by Fiona Hill
“Indeed,” Thaddeus responded, though his sensitivity to beauty was not so keen as hers. He took her arm. “Shall I escort you to that altar?” he half-quizzed, indicating a row of oaks that stood some fifty paces from them, their branches bowed down by a burden of snow.
“If you like,” said Elizabeth, acutely aware of the warmth that emanated from the young man beside her. Her breath left a crystal vapour in the still air as she spoke. “I really do not know,” she remarked, trying desperately to deny the closeness she felt to her companion in this silent world, “why women’s clothing does not provide better for contact with the elements. Do you know, my boots have the silliest little heels on them—it makes them most inappropriate for walking in the snow, but I am sure I have none more practical. And my skirts,” she continued, “drag most ridiculously. I envy gentlemen their breeches.”
“Indeed, I have the advantage of you,” Thaddeus agreed, smiling down upon her. “That is why you must avail yourself of my arm a little; you touch it, but you do not lean upon it.”
Elizabeth murmured inaudibly and averted her gaze. They continued their slow progress towards the oaks, obliged to concentrate upon each step through the uneven drifts. They walked in silence almost until they had reached the trees, when Elizabeth, her eyes deceived by what had appeared to be a level patch of snow, tumbled suddenly into a ditch. She gave a little cry and sat upright immediately, one side of her face and hair veiled by a fine mist of snow.
“Are you all right?” Thaddeus asked urgently, kneeling beside her. Elizabeth nodded, breathing quickly.
“Do you think you can stand up?” he asked, grasping her gloved hand firmly. “Let me help you.” He pulled her up easily but was dismayed to see a painful wince flash across her handsome features. “You’ve hurt yourself, haven’t you? I begged you to lean upon me!” he declared helplessly.
“I could not,” she said. She had sunk back down into the snow, and sat gazing up at him, her expression mingling unhappiness and love. He read her eyes, knelt down again and kissed her swiftly. His arms embraced her protectively, and though she held herself rigid within them for a moment, she soon melted and lay back, grateful for their strength. Both were silent for a moment.
“I shall have to carry you back to the house,” Thaddeus said. “Put your arms round my neck and let me lift you.”
She obeyed without a word. His chest felt solid next to her body; he held his head upright despite the pressure of her arms on his neck. He marched back to the Abbey.
“Miss Shaw has had an accident,” he said to the startled Garson. “Open the drawing room door, please,” he added calmly. He set her down gently upon a sofa, ignoring the amazed exclamations of Laura, and the interested stare of Mr. Lowland, who had been painting her. “Do you feel well?” he asked, bending over the couch. “I’ll go and fetch Lady Eleanor.”
As soon as he had gone, Laura rushed over to her cousin. “Did you take a fall, my dear?” she asked in distress. She took her hand. “Oh, my poor, poor Lizzy! It must be dreadful,” she went on, as Elizabeth’s face blanched for the second time that day. A strange calm had come over her. A part of her whispered harshly that she had failed in her duty, but that part was submerged; it lay deep, deep within her, as though drowned in a tranquil ocean. She could not heed it—indeed, had no wish to heed it—even when confronted by the cousin she had betrayed. All was peaceful; Thaddeus would care for her; she closed her eyes and saw his face approach her as it had when she lay in the snow.
“Can you speak at all, my love?” said Laura’s voice.
“I shall do,” Elizabeth responded at last. “It is not so serious as it seems.”
Lady Eleanor burst into the room, Miss Webb in her wake. “What is it, my dear?” she cried. “Oh, your mother will never forgive me! I shall never forgive myself!” Laura moved away and stood by Mr. Lowland, while her mother took her place at Lizzy’s side.
“Pray, do not discompose yourself, ma’am,” said Elizabeth, her words flowing somehow from the placid pool that overwhelmed her. “It is nothing at all—my ankle, I think. A sprain.”
“A sprain!” exclaimed Lavinia Webb. “Give her my salts! My salts, your Ladyship!”
“There is no need,” said Elizabeth, smiling dreamily. “I am quite conscious. It hardly hurts now that I am lying down.”
Mr. Lowland spoke at last. “I think we should remove your boots,” he said practically. “Do you feel as though you can bear it? It may hurt to have it touched.”
“I’ll do it,” intervened Thaddeus, who had just reentered the drawing room. “Give her some laudanum, please,” he directed Miss Webb. He turned his gaze to Elizabeth. “It won’t hurt, I promise,” he said. “The laudanum will make you drowsy and take away the pain.”
The remainder of the house party, averted by some mysterious means of the catastrophe, was gathering quickly round the couch where Elizabeth lay.
