by Mary Balogh
“Then I shall come with you to your home,” she said, “and his lordship will send word to Mama.”
But Sir Edwin, despite his deep gratitude—and he would make so bold as to assert that he spoke for his mother and his sisters too—for Miss Hayes’s concern over her future mother-in-law, was not so lost to all propriety as to assent to her making such a long journey alone with him.
“I shall, of course, see to it that Miss Hayes is escorted home when the ball is over,” Kenneth said.
For which assurance he was forced to stand listening to a lengthy speech of gratitude from Sir Edwin, who declared that he had not one moment to spare. Though he did afterward spare several more moments in escorting his betrothed into the ballroom to where her particular friend, Mrs. Lincoln, was standing in a group with her husband and several other people.
Kenneth saw him on his way less than half an hour later and assured him yet again that he would see to it that Miss Hayes was delivered home safe and sound. The snow was coming down no more heavily than it had earlier in the day, he noticed. There was no need to alert his outside guests to any need to return home before they found it impossible to do so. The chances were good that the snow would stop altogether within the hour.
7
MOIRA almost enjoyed the ball after Sir Edwin Baillie had taken his leave. She felt guilty admitting to herself that it was more comfortable being with her neighbors and friends without him, but it was nevertheless true. And now that the waltz with the Earl of Haverford was behind her, she no longer had to feel the tension of knowing that there was that yet to face. She danced with gentlemen she had known for years or else sat and talked with their wives and daughters. It was easy enough to avoid both the countess and Viscountess Ainsleigh since they were quite as determined to avoid her.
She would have enjoyed herself completely, she felt, if it were not for the embarrassment of knowing that at the end of the evening she must be beholden to the earl, that he was going to have to call out his own carriage in order to send her home. She tried at first to think of a neighbor who would be willing to offer her carriage room, but there was no one who would not have to go considerably out of his way in order to take her along the valley to Penwith. Everyone else except her was going either to Tawmouth or to somewhere on this side of the valley or to somewhere on the other side. And the only road to the other side of the valley went through the village. There was no alternative, it seemed, but to impose upon a man to whom she wished to owe no debt.
But it was to be even worse than she expected—far worse. In the great pleasure of the evening with its restoration of the old tradition of the Dunbarton ball, no one had noticed that the snow was coming down in earnest outside. It was after supper and only an hour before midnight, and Miss Pitt was beginning to comment on the lateness of the hour to listeners who did not particularly wish to hear it when the Earl of Haverford was seen to confer with Mr. Meeson and Mr. Penallen and those gentlemen conferred with others and word reached the ladies that the snow was settling and it would be wise for them to leave without further delay.
Miss Pitt commented that the hour was quite late enough, anyway, and that none on them wished to outstay their welcome and perhaps persuade his lordship not to repeat the ball next year. Everyone, now that there was no choice in the matter, cheerfully agreed with her.
Moira watched with growing embarrassment as her neighbors and friends left the ballroom and only the houseguests remained. Most of them, although she had been presented to them at the start of the evening, seemed like strangers to her, though two elderly ladies were obliging enough to engage her in conversation. She did not know if she should leave the room, too, and go in search of the earl, who was probably downstairs taking his leave of his guests. Perhaps he had forgotten about her. Perhaps she should have gone with Harriet. She could have stayed the night at her friend’s house and walked home in the morning. She wished she had thought of doing that now that it was perhaps too late. For a moment her eyes met those of the countess, who looked rather surprised and somewhat disdainful. Moira looked away hastily, got to her feet, and excused herself.
She met the earl on the landing outside the ballroom. He was coming up from downstairs. Everyone had left, then. It really was too late to make her suggestion to Harriet. She felt decidedly uncomfortable.
“I am sorry to have put you to this trouble, my lord,” she said. “Is the carriage ready? There is really no need to send a maid with me, you know. I shall be quite safe alone in the carriage.”
“I should have acted sooner,” he said. “But I hated to spoil everyone’s enjoyment before it became necessary. It is hard to judge the weather from the house here.” The hollow and the woodland of the park surrounding Dunbarton Hall offered considerable shelter from sea winds. “I walked up to the road and I am afraid conditions are not good. The road to Tawmouth should be perfectly safe for the next hour or so at least, but I fear that the steeper road down to Penwith might be quite dangerous for a carriage. I would not risk your safety. You will remain here tonight as my guest. Tomorrow we will see how we may best get you home.”
“Absolutely not, my lord,” she said, her eyes widening in alarm. “If it is too dangerous for a carriage and horses, then I shall walk. I am perfectly well accustomed to walking. Three miles is no distance at all.”
“But tonight you will stay here,” he said. “I must insist upon it. I will hear no further arguments, Moira.”
She guessed that he was not used to hearing further argument when he used that tone of voice and bore that chilling look. She guessed that as a cavalry officer he had never suffered from discipline problems among his men. But she was not one of his men.
“I have no wish to stay here,” she said. “I wish to go home. Besides, my mother will be worried if I do not return.”
“I have sent a groom to inform Lady Hayes that you will be remaining here for the night,” he said.
