by Jane Godman
“You are too kind, sir,” Rosie whispered when the faintness at last began to recede. Sir Peregrine laughed mischievously.
“Not I,” he confessed, with a twinkle, “My motives are purely selfish,” at her look of enquiry, he informed her simply, “I would know more of the lady who can make my friend St Anton look so heart-sore.” They both glanced instinctively to where Jack was standing with his back to them, in a small embrasure. He was talking animatedly to a very pretty lady who was laughing up at him with undisguised delight.
“What have I done?” Rosie spoke more to herself than to him.
“Are you quite sure that it is aught which cannot now be undone?” Sir Peregrine looked pointedly at Sir Clive who, realising she had left his side, was, together with a fluttering Lady Aurelia, making his way back towards them with a purposeful stride. Rosie bit her lip and, in response to Sir Peregrine’s question, gave a tiny shake of her head.
Sir Peregrine sketched a graceful bow, “Miss Delacourt succumbed to this dreadful swelter, my lady,” he informed Lady Aurelia who was clucking around her in concern. “I declare ‘tis a wonder we are all of us not nigh dead with its oppressive effects.” He bowed low over Rosie’s hand and she murmured a quiet thanks.
“My dear child, how unfortunate that this should happen tonight, of all nights, when I most particularly wished to introduce you to polite society,” Lady Aurelia pouted.
“I believe I shall be better shortly, my lady,” Rosie told her with an attempt at a smile, conscious all the while of Clive’s gaze searching her face. He knew the torture she had endured these long months, when she believed that Jack was dead. He must be only too aware of the cause of her current distress.
Lady Aurelia clapped plump little hands together, “I have bethought me of a plan! You shall sit quietly for a spell in that little ante-room to recover your breath, and I will come to fetch you shortly.” A genuine smile lit Rosie’s eyes this time. Heaven forbid that her ladyship should miss any of the evening’s entertainment! “Do go ahead of us, Clive, and make a comfortable spot in which this dear child can rest.”
When they finally left her, reclining on a gilded chaise-longue, Rosie heaved a sigh of unalleviated relief. The swooning sensation had long since vanished, but her thoughts were in turmoil. To be so unprepared for this! And yet, was there not a part of her – buried deep in her subconscious – which knew, even when the odds became overwhelming, that Jack could not be dead? She lay back. Her eyes closed, as she tried to assimilate what had happened.
She didn’t notice the click of the door and only became aware that she was not alone when he spoke. “Well met, Miss Delacourt. I see you have been somewhat busy since last we spoke.”
The voice was familiar but the clipped, brittle tone was not. Her eyes flew open and she gazed up at the dear face which had featured in all of her dreams – waking as well as sleeping – since the painful January night when they had parted.
“Jack …” she rose jerkily to her feet and stood facing him.
Jack’s stare was as cold and unyielding as granite, “I came merely to express my sorrow at the death of your father. He was a fine man, and I was very fond of him,” he bowed and turned as if to leave.
“I thought you had not recognised me … back there in the ballroom …” the words tumbled over themselves in a rush to be out. Anything rather than have him walk away with that expression of repugnance hardening his countenance.
“I confess, I barely knew you in all your finery,” Rosie had never before seen a sneer on those finely-carved, patrician features and – worse, so much worse – was the knowledge that all his chilly contempt was for her. “But, then, it would seem that there is much about you I did not know.”
He paused, as though anticipating a response, but, when none was forthcoming, he turned on his heel and left the room. When Rosie returned to the ballroom a few minutes later, there was no sign of him or Sir Peregrine.
In the carriage during the ride home, Rosie was uncomfortably aware of Clive’s brooding gaze upon her. Lady Aurelia was a-twitter with excitement about the appearance at the ball of the Earl of St Anton who, she informed Rosie in hushed accents, was a reprieved rebel!