“Five pounds says she’s broken her ankle,” Jacob challenged, but he received no answer save a scandalised glare from his younger sister.
“My poor Lizzy,” cried that young damsel, flying to her sister’s side, “let me hold your hand!”
But Thaddeus would allow no one to approach Miss Shaw except himself. “Let her be,” he said irritably to Laura, who had stepped up to the couch again to stroke her cousin’s brow. “It is best for her to be left alone. Give her some room to breathe,” he continued, though he failed to remove himself from her side. He continued his ministrations. Elizabeth, as the laudanum took effect, began to drowse, and the boot was cut off painlessly. Her ankle appeared swollen, but it did not seem as though she had broken anything. Thaddeus realised at last that he would have to relinquish her to her aunt, for the next logical procedure was to carry her up to her bedchamber, get her out of her damp clothes, and put her to bed. He refused, however, to allow either Sir Kenneth or Jacob to bear her up the stairs, though both appeared more than willing to be helpful; he did it himself. As he quit the drawing room with her in his arms, he left several of its occupants puzzled.
“I say,” remarked the rector, who had watched the proceedings closely, “has Master Grey had any medical training? He seemed most—well, frankly, most officious.”
Laura, acting as the local authority on Thaddeus, though she felt she did not deserve the role, answered, “No, he has had no training whatever. He was rather—particular, was he not?” She looked up anxiously at Mr. Lowland.
“No doubt he felt responsible, since he was with her when she fell,” he replied, though he doubted this very much. “People do react strangely to an emergency, do not they?”
“Indeed,” agreed the rector. “I thought Miss Webb kept her head admirably.” Jacob glanced at him curiously but the rest of the company seemed to ignore his remark.
All activity was suspended for the rest of the afternoon, everyone being too excited to resume their previous pastimes. The company assembled for dinner while Miss Shaw slept comfortably above them; no one knew exactly to whom they should address the sympathetic remarks that seemed in order, for they were all concerned for her health. Thaddeus, however, appeared to expect the condolences of the others; indeed, he solicited them.
“You don’t suppose she could have broke it,” he said nervously to Laura who, of course, sat beside him at the table.
“Surely not,” she answered formally. “She would be in greater pain if she had.”
“Oh, I think the pain is very great indeed,” Thaddeus corrected. “It is just that she is too brave to show it.”
“No doubt.” She attempted to sway her betrothed from this topic of conversation, but it proved impossible.
“Do you think it will be long before she has mended?” he inquired.
“I trust she will be able to stand upon it for the wedding,” she replied, “if that is what you mean.”
“The wedding!” cried Thad, as though he had forgotten all about it, which, indeed, he had. “Yes, of course,” he amended lamely.
“Yes, of course,” Laura echoed dryly. She had begun to be quite vexed with him. It was obvious he was infatuated with her cousin and though, for the moment, she hardly cared, he did seem to be making rather a cake of himself over it. She was sure Mr. Lowland must be aware of the circumstances, and it made her acutely uncomfortable. She feared he would laugh at her.
In this she was quite mistaken. Ashley Lowland was, of course, as well able as she to observe the moonstruck behaviour of the younger man, but it evoked in him no desire to laugh at all. Rather, it gave him to think quite profoundly, and for the purpose of pursuing such meditation he excused himself directly after dinner and went up to his chamber. Laura thought he had become exasperated with the company and had gone off to console himself with a book.
Conversation among the others, when the gentlemen had joined the ladies in the drawing room, was laconic and intermittent, until Mr. Jacob Shaw, encouraged by the liquor he had imbibed at dinner, sustained what was for him a very unusual and invigorating experience. Mr. Jacob Shaw had an idea.
He allowed it to roll round in his mind a bit, savouring it as one would a fine sherry. He sniffed it. He examined it. He tasted it, and let it trickle slowly down his throat. At last, convinced by all these manoeuvres that it was in fact a bona fide idea, he introduced it to the assembled party.
“What if,” he suggested slowly, fearing for the reception of his brainchild, “what if, if Sir Kenneth thinks it quite proper, we were to enact a play for my sister?”
“A play?” said Thaddeus sharply.
“Yes, a play. Or a masque of sorts. She will not be able to stand for a while, you know; she will need something to amuse her. And we—well, we are not exactly overwhelmed with activities ourselves.”
“Yes, but a play…” said Lady Eleanor uncertainly.
“Oh, yes!” cried Emily Shaw, enchanted with her brother’s notion. “Do let us!”
“The theatre is an institution of questionable morality,” the Reverend Mr. Chance began soundingly. “However—”
“Oh, Mr. Chance,” Lavinia Webb interrupted. “Surely there can be no harm under the circumstances!” The notion of a masque had inspired her rather romantic nature.
