“If I did not know you very well, Myles, I might think you protest too much”
Hayden waved a languid hand.
“Merely observin’, Chas”
“All the same-should you win your bet-Meg Lawrence might do worse than the Marquis of Hayden”
For a moment their glances held.
“Come to think of it,” Hayden said, “you’ve that same look in your eyes, Chas. It asks too much of a chap, I tell you. You two are better off gazin’ at each other than anyone else. ‘Twould solve the problem.” He rose from his seat. “I might wish to know your plans with regard to Sutcliffe. Not that I intend to do anything about ‘em, mind”
“I shall let him stew. Time is to my advantage.”
“You’ve no fears for the girl?”
“Yes” Chas drew a breath. “Yes, but there’s nothing else to be done. Her father and brother have looked after her until now. They must do so a while longer.”
“The stakes have been raised. Sutcliffe may press.”
“I shall be away a week at most. Do not let him know where I am. ‘Twill keep him off balance. When I return I shall tweak his nose a bit more. Sutcliffe has no disciplineat least as regards Meg Lawrence. Eventually he will pop.”
“Guard your back in the meantime, Chas, for that serpent Sutcliffe may not pop just when and where you wish. And there is Mulmgren.”
“Point taken, cousin. And now I must stop off briefly to see Grandmere on my way. She will have heard of this..
“Ah, Chas!” Hayden shook his head. “Now I know you are braver than I!”
Meg and Lucy were at home to callers later that day. A host of young men came by to pay their respects, to sample the offerings of Aunt Pru’s chef, and in general to strut, preen, and talk a great deal of nonsense.
Meg had suffered it for more than an hour and was about to surrender her seat to yet another caller when Thwaite the butler announced the Marquis of Hayden, accompanied by the Viscounts Demarest and Knowles and the Honorable Mr. George Gillen.
The marquis, adorned most elegantly, strolled in, to the stupefied amazement of the drawing room’s occupants. He acknowledged first Aunt Pru, then Meg, then Lucy, and proceeded to repose himself on the settee by the front window. The several lesser luminaries who had followed him in then began conversing in an acceptably lively and courteous manner, which Meg was gratified to note pleased her sister and aunt immensely. The other young men present knew Lucinda had been singularly honored.
Meg contented herself with as little conversation as she felt she could spare. Lord Hayden’s visit was proper and welcome, but most unexpected all the same. Knowing that the man had played an essential role in the previous night’s ruse made Meg both curious and anxious. She wondered if it were true that Cabot wished to provoke Sutcliffe in some manner-even to the extreme of a duel.
Though the marquis sat quite a distance away from her, Meg was aware that his gaze was often fixed upon her. He was Cabot’s cousin. Was he his confidant? And where was Cabot?
The marquis’s interest turned again, as it had several times before, to the street outside, where a fine afternoon drizzle had just begun. Meg looked for similarities with his cousin. Apart from sharing height and an attractive selfconfidence, their features were also much akin. The nose, certainly-and perhaps something in the forehead and line of the jaw. At last conscious that she searched for a resemblance because she missed the original, Meg pointedly applied herself to the chatter of the visitors seated nearest her. Lord Hayden rarely spoke, and then only to utter a bon mot worthy of laughter. Meg thought him rather an extraordinary personage.
When Aunt Pru signaled that the session was at an end by rising and moving to the door, Meg and Lucy went to her side to accept their callers’ farewells.
Hayden and Lord Knowles were the last to rouse themselves for departure. Lord Hayden flattered Lucy and then Aunt Pru with his compliments on their company and their household, watched them curtsy and turn toward Knowles, then looked to Meg.
“Mr. Wembly is a fine young man,” he said softly.
“Harry Wembly?” Meg asked, startled because Harry had not been among their guests that afternoon. “Yes … Yes he is.”
“I understand he means to take orders.”
“That is what he has told me, milord.”
With a considering glance at Lucy, in animated conversation with the garrulous Knowles, the marquis said, “That would be most suitable.”
Meg stayed silent as Hayden’s gaze returned to hers. “M’cousin regrets he could not attend this afternoon. He hopes he did not offend last night?”
