by Lucinda Gray
George’s grip tightens on my arm again as the butler swings open the doors. His voice rings across the room beyond. “Ladies and gentlemen! Lord George and Lady Katherine Randolph!”
CHAPTER 2
“YOU WERE RAISED on a farm, they say. Was it dreadfully messy?” The woman in yellow lace grimaces.
“There was a fair amount of dirt,” I reply.
“But surely you knew all the time that your place was elsewhere. You must have felt it. The blood will out, as they say.”
“I was too busy, perhaps, to notice it.”
“But it’s all very romantic, is it not?”
I think the romance would have worn off for Lady Flint after a single winter on our tiny farmstead, but I laugh politely all the same.
The conversation bubbles on, and I look for George across the expanse of the ballroom. I wonder if he has told the story as many times as I have. Of our parents’ deaths five years before, our simple life under the kindness of our guardians, Edward and Lila, and the lawyer’s visit that changed everything.
I’ve met so many people; their faces and titles are a blur. Several are men from Cousin Henry’s regiment; others are local landowners and their wives and children. Everyone seems to know each other, which makes sense: George and I are the strangers here.
“It must have been such a shock,” says Lord Flint, “living in some dusty shack one moment, and now this.” He throws a meaty hand around to indicate our present surroundings.
It wasn’t quite a shack, I almost say, but then I suppose, to these people, it probably would be. Over our heads, candles reflect off glittering chandeliers, and the guests move below in a crush of richly clothed elegance and breeding. The evening is going better than I expected. Though I have made a few slips, none have been, in my cousin’s parlance, fatal. True, the cords of Grace’s neck tightened when I took a glass of champagne before George, but she quickly recovered her composure. From time to time she taps me on the arm, with a murmured “Well done,” so perhaps I am learning the way of things slightly more quickly than Stella.
My brother is surrounded, as he has been for the last hour, by a group of young ladies and their mothers. It’s been dawning on me slowly, what this evening means for him. Walthingham is his; at a stroke he has become one of the most eligible bachelors in the country. He’s on display, like one of his own paintings on the wall, and these finely dressed guests are lining up to assess his worth. George and I are in this together for the moment, but soon enough he will be taken from me as well.
“… and you’ve encountered snakes, I’ve heard…” Lady Flint is saying.
Grace sidles up alongside us. “Forgive me,” she says to my companions, “but I must steal my cousin from you for a moment.” She takes me by the arm and leads me away. “Lady Flint is but two generations removed from a fortune-hunting lady’s maid,” she says out of the side of her mouth. “I think we can do better than that.” As she steers me between the other guests, I wonder what she would have to say about me and George, if she could see where we’d come from. I decide it’s best not to think so much, as we reach a plump older man with a rough and ruddy face, standing beside a young, fair-haired woman.
“Mr. Dowling,” says Grace. “May I introduce your hostess?”
I hold out my hand, as Grace has taught me, and Mr. Dowling stoops to kiss it. “What a pleasure it is to meet you,” he says.
“Mr. Dowling is our local magistrate,” says Grace. “And this is his daughter, Jane.”
The blond girl offers a curtsy and a smile, her gray-green eyes snapping with intelligence. Her dress is deep blue satin, with frothing underskirts of ivory lace and scalloped black ribbon below the bodice. I like her at once.
“I trust Miss Campion has been taking good care of you,” says Mr. Dowling. “Showing you the ropes, as they say.”
“Grace has been extremely patient,” I reply. “Life here is very different from what I’m used to.”
“She’ll soon have you singing and embroidering with the best of them, I dare say.” Mr. Dowling nods with certainty. “I sometimes wonder whether my Jane would have benefited from a bit more guidance. Her singing is quite abominable.”
But he’s smiling as he speaks, and Jane bats his arm playfully. “Father!”
“Though I should add that she is possessed of other accomplishments,” continues her father. “Her harpsichord is tolerable.”
Jane raises her eyebrows. “My singing voice I inherited from you, Father.” She addresses herself to me. “Though my musicianship is beyond repair, perhaps we can join forces to save my embroidery. All my little flowers turn out looking like mud pies.”