“Of course, ‘tis monstrous shocking for a member of the aristocracy to take up arms against the king but his mother was Scottish, by all accounts, and … well, we all know how hot-headed they can be,” she gave a tinkling, little laugh. “No doubt the son takes after her because, although I don’t really recall him … not having been part of that set, you know … his father was, by all accounts a stickler for the proprieties,” Rosie let this aimless chatter wash over her, “Well, I was quite agreeably surprised, I must say, by his lordship because Lady Mawdesley … you remember her ladyship, Clive? Well, anyhow, Maria Mawdesley told me that the Jacobites are quite savage, you know, and do invariably wear a kilt. Which strikes me as quite the oddest fashion for a man! But I thought he looked every inch the gentleman, did not you, my sweet? And so very handsome … hearts will break, of that I am sure …”
When Clive had handed both ladies down from the carriage he followed them into the house instead of continuing on to his lodgings. When Lady Aurelia expressed her surprise at this circumstance, he said bluntly,
“I would have speech with Miss Delacourt.”
“Oh, la!” her ladyship giggled girlishly, “I am in the nature of a chaperone to this child, you know, Clive. Should I permit this, I wonder?” Encountering his blank stare, she blustered a little, “Well, if you must talk to Rosie, so be it … but I am sure ‘tis most improper …” she whisked away up the stairs, still murmuring.
When she had gone, Clive strode into the drawing room and poured himself a very generous measure of cognac. Untying the strings of her velvet evening cloak, Rosie followed him wearily. Every last drop of emotion had been wrung out of her this night, and she did not feel equipped to deal with any further drama. But, however much she despised him, Clive was her affianced and she supposed he was entitled to ask questions about Jack.
“Quite an illuminating little scene you enacted tonight,” he observed with surprising calm.
There was no point in attempting to lie, “I thought Jack was dead,” she explained, “It was a shock to see him there.”
“And what passed between you when he followed you into the ante-room?”
She should have known his sharp eyes would miss nothing, “Naught … he was angry and I was upset.”
“You did not then seize the opportunity to relive any of your former, ah, closeness?” he eyes glittered with an emotion she did not want to examine more closely. Dear Lord, was he becoming aroused by the thought of her and Jack making love? The possibility sickened her.
Deliberately misunderstanding him, she replied, “No, I do not think we can be as close again as once we were. Too much has happened.”
She hoped her tone would ensure a dignified end to the conversation, but he grunted coarsely.
“And yet, by your fetching display tonight, you effectively advertised your panting desire for him … rather reminiscent, my dear, of a bitch in heat. I think it only fair to drop you a word of warning. Devilish bad ton, and all that.”
Rosie drew herself up to her full height, stung, “I can assure you, Clive, that, even if I felt the emotions you ascribe to me, I have more pride than to allow them to be known.”
“Hmm,” his eyes scanned her face hungrily and she was horribly aware that he was, once again, picturing her and Jack together.
Standing oppressively close, he reached out a hand and grasped her throat, forcing her head upwards and digging his fingers painfully into her tender flesh. Despite the uncomfortable sensation of blood pounding in her head, Rosie stood very still. Instinct warned her that resistance would stimulate him to violence in the same way that thoughts of her with Jack inflamed his lust.
“Just so long as you remember, my dear, that you are betrothed to me now. And that, once we are married I will, believe me, make you f
orget that you ever thrilled to his touch.”
Releasing her, he collected up his cloak and hat, leaving Rosie to massage her aching neck muscles.
“Do I make myself clear?”
In a slightly constricted voice, Rosie said, “Perfectly, sir,” and, with a bow, he was gone.
The next day, Rosie perused Tom’s letter but, since it had been written to tell her that which she already now knew – that Jack was alive and in London – it did not hold her interest for long. Harry, peeping round her bedchamber door, demanded to know what news there was from home. She held the letter out for him to read. He scanned it quickly, exclaiming over the account of Jack’s return.
“But, do you not see what this means?” Harry’s voice was high-pitched with excitement, “You need not stay with Sir Clive any longer … you can marry Jack instead!”
It took some considerable time to convince him that the case was not so simple.
The masquerade was well attended and New Spring Gardens, in Vauxhall, as always, provided a spectacular setting for the occasion. Illuminated by thousands of globe lamps festooned from branch to branch amongst the dense foliage of the trees, the revellers – their identities protected by masks and domino cloaks – danced and partook of supper in their booths or strolled along the avenues and walks.