“No. No of course not” Meg managed somehow to hold his discerning blue gaze. But she asked low and urgently, “Where is he?”
“Kent,” he said. “He has gone to Clare. He will be back,” he smiled, “shortly”
Meg gently shook her head.
“You must … keep him away”
For an instant the blue gaze was even sharper. Then he smiled broadly.
“I regret, Miss Lawrence, it cannot be done.”
With a very low bow he took his leave, trailed by the still voluble Knowles. As the two reached the front door, Bertie, damp from the afternoon’s rain, bounded in at the doorstep.
“Ah, my Lord Hayden, Lord Knowles. How d’you do?”
“I wonder, Lawrence, if you would stop outside here with me a moment?” Hayden asked as he donned his cloak and hat.
Bertie looked surprised but quickly assented, and the men stepped out into the rain. Mystified, Meg remained in the hall after her aunt and Lucy retired. Two minutes later her brother returned, shaking himself like a wet puppy. As he yielded his cloak to Thwaite and said something low he noticed Meg lingering at the drawing room door.
“Allo, Meggie!” he said, rather too cheerfully.
“Bertie-what did the marquis want?”
Bertie glanced at the floor, straightened his cuffs, and cleared his throat.
“Just … a small matter . . ” His gaze shot to her face and steady regard. “Dash it all, Meggie! You’re not ‘sposed to know!”
“If it concerns me, Bertie, don’t you think I should know?”
“I hate it when you sound like father!” he objected. “‘Tisn’t… ‘tisn’t natural, Meg” But he told her, “Sutcliffe’s men have been following him all day. They’ve been watchin’ the house from across the street. Lord Hayden saw them arrive just after he did.”
“Why would Sutcliffe hound the marquis? He cannot hope to intimidate every person in London who dares speak with me. .”
“Lord Hayden was followed from Cabot’s, Meg”
Abruptly she sat down on a hall chair.
“Bertie … Bertie, I must not be hemmed in so. I have not set foot outside this house for two weeks now without Annie and Aunt Pru and Lucy and Louisa and half a dozen grooms! One more packed evening party or tedious reading and I vow I shall embarrass all of you. At least in Walesat least with Aunt Bitty, Sutcliffe did not know where I was. But here! There might as well be bars around this house. And for him to pursue our acquaintance! I shall go mad. Bertie, you must help me ..
She had not been aware of wringing her hands until Bertie clasped them.
“Calm yourself, Meggie. Father and I have seen to it. We’ve had Paloma and my Sam brought to town. They’re quartered over at Ferrell’s near the park. We’ll go riding first thing tomorrow morning. Father says as long as we vary the time and the place we need take only one groom. ‘Tis little enough, I know, but ‘tis something. Father says no one can catch you on Paloma anyway.”
Cabot on Arcturus can, Meg almost advised him. But she kept that knowledge to herself, and welcomed the prospect of escape.
Daily rides restored her to some passing contentment. Several times she and Bertie left before dawn from the back of the house, only returning when screened by tradesmens’ or grocers’ deliveries later in the morning. Defeating Sutcliffe’s cordon lent Meg a heady sense of satisfaction. Only the abse
nce of Charles Cabot spoiled her happiness, but she could not very well bemoan what she had determined was her preference.
She and Lucy joined Louisa each day to pose for Monsieur LeBecque, who was painting their portrait for their father. Aunt Pru had thought it time to reprise the family grouping she displayed in her hall, and the three girls had agreed enthusiastically. Sir Eustace would be surprised and pleased; the painting was also a charming way to commemorate Lucy’s season. So most mornings Meg and Lucy departed for almost two hours, telling their father they were exploring London, which in some manner they were-if only by driving past a number of landmarks in transit.
“We shall make certain you see everything properly later, Lucy,” Louisa told her. “There is plenty of time” And Lucy, still enraptured with the city’s many offerings, had not objected.