“I’m afraid my accomplishments only stretch so far as shooting crows and shoeing horses.”
I dare not look at Grace’s expression, but Jane is grinning. “Let’s us two take a turn about the room,” she says.
And before I know it, she’s sweeping me away from her father and Grace. I try to match her delicate step as we thread between clusters of guests.
“Do you and your father live nearby?” I ask.
“On the Crescent,” she says. “It’s in the center of Bath. But come, the night’s too short to talk about our houses. It’s smaller than yours, suffice to say.” She nods discreetly toward a tall, slender brunette wearing a delicate pink gown and a sour expression. “That is Miss Livia Collins, normally a rather humorous girl, but just now she’s being jilted by that fellow with the unconvincing mustache.” She inclines her chin toward a pompous-looking young man wearing brightly buckled shoes and a spray of sparse hair on his upper lip.
I giggle, and forget for a moment to wonder whether I ought to.
“And that is Thomas Evans,” she says, pointing to a stocky, square-jawed man in long black tails. “He’s heir to a small fortune but best avoided, as his mother is insufferable.”
We make our way about the party, and Jane feeds me tidbits of gossip on the guests. I feel almost as though I’m back in Virginia, elbowing George and laughing at a church supper.
As we circle the party, we pass an open door leading to a small morning room, where Grace occasionally visits with her more intimate friends. By the half-light within, I see a tall man. He looks to be made of two colors only, black and white. A dark suit against a pale collar. Long black hair and almost porcelain skin. He’s staring at the wall.
“And what about him?” I ask.
Jane frowns. “I’ve never seen him before. He looks rather serious, though, don’t you think?”
A maid bearing a tray of small pastries passes us, and Jane takes one. “Get one now, or the men will eat them all,” she advises.
I do as she says. Just then, Jane’s father calls her name. We look across the ballroom, to where he stands next to an earnest-looking young man in an aggressively green jacket. “Good Lord,” says Jane. “I believe he has hooked me another suitor. You must find out more about our mystery guest, while I make my father remember why he does not try too hard to throw men in my way. Here, take this.”
She hands me her pastry and sets off demurely through the crowd. I return my gaze to the young man. His quiet shape in the dim light has a curious gravity to it as I slip through the doorway behind him. The room is cool and quiet after the din of the ballroom, the dusky pinks and greens of its furnishings glowing flatly golden in the meager candlelight. Moving closer, I see that the man is studying a painting on the wall—one that Grace pointed out to me on my first day here.
It depicts my grandfather, the late Lord Walthingham, as a younger man astride a tan horse. He looks much like my father did, only narrower in the face. It would have been a rather classical portrait, but for one detail: crouching next to the horse is a lean black panther. Its body is almost lost in the background, but its steady yellow eyes gaze straight out from the canvas. While I find it strange enough in daytime, it is more unsettling still at night, touched by candlelight. My slipper squeaks on the floor a little, and the man spins around.
For the half second he is silent, I take him in. His black hair curls up along his neck and the strong line of his jaw. A lock of it falls over his brow, and for one mad moment I long to push it back for him. “I’m sorry,” he says quickly. “I should not be in here. Excuse me.”
He turns to walk away.
“No, please stay,” I say. “It is I who should apologize, for intruding upon your private moment.”
He flushes with embarrassment. “I was just admiring this painting,” he says. “I’m afraid such gatherings”—he nods toward the party—“are not to my taste.”
“Nor mine,” I say. “I try to keep up with all the names, but I’m still not sure if one lady’s name is Arabella or Annabella, and whether so-and-so is an earl or a viscount or a lord.” He looks unsure if I’m joking or not, half-smiling and half-frowning. “I warn you, if you tell me your name, I may forget it.”
He shuffles his feet uncomfortably.
“But, please,” I add, “do tell me it anyway.”
“I am William Simpson, a lawyer for your estate. I’ve been working to put things in order since your grandfather’s death. I am very sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you, sir. I regret that I was never able to meet him.” I gesture toward the painted panther. “Though I find his choice of pet rather odd, don’t you?”
