstonehaugh to Augusta Beauchamp-Burton, on the death of Gerald Trelawney, 6th Earl of Trevenan. 8 January 1891.
…Quite the scandal! Found dead at the bottom of a cliff, barely six months after he inherited! It’s enough to make one believe in family curses, isn’t it? Rumor has it that he was intoxicated. It can’t possibly have been suicide. I suppose the cousin will succeed now, the one whose mother was a miner’s daughter. A stroke of luck, indeed, though I confess I can’t help wondering where he was when his cousin had his unfortunate accident…
***
From Victoria, Duchess of Harford to Charlotte, Countess Savernake. 21 March 1891.
…I perfectly understand your concerns, my dear, but you know how rebellious the young can be! If it will set your mind at ease, Harford and I have already determined to have a long talk with Glyndon. While it is only to be expected that a young man will sow his wild oats, he cannot continue to sit in the pocket of this American arriviste, however pretty her face or sizable her fortune. Really, the effrontery of these girls knows no bounds, and far too many of them have married into our ranks as it is! In twenty years or so, the English aristocracy will be unrecognizable. We at least need make no concessions as yet to bloodlines or breeding where the future duchess is concerned. Rest assured that our son will do his duty—by Harford and your daughter. And no later than this summer, if I have anything to say about it…
***
From Aurelia Leigh Newbold to Amelia Louise Newbold. 10 April 1891.
…Just one more month and I’ll be joining you in London! Do you know, dearest, I’ve actually found myself homesick for the place? And looking forward to all the diversions I was too weary or self-conscious to enjoy last spring: the theater, the opera, even the shops! All my gowns have had to be let out. Doctor Strauss is delighted by my increased energy and appetite! Mother is delighted too, as it gives her the perfect excuse to stop in Paris to order new gowns. I must admit I’m not protesting too much; it will be lovely to have a new wardrobe to go with the new me. But the most important thing is that we’ll be together again, at last! I know you came to spend Christmas here, but that’s not at all the same thing.
Write soon, and love always,
Relia
Three
Doänt thou marry for munny, but goä wheer munny is!
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson,
“Northern Farmer: New Style”
London, April 1891
“I don’t think I’ve ever in my life seen anyone less pleased at becoming an earl,” Thomas observed, topping off James’s glass with his best port. Barlow, his trusted manservant, had cleared away the dinner dishes and brought in the dessert course of cheeses, grapes, and nuts.
James grimaced as he reached for the glass; three days in London and he was already being driven to drink, he thought only half-humorously. Even here, in Thomas’s comfortably masculine rooms in Half Moon Street, he felt confined and hedged-about. “How many new-made earls inherit a mountain of debts along with their title?”
“Entirely too many these days.” Thomas refilled his own glass, then leaned back in his chair. “How bad is it, exactly?”
“Bad enough. Allingham and Daviot—the family’s solicitors—estimate the amount to be in excess of fifty thousand pounds.” James smiled without humor. “Uncle Joshua may have been a miser, but Gerald more than made up for it. He ran through his mother’s legacy years ago, but I still can’t believe he managed to spend so much in a mere six months as Trevenan!”
“A sad truth about fortunes—they take decades to build and no time at all to spend. And your cousin was always one for cutting a dash. He aspired to the Prince of Wales’s circle, and they get wilder by the year.”
James scowled into his glass, reflecting without pleasure on the excesses of the Marlborough House set. “Wilder and more extravagant, I understand. I’ll give Uncle Joshua his due—he did what he could for Pentreath and its tenants. Gerald never contributed as much as a farthing.” He took a swallow of port. “Aunt Judith would be shocked to hear me say this, but the estate, at least, is better off without him. Not that he ever spent much time there to begin with. I still don’t know what he was doing there the night he died.”
“I was surprised to hear that as well,” Thomas remarked. “Knowing his proclivities, I’d have expected him to spend Christmas at one of his friends’ estates. Somewhere in the Shires, perhaps, where there’d be hunting.” He swirled the port in his glass, regarded his friend with searching green eyes. “This hasn’t caused trouble for you, has it? With the inquest?”
James shook his head. “None. It helps that I was visiting my mother’s relations at the time. My cousin, Sir Harry Tresilian, was hosting a party in honor of the New Year. Even Helena—Gerald’s sister—could make nothing of that. The coroner brought back a ruling of death by misadventure. Apparently, Gerald had been drinking before he fell off that cliff. He might have lost his footing in the dark.” He cracked open an almond. “Well, however he met his Maker, he’s left me one hell of a mess to clean up.”
Waltz With a Stranger Page 2