This morning, though, Monsieur LeBecque had claimed he had other tasks to which to attend; they would see on the morrow, he boasted, how very well the portrait progressed. Though Aunt Pru and Lucy had rushed eagerly to an additional fitting at the dressmaker’s, Meg had stayed behind. A family outing to Vauxhall was planned for that evening, so she was just as glad to rest undisturbed at home.
Vauxhall would unfortunately be associated forever in her memory with her own painfully curtailed season three years before. But her father had planned the evening’s entertainment himself, and Meg reasoned that if Sir Eustace could tolerate it for Lucy’s sake, then she could as well. Nothing untoward would occur, for she would remain close to her family. Vauxhall gardens, after all, had never been the problem; the problem had been two deceitful, envious girls-and Lord Sutcliffe.
Meg opened the piano in the drawing room and started to play. She had played often on her Aunt Bitty’s upright in Tenby. Her Aunt Pru, though not a pianist herself, had a finer instrument-one of the newest and grandest pianofortes. Anticipating that, Meg had brought her music with her, but she reminded herself to visit Hatchard’s for more. She would look for one piece in particular.
She slowly picked out the tune of the waltz she had danced with Cabot the previous week. One lilting section in a minor key had remained with her, haunting her. She found it now, slowly, one note at a time, even as she heard Thwaite admit a visitor to the hall. As footsteps passed the open door Meg stopped and glanced up from the keyboard. Cabot stood silently, listening, in the doorway.
At first she meant to rise from the piano bench-she wanted to run to him. But in the same instant reason stayed her. He looked at her steadily; he would have heard what she played, yet he did not appear to recall the tune with any joy. As Meg’s fingers abandoned the keys to seek the sanctuary of her lap, she remembered she wore only a simple shift and that she had not put up her hair. She was at home, after all. No one called before noon.
“I have come to see your father,” he said at last, and paused. Her whole body welcomed his voice. “Regarding Selboume.”
At his pause, Meg’s breathing had stilled. It resumed in relief with his “regarding Selbourne.” She could not want Cabot’s offer. Though as he stood there observing her, she thought only of whirling through the waltz, she did not want his offer. An offer would mean only the worst for him.
Abruptly he bowed and continued toward the library. Once Meg heard her father’s greeting, she rose from the piano bench and quickly crossed the room to shut the doors. Let Cabot believe her such a dedicated instrumentalist that she did not wish another interruption. Let him think her rude. She could not bear that he should stop again.
For the next half an hour Meg dedicated herself to her practice, all the while listening for more than the music. When the footsteps returned they paused briefly at the closed double doors. But Meg bravely continued, until Cabot did as well.
When at last she heard him depart, she placed her hands to her cheeks. He must not make plans-he must not risk so much. And her palms touched tears.
Their party to Vauxhall was a merry one. They traveled in two carriages, to accommodate Sir Eustace and his chair, and though they were only seven they managed to sound like a circus.
Aunt Pru must have suspected how it would be, for she had cried off at the last minute, claiming that though she did not yet have a megrim she was destined to have one soon. Sir Eustace had teased her about wanting to have her house to herself again, and much too early in the season. Aunt Pru had shushed him and sent the party off with a picnic hamper of delights from her chef in case, she told Sir Eustace, the ham at Vauxhall proved too thin for him.
On arrival, Lucy insisted that they promenade as much of the central square as possible in the evening light, though why she should have been so adamant when she and Amanda seemed most intent on gossiping was a major mystery. Their group stayed to hear part of the summer’s first concert in the concert hall, then ambled on to the busy colonnades to find the supper box Sir Eustace had reserved. There they reposed themselves away from the crowds, to sip punch and await the darkness, for the main event was to be Lucy’s introduction to Vauxhall’s vaunted illuminations.
“Do you think there will be fireworks as well, Papa?” she asked.
“So they tell me, Lucinda-if it does not rain. You must speak to someone else about that possibility.” Sir Eustace’s attention settled on Amanda. “I saw your parents, Miss Burke, in a box just down the way as we came up. It was kind of them to lend us your company this evening”
The girl mumbled an acknowledgement and hurriedly sipped some punch as Sir Eustace’s gaze narrowed on her impatiently.