For a moment Mr. Simpson frowns. “My lady, that panther symbolizes loyalty and courage. Your grandfather was an exemplar of both.”
My irreverence has offended him. “And the horse?” I ask quietly.
His voice softens. “The horse, I believe, is just a horse.”
His face, already rather nice, is much improved by a slightly crooked smile, which vanishes too soon.
“Your grandfather’s death was a great tragedy,” says Mr. Simpson.
I nod slowly, feeling terribly guilty. In truth, I find it hard to summon feelings for a man I never met, and who, for all I know, never knew of our existence. Everyone has been at pains to say he died without suffering, though I wonder if that is wishful thinking. He wasn’t found, Grace says, for half a day. It happened in the woods on the perimeter of the estate, and the loyal animal stayed with him until rescuers came looking. Thinking about it now, the portrait of the proud horseman takes on a macabre impression.
“I haven’t been on a horse since I arrived in England,” I say, hoping to move the conversation on. “I love riding, though I’ll have to learn the English way of it before I can go very far from home.”
“I’m afraid I’m not much of a horseman,” says Mr. Simpson. He looks at the floor, then at the painting once more, then the floor again. I realize suddenly that I still hold two canapés in my hands, and extend one lamely toward him.
Mr. Simpson looks confused but takes the glazed tier of golden pastry. When he bites into it, a flaking crumb falls onto his collar.
“May I?” Stepping toward him, I brush the flake gently aside with my gloved hand. He stands perfectly still, his chest rising and falling beneath my touch. The cloth, I notice, is rough, near homespun in quality, and slightly frayed at the seam.
“There,” I say. I look up at his face, my eyes lingering longer than they should. His skin is perfectly smooth, but for a tiny scar on his upper lip and the faintest grit of stubble coming in. His eyes, a deep blue, are trained on mine. My gaze falls unconsciously to his lips, expecting him to speak.
“There you are, Katherine, at last!” Grace calls from the doorway. “What are you doing, lurking in the … Oh! Mr. Simpson.”
He steps back sharply, as though I’ve pushed him.
“We were just admiring my grandfather’s portrait,” I say quickly. Too quickly, perhaps, because Grace’s eyes narrow.
“Well,” she says, her lips pursed, “Lieutenant Hastings has been asking after you. The dancing is about to start, and you have promised him the first.”
I nod, though I can’t remember which one Lieutenant Hastings is, and I long to stay another moment in this quiet room. Instead I must follow her back to the ballroom, leaving Mr. Simpson behind.
“Good-bye, William,” I say.
He bows discreetly. “I hope you enjoy your evening, Lady Walthingham,” he says. “It’s Arabella, by the way. The name you’ve forgotten.”
“What is he talking about?” mutters Grace.
The music has shifted to a higher tempo. The lieutenant turns out to be a tall man with pale eyes and a high forehead, whose fingertips brush my bare arm as he leads me into the row of dancers.
“How are you enjoying your first ball, Lady Randolph?” he asks.
“Very much,” I say. “Though you must forgive me if I step on your feet.”
“I’ll forgive you in advance. You look light as a feather, Lady Randolph.” He drops his hand to my waist as the rest of the couples line up.
“Were you in my cousin’s regiment, sir?” I ask. “He has spoken very highly of his fellow soldiers.”
“I am a military doctor, my lady.”
Henry stands alongside us, partnered with Jane Dowling, and he leans toward me. “This is the man who saved my leg, Katherine, after I took a musket ball from the French. If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t be fit to partner anybody.”
Though the music is unfamiliar, the lieutenant guides me into it effortlessly. Even Henry, on his lame leg, manages ably enough with Jane. Is it just my imagination, or are they standing slightly closer than the other dancers? Certainly, her cheeks have taken on a high flush.
After a few turns, the lieutenant releases me, and another man in uniform takes my arms. I think we’ve met before, but I can’t remember his name.
“And what do you think of England, Lady Randolph?” he says smoothly.
“I’m sure it will feel like home in time.”