Lady Aurelia, who had not accompanied the party that evening, had lectured Rosie extensively on the importance of keeping to the main avenues at Vauxhall and never, ever allowing herself to stray into the infamous dark walks.
“For ‘tis there, my love,” her tone was hushed and scandalised, “That loose women and wild bucks engage in their assignations. Any lady seen there would be considered fast, and that, as you know, will never do for a girl in your circumstances!”
Mrs Henderson, Lady Aurelia’s bosom friend, had invited a party of young people to join her and partake of wafer-thin ham shavings and heady arrack punch; a liquor made from mixing grains of the benjamin flower with rum. Their hostess was an indifferent chaperone, being far too busy eying the company through her lorgnette and attempting guess the identity of various masqueraders. The booth was bustling with both Mrs Henderson’s own party and various visiting acquaintances. It was impossible to keep track of the comings and goings. As groups and couples left to dance or walk and returned later to partake of refreshments. Sir Clive, after remaining particularly taciturn throughout dinner, had promptly abandoned Rosie to her fate and gone off in search of other entertainment. Since she was glad to be relieved of his company, she did not enquire what form that entertainment might take. She was content to remain in the booth and watch the polite world take its pleasures. Rosie noticed Sir Peregrine immediately as no mask or domino could disguise his willowy elegance or the sartorial glory of his outfit. His companion, a less eye-catching figure, in a dark grey domino, also drew her gaze. Jack did not look like a man who was enjoying himself. As though aware of her watching him, he looked straight at her. She knew that, in spite of her mask, he recognised her instantly. He addressed a few quiet words to Sir Peregrine and they walked away towards the dancers. Rosie, smarting at the deliberate snub, bit her lip in vexation. Any enjoyment she may have taken in the evening had now been completely destroyed.
Some time later the grey-dominoed figure re-appeared and purposefully entered Mrs Henderson’s booth. Rosie, chatting to a rather intoxicated young gentleman about the forthcoming firework display tried, with little success, to ignore this intrusion.
“Walk with me,” Jack interrupted her companion unceremoniously and held out his hand to Rosie.
Not pausing to question the wisdom of her actions, she rose and strolled with him along the lantern strewn paths. They did not speak for some time, which gave Rosie time to master her breathing and regulate the uncomfortable pounding of her heart. To be so close to him, to feel the strong sinews of his arm beneath her fingers! Whatever his feelings might be towards her, she felt alive in a way she had not since he left her. In spite of everything, knowing Jack was in the world made it a more bearable place.
The path became less well-lit and Rosie decided this must be one the infamous dark walks. Jack led her unerringly to a decorative summer house in a secluded corner of the gardens. A faint light was cast by the lanterns outside shining in through the single window and the only furnishings were a day bed and an occasional table. It could not have advertised its purpose as a place of assignation more clearly.
“Why have you brought me here, Jack?” Rosie put back the hood of her domino and removed her mask. She did not believe, from the terse look on his face, that his intentions were amorous.
It was a good question. Why had he brought her here? He had tried hard to ignore her presence. Losing himself in the crowd of revellers when he first noticed her but, something, somehow, had drawn him – against both his will and his better judgement – to her side.
There was too much still unsaid between them.
“I wished to have speech with you … and I want it to be private.”
Then, as though the words were dragged from him, he burst out, “Why, Rosie? Why did you lead me on if what you wanted all along was marriage to him? He was yours anyway for the asking, you told me that yourself. Or did you use my attentions – my love for you … for, heaven help me, that is what I felt! – to spur Sheridan into a speedy declaration?” His voice was ragged with emotion.
Rosie made a movement towards him wanting to comfort and reassure, but he held up a hand in a gesture of revulsion and she stopped.
“You could not have shown your mockery of me more clearly than to choose him! The very man who did his best to see me swing at the end of a noose! Did you laugh together in his bed at what a fool you both made of me?”