“Oh.” She raised her eyebrows. “It is perfectly safe for a groom to walk to Penwith but not for me to do so?”
“Try not to be tiresome, Moira,” he said.
Her nostrils flared. “I do not remember, my lord,” she said, her tone as icy as his, “granting you permission to use my given name.”
“Try not to be tiresome, Miss Hayes,” he said. He offered his arm to her and made her a half bow. “Allow me to return you to the ballroom. Our numbers are depleted, but my guess is that the festivities will continue for an hour or so yet. I shall have you shown to a room later and will make sure that you have everything you need there.”
She felt trapped and utterly uncomfortable. If she really must stay at Dunbarton, then she would a hundred times rather be shown to that room immediately than have to return to a roomful of virtual strangers, almost all of whom were related to him in some way. But saying so would have been to reveal her discomfort to him. She would not do so for worlds. She set her arm along the top of his.
He danced with her again. It was not a waltz, she was thankful to find, but only a vigorous country dance. Even so, she was mortified that his relatives should see him distinguish her for such an unnecessary favor. He had danced with no other lady more than once—even Miss Wishart, who had been in his company several times between sets. She felt the strength of his hands in hers as he twirled her down the set and wished he were not so tall or so obviously strong. She felt diminished, vanquished. She felt like a helpless woman. She was a helpless woman. She was being forced into marrying someone she could not even like because she was a woman and quite unable to support herself and her mother. But she did not need further reminders from the Earl of Haverford of all people. It was his fault and Sir Edwin’s—men!—that she was in this predicament.
He would have escorted her to join a group of youngish people when the set was ended, but she drew her arm from his.
“I shall sit with your aunts,” she said, indicating the two ladies who
had been kind to her earlier. They were deep in conversation with each other.
“Very well,” he said, bowing to her and making no attempt to accompany her.
She was glad of it. She felt as conspicuous as the proverbial sore thumb and quite as uncomfortable. Drat Sir Edwin Baillie and his fussy concern for his mother’s health, she thought. He had had no right to leave her alone here. But the realization that even if he had stayed, they might not have been able to return to Penwith that night had her feeling sudden gratitude that he was not there. She dreaded to think of the speech he would have felt obliged to deliver if the Earl of Haverford had offered his hospitality to both of them.
She did not wish to break into the conversation the two ladies were so obviously enjoying. Perhaps they had been glad to see her go, glad to be alone together so that they could discuss whatever it was that was engrossing their attention. She turned direction and slipped into the refreshment room. It was deserted now so soon after supper, though there were still two footmen there and still punch in the bowls. She shook her head when one of the servants made to pick up a glass and a ladle, and stood close to the door, looking out of the window onto a white world beyond. Even in the darkness she could see the snow. What if it continued to fall all night? What if she was unable to go home tomorrow? The very thought made her squirm with discomfort.
And then, above the hum of conversation in the ballroom, she heard two distinct voices. Their owners must be standing close to the anteroom door.
“I have given directions for a room to be made up for her,” the Earl of Haverford said. “You will not need to exert yourself in any way, Mama.”
“She should have been sent to Tawmouth in one of the carriages,” the countess’s voice said. “She has acquaintances enough there. I do not like having her beneath my roof, Kenneth.”
“Pardon me.” The earl’s voice was suddenly both chilly and haughty. “Miss Hayes is to spend the night beneath my roof, Mama. She will be accorded all the proper courtesies here.”
“Kenneth—” It was Viscountess Ainsleigh’s voice this time, sounding breathless as if she had just rushed up to him. “Why is Moira Hayes still at the ball? Am I to understand—”
But the sound of her voice was suddenly cut off by the click of a closing door. One of the footmen on duty at the punch bowls smiled apologetically at Moira when she turned her head.
“Pardon me, ma’am,” he said, “but there was a nasty draft. I shall be pleased to open the door for you when you wish to leave.”
“Thank you,” she said, looking away from his acutely embarrassed face. When you wish to leave. She wanted to leave now. It was insufferable that she was being forced to stay where she was hated. And they did hate her, she thought, Lady Haverford and Helen. Because she was a member of the family they had always thought of as the enemy. More specifically, because she was Sean Hayes’s sister. She wondered fleetingly if they had known about her and Kenneth, if he had ever told them anything about her. He had said once that he loved her, but he had never said more than that. It had been hopeless, of course, even before Sean. . . .
It did not matter now, Moira thought, putting the memories firmly from her and leaning forward to rest her forehead against the glass of the window. Nothing mattered now except the present. Sean was dead and Helen was married to a man her parents had approved of. She herself was soon to marry Sir Edwin Baillie, and Kenneth—well, she did not care what became of the Earl of Haverford. She could only hope that he would not settle permanently at Dunbarton, though he probably would if he married the very pretty Miss Wishart.
She sighed. How could she possibly have landed herself in this predicament? Though none of it was her fault, she reminded herself. She had not even wanted to attend the ball. She had not chosen to be left here while her betrothed tried to outrun a snowstorm. And she certainly had not invited herself to stay here when it became obvious that the roads were becoming difficult.