The soldier laughs. “I’m sure it will. And your brother? He seems to be enjoying England very much indeed.”
I look down the line, to where George is gazing at his partner, a beautiful raven-haired girl.
Before I can respond, we have swapped again, and I’m partnered now with Henry. We spin and turn in time with the others.
“You’re a natural!” he says. “I hope you have a hard heart.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Because you’re going to have to refuse an awful lot of proposals before this season is out.”
I’m still wondering how to reply to that when he passes me on to a captain called Wilson. I’m starting to enjoy myself. It’s nothing like the dances at home, with toothless Christopher on his flute, but the music is easy to follow, and I see Grace smiling proudly from the edge of the room. Jane and my brother dance together, both laughing aloud.
When it’s time for Captain Wilson and me to part, he says, “I hope you will have many balls at Walthingham Hall, Lady Randolph. I’ll be sorry if this is our last dance together.”
I look along the line to my next partner—and my eyes meet Mr. Simpson’s. As I raise my brow in surprise, he looks suddenly flustered. His feet halt, then start again, out of time with the music, then tangle with those of Lieutenant Hastings to his right. He can’t stop himself from falling at my feet.
The music plays on for a few bars, but when the dancers come to a halt, it does, too, in a discordant stutter.
“I think we have a tumbler!” bellows Lord Flint. His wife beside him lets out a peal of laughter.
As Mr. Simpson picks himself up, I reach to help him. But he pulls himself away, his eyes blazing blue.
“The lawyer’s had a bit too much champagne, I think,” says Captain Wilson.
“No, it was my fault,” I say. “Forgive my clumsiness, Mr. Simpson; I think it distracted you.”
He brushes himself down, unwilling to meet my eyes. “The fault is mine, Lady Randolph. I should not be here at all.”
He’s gone before I can speak, darting quickly through the main doors. As I watch him go, my mouth lifts into an imitation of a smile for the guests still watching
me.
Then the music starts up again, and Mr. Simpson is forgotten.
CHAPTER 3
AFTER THE LAWYER’S sudden departure, I find I have little energy for a ball. Though I do my best to dance, to smile, I’m relieved when, at a signal from the butler, the musicians begin to pack away their instruments. Grace sends servants to wake the sleeping coachmen, women in wilted silks lean drowsily into their husbands, and at last the long night is drawing to a close.
George, rosy with drink, throws an arm around my shoulders. “Nothing like being branded, Kat,” he says, kissing me on the cheek. “But the only one with a pain on his backside is that lawyer fellow.”
I frown at him, teasingly. “It’s a long ride to London tomorrow, and I expect you to stay awake for it.”
He gently musses my hair and leaves the ballroom, walking with the deliberate gait men use to disguise tipsiness.
I see Henry nodding farewell to Mr. Dowling, who is deep in conversation with a gentleman I know to be a judge. Henry then bows to Jane, taking her hand. I watch the way his fingers linger, wrapped in hers, and the way Jane lifts her eyes to meet his. Yes, there’s something there, for certain. I might be unused to this country, but love looks the same everywhere.
“A safe journey home,” he says to her.
A few officers are departing together, and they jostle me lightly as they pass.
“My apologies, my lady,” one of them says, turning. “But you can’t blame us for our haste. The Beast of Walthingham preys on the wicked, they say, so we must rush straight to our beds.”
“The Beast of Walthingham?” I say, my skin prickling at the strange name. For a moment I can see the strange shape in the trees again from my window.
“Gentlemen, please,” says Grace from her place by the front door. “I advise you not to add the needless frightening of young women to your list of sins tonight.”
The men bow at her as they exit, but I can see the sardonic curl of their smiles.
“What did they mean?” I ask my cousin. “What is the Beast of Walthingham?”
Grace sighs heavily. “It’s a lot of nonsense. Your grandfather kept a small menagerie of exotic creatures on the estate, and they were sold off after his passing. Some of the servants like to fancy that an animal or two escaped first. Imagining the woods full of ravening beasts gives a bit of flavor to life, I suppose.”