“We have enough room here to entertain two more of Lucy’s friends this evening,” Bertie remarked. “Is that your intention, father?”
“My intention, Bertram, is to please myself this evening, since I am out so rarely. With the permission of my family I hope to entertain some of my friends tonight.”
“Then we could have done with fewer chairs!” Bertie claimed, whereupon Sir Eustace threatened to let him walk home.
Meg was delighted to see her father in such good spirits. She thought he looked better than he had in weeks, and she had hopes that the melancholy that had troubled him since his accident would recur less frequently. This evening she had hopes for herself as well, for after the unexpected sight of Cabot she had had difficulty dispelling a dark mood of her own.
The music from the concert hall drifted languidly across the square. Within the shelter of the supper box the ladies did not need their wraps. For mid-May, it was warm. Louisa and Ferrell returned from a brief visit with friends to join the rest of them for the meal-delicious cold ham and chicken, delicate shrimp rolls from Aunt Pru’s chef and a lavish selection of breads, rolls, jellies, fruits and pastries. Meg made a point of nibbling whenever her father looked her way. But thankfully he seemed to have decided to let her be. She sat quietly, like Amanda, and listened happily to the music.
As he finished his meal, Sir Eustace looked to Louisa.
“Well, Mrs. Ferrell, have you something to tell your family?”
Louisa, who had always been a very composed young lady, turned bright red.
“Papa!” she cried. She had not called him `papa’ for years-“How did you know?”
“Louisa my dear, you are the image of your mother, who gave me four children. Quod Brat demonstrandum. That is how I know!”
Ferrell laughed and moved to kiss his astonished wife on the cheek. Drawing a startled breath, Meg leaned toward her sister.
“Louisa … dearest,” she said. “What wonderful news ..
Bertie and Lucy were a few seconds slower to comprehend, but Lucy was soon babbling with delight about her niece or nephew, and all the activities she planned for the new arrival.
“The babe is not to be a playmate for you, Lucy,” Sir Eustace drawled. “You and Miss Burke must amuse each other for a while yet”
Bertie, having thumped Ferrell heavily and repeatedly on the back, surrendered him to Meg.
“Thomas…” Meg kissed him on the cheek. “You knew last week, didn’t you? At Almack’s-when L
ouisa did not dance?”
He nodded.
“I must be thankful you and Sir Eustace do not sit with the opposition, Meg. ‘Twould be impossible to divert you”
“What of Aunt Pru?” Louisa asked. “We’d wanted to wait until we were all in company.”
“Your aunt is knitting woollies this minute,” Sir Eustace said. “She thought it best she begin preparations at once.”
“Oh lord,” Bertie groaned. “I think I shall have to take myself back to Selbourne, father. ‘Twill be impossible to discuss anything else from now until”-he paused, and looked to Louisa-“when?”
Again she blushed.
“October,” she said.
“Selbourne it is then, father,” Bertie said. “I shall help Cabot’s crew finish the terracing.”
“That would be a salutary way to occupy your time, Bertram,” Sir Eustace remarked. “Though we would miss your company.” He paused. “Speaking of Mr. Cabot-I note he is visiting in the boxes across the way.” Meg’s gaze immediately shot to the other side of the square. “He told me he would be attending this evening. I have invited him to join us later-if he is so inclined.”
“But father,” Meg protested at once. “Mr. Cabot is..
I must be permitted to invite whom I choose to my own party! Do you have any objection, Margaret, other than his occupation? His boots look clean enough this evening.”
Her father, it seemed, would not easily forget what she had said to Cabot at Selbourne. But he did not understand. And Meg noticed Bertie’s raised eyebrows and Lucy’s puzzlement. No doubt they wondered how she could take any exception to Cabot, having waltzed with him as she had.
“No, sir,” she said through dry lips. “I have no objection to Mr. Cabot.”
Her father surveyed her pale face, then turned his attention again to their feast. Despite the resumption of excited conversation, Meg’s anxiety returned. She seemed never to experience anything good or pleasant without a consequent oppression.
Quiet Meg Page 9