The road down to Penwith would perhaps be dangerous for a carriage, he had said. He would not allow her to walk home. He had sent a groom, presumably on foot, to inform her mother that she would spend the night at Dunbarton. Her head snapped up suddenly. He would not allow her to walk home? It was merely his lordly command that kept her from doing so. There was no other reason in the world why she should not. He did not have to call out his carriage and horses for her to walk home, after all. She had all the equipment needed: legs and feet. And she was not afraid of a little snow or a little cold or of a three-mile walk in darkness.
She smiled at the footman as he opened the door. She strolled about the perimeter of the ballroom, resisting the urge to stride across it in open defiance of its owner. She guessed that he was quite capable of restraining her by force if he knew of her intent. She left the ballroom quietly. Anyone seeing her go, she thought, would assume she was going to the ladies’ withdrawing room. She did go there in order to retrieve her cloak and gloves. She was glad she had worn her warmest outdoor clothes despite the fact that Sir Edwin had loaded the carriage down with blankets and hot bricks. And she was glad he had even insisted that she wear her half boots for the journey when she had been intending to wear only her dancing slippers.
She carried the garments downstairs with her and was relieved to find that she passed no one on the way. She dressed calmly and purposefully in the hall, turned to the footman on duty there, handed him a generous vail as he opened the door for her, looking dubious as he did so, and bade him a cheerful good night as she stepped outside.
It was not at all bad, she thought at first. There was snow on the ground and more coming down, but the night was not particularly cold or particularly dark. She strode out of the shelter of the courtyard to the slightly lesser shelter of the driveway and revised her opinion only a little. She set off along the driveway, which sloped gradually upward until it joined the road along the top of the valley.
The wind and blowing snow hit her with full force as she stepped out of the hollow and beyond the range of the park’s woodland. For a moment she was alarmed at the realization that there was an actual storm raging and considered turning back. She was chilly already despite her warm clothes. But she could not bear to go back and have her foolishness exposed. Besides, she could be home in a little more than an hour if she moved briskly.
She moved briskly.
* * *
AT first, Kenneth thought she had merely gone for a few minutes to the ladies’ withdrawing room or to the anteroom for a drink. Then he thought she must be hiding out in one or other of those places. But the refreshment room, when he looked there, was deserted apart from one very young couple who were hovering in the vicinity of the mistletoe sprig. And a great-aunt informed him when he asked that Miss Hayes was not in the withdrawing room.
Then he thought that she must have found her way to the bedchamber allotted her and blamed himself for not making sure that she had congenial company in the ballroom now that her neighbors and friends had left. But his butler assured him that he had not given Miss Hayes directions to her room, and when the butler went belowstairs to inquire of the housekeeper, it was to be told that she had not given that information either. And when Mrs. Whiteman went herself to discover if the room was occupied, she found that it was not.
Moira Hayes had chosen somewhere else to hide, Kenneth thought in some annoyance, and he spent a while going from one darkened room to another, a branch of candles held high in one hand. She would be cold. Most of these rooms were without fires. But he was interrupted in his search by the reappearance of his butler, who brought the news that Miss Hayes had left the house alone and on foot half an hour before. The footman on duty in the hall visibly quaked and grew pale when his lordship demanded to know why in thunder he had allowed her to go, but there was no real issue to be made of the matter. It was not a mere footman’s task to question the actions of his superiors.
“Fetch a lantern,” Kenneth told hi
m curtly as he himself strode in the direction of the stairs. “And a heavy blanket.”
She would probably be at home almost before he could set off in pursuit of her, he thought as he changed quickly, without the aid of his valet, into warmer clothes and pulled on his top boots, his greatcoat, his beaver hat, and a thick scarf. He selected his warmest leather gloves. He would go into Penwith Manor after her before she had a chance to retire and shake the living daylights out of her, he thought grimly as he strode from his room and back down the stairs. He hoped she was almost home, he thought anxiously as he tucked the blanket beneath one arm and took up the lantern, whose cover would perhaps prevent the flame from being extinguished by the wind. He hoped she would be there to shake when he arrived. His knees felt somewhat weak when he imagined arriving at Penwith to discover that she was not there. What would he do then?
He turned sharply in the direction of the stables and disappeared inside. He emerged only moments later with a wildly joyful Nelson, who pranced and cavorted with exuberance at the unexpected treat of a night walk and appeared quite undismayed by the snow.
Kenneth tried to persuade himself that the storm had abated somewhat since he was last out and that the snow was falling less thickly. But even before he reached the road and left behind the shelter of the hollow and the trees, he knew that he was deceiving himself. The wind whipped cruelly at him and took his breath away with it as he clutched at his hat with one hand and turned the lantern into the shelter of his body with the other. The snow was deep and all but obliterated the road. And it was still falling and swirling so thickly that he could see no more than a few feet in front of him.
He felt real fear. Not for himself. He had become hardened to personal danger, and he was accustomed to being outdoors for days on end in all sorts of weather. Spain had been a country of extremes. He was afraid for Moira, a woman alone in a storm like this. He was too afraid to feel fury. He made his way along the road, noting with a sinking heart that her footprints—if indeed she had come this way—had already been obliterated. Nelson bounded along at his side, woofing with delight at the adventure.