Rosie bit her lip. Here, at last, was the one person – the only person in the world – to whom she could have poured out her heart. But how could she tell him the truth? She was sure, as Tom had been, that Jack’s fury – should he ever even suspect Clive’s perfidy – would lead him to take retribution so violent that there could be no pardon for him this time. The king would not show the rebel lord leniency twice for lawless conduct. Besides, Sir Clive still had that damning letter of Harry’s, and she knew enough of him to be certain that he would carry out his threat to publish it. The end result would be the same, she and Harry would lose their home, their good name, their freedom and even – possibly – their lives. No, Jack must never know. Better that he should think badly of her than risk his life to avenge her.
Taking her silence for shame, Jack’s white hot rage was fuelled further, “I thought I was in love with you … but I will recover. But you have been a fool too, Rosie! Had you continued to play the sweet innocent. Had you waited for me, you would have had wealth, status and title to make him appear a pauper by comparison. And a man who loved you truly and unwaveringly. When you wed your fine knight, my pretty schemer, reflect on the fact that you threw away an earl.”
“I can’t talk to you while you are so angry with me, Jack”
Rosie’s smoky eyes shone with unshed tears and, in spite of his fury, Jack was moved. With an enormous effort, he fought the impulse to go to her and hold her close. If he succumbed now, he would be lost forever.
“One day … I hope I can explain and that you will understand and forgive me … but not now …” and she hurried from the summer house, leaving him standing alone. Had she looked back into the half-light, she would have seen him raise a hand towards her. As she disappeared into the darkness, it dropped back to his side and clenched into a fist against his thigh.
Sir Clive, having concluded his own very satisfactory assignation amongst these secluded walks, was strolling back to Mrs Henderson’s booth, a reminiscent, sensual smile touching his lips. He saw Rosie leave the summer house, her mask hanging loosely from her fingers and her hood still pushed back to reveal her glossy hair. Moments later, her companion emerged. Although the gentleman had prudently remained masked, there was something unmistakable about his proud bea
ring. As he moved into a pool of light, it could be seen that his aristocratic mouth was set in a tight, hard line. Sir Clive, no longer smiling, continued on his way.
There followed a nightmarish few weeks during which Jack appeared to be at great pains to demonstrate to Rosie that he had, indeed, as he predicted, recovered from his infatuation with her. Since his remedy took the form of indulgence in a series of outrageous flirtations with a parade of very willing partners, he could not have found a more successful method of torturing her. At every ball, rout or party – even strolling in the park – as soon as he espied Rosie, Jack would turn into an unrecognisable philanderer … and there was never a shortage of ladies prepared to indulge him.
On one memorable occasion, Rosie had been forced to endure the spectacle of him taking snuff from the proffered wrist of a plump, little lady of notoriously questionable morals. The lady herself had announced that Lord St Anton was very welcome to take snuff from various other parts of her anatomy. Jack, sensing Rosie’s outraged eyes upon them, had smiled his wickedest smile in reply.
The following night, on a visit to the theatre, Rosie’s attention was shared between the performance on the stage and the one in the box opposite. Jack and Sir Peregrine had been joined by several ladies who seemed intent on vying to see which of them could behave in the most scandalous manner. Sitting rigidly straight in her chair, Rosie resisted the sudden, overwhelming impulse to storm over there and drag the painted strumpet - who was currently sitting in Jack’s lap and hanging about his neck like a limpet - out by her hair.
Her misery was compounded during a dance given by one of Sir Peregrine’s flirts who paraded a steady stream of enticing young ladies under Jack’s nose. He obliged by dancing with each one in turn whilst making himself charming to them all. Rosie put on a brave face, whilst wanting nothing more than to crawl away and hide in some dark corner to lick her emotional wounds. Sir Peregrine – who was renowned for his skill on the dance floor – requested her hand, and, for the first time, it cost her a pang to explain to a prospective partner that she could not dance because she was in mourning. Despite the crushing throng, he led her to an empty sofa in a quiet corner and managed to conjure up two glasses of champagne. They watched the dancers in silence before Sir Peregrine said quietly.