“I suppose, if it were produced under the strictest supervision,” Mr. Chance conceded dubiously.
“Naturally!” exclaimed Emily. “We will conform to your every stipulation, if only my uncle Fieldon will give his consent.” She had perceived, with an unerring instinct quite common to adolescent females, that Mr. Chance would welcome an opportunity to act as an authority.
“If Mr. Chance is to be responsible for it,” Sir Kenneth said obligingly, “I do not see why I should put a rub in your scheme. I am sure it will be most amusing to my niece.”
Emily leapt up and kissed her uncle firmly upon the cheek. “I knew you would permit it!” she exclaimed rapturously.
“It will be entertaining,” said Laura, considering. “I wonder what we can find to enact. Shakespeare, perhaps?”
“Never!” said Jacob firmly. “That is not what I meant at all.”
“Perhaps,” said Lady Eleanor, reassured now that her husband had approved the project, “Mr. Lowland would be so obliging as to contrive some scenery.”
“Indeed…” said Laura slowly. “Yes, we shall all have to be very clever. And if Mr. Lowland is to make the scenery, I shall write the play!”
“Laura!” cried Lady Eleanor, shocked. “I am persuaded you cannot mean it. You are not at all literary, thank God! It would be most unladylike.”
“Oh, Mamma,” Laura answered, with unwonted severity, “I shall not be transformed into a bluestocking overnight! There is no need to fret, I assure you. I shall simply write a few little sketches—I feel sure I can do it.”
“And a song!” Mr. Chance interrupted suddenly. “We must have a song as well. I shall compose it.”
“Then we shall have to work together,” said Laura, looking at him. “Do you think we can?”
“Of course. I am excessively fond of collaboration,” the Reverend lied. He would have liked to write the whole masque himself, but he did not know how to discourage Laura. “We shall consult this very evening; do you agree?”
Laura nodded and excused herself from the room. She had several embryonic notions about the masque, and she wanted to note them down before they were forgotten.
“Oh, this is famous!” cried Emily. “I must go up and inform Mr. Lowland. May I?”
Lady Eleanor consented. Mr. Chance quitted the room a few moments later, begging everyone’s pardon, and went off to the Blue Saloon to dawdle over the pianoforte. The remainder of the party sat in silence.
“We are very dull, indeed,” said Lavinia Webb. “What will you do for the masque, Master Jacob?”
“It was my idea,” said Jacob, with simple pride.
“And you, Thaddeus?”
“I expect I shall play the leading role!” he answered, surprised that anyone should ask. “That is,” he amended, as he realised that roles had not even been discussed as yet, “if no one else wants it. Although,” he continued, as a new thought struck him, “I suppose I shall have to go home! How can I have forgotten? The snow must be melted by now.”
“But you will act in the play!” Lady Eleanor objected. “Of course, you must go to Lindley Park tonight, but you may tell Lady Louisa that I have invited you to return to the Abbey, and to stay for a few days, until the evening of the wedding. I do not think it would be quite correct for you to stop here on your wedding eve, but until then I see no harm in it. And surely you will be needed for the masque. Does that sound agreeable?”
“Lady Eleanor, I have often thought you were all that is kind, but now I know you are more than that. Are you sure I will not inconvenience you?”
“How could you, my dear? We think of you as our own son already, do we not, Kenneth?”
“Indeed, we have for years! I think my wife’s scheme a very sensible one. You run along home now before the light fades, and we will expect to see you in the morning. And tell your parents they will be invited to the performance, my boy.”
“I thank you from the bottom of my heart,” said Thaddeus, his eyes shining. It did not disquiet him that the Fieldons were deceived in thinking, as they surely did, that he wished to stay at Harkness Abbey because their daughter was there. It did not occur to him that he was involved in a deception at all. He knew only that Miss Elizabeth Shaw, the gentlest, most beautiful lady in the world, was at Harkness, and that he was to stop there too. He rode home enraptured.
“Do you think, ma’am,” said Miss Webb timidly, some minutes after Thaddeus had left, “do you think that Laura would permit me to write a poem for her masque? I am not a great poet, but I believe—” her tone lowered to a whisper, “I believe I have had an inspiration.”
“I daresay Laura would welcome your contribution, Miss Webb,” said Lady Eleanor, wondering at what this inspiration might be. Miss Webb made a polite exit and abandoned herself to the Muse.
A little later, Ashley Lowland descended from his room in quest of Laura. He was intrigued by the idea of a masque, but he was not so carried away with it that he forgot the session he had planned with Miss Fieldon. He despatched a servant to fetch her from her chamber and set to work mixing his paints, begging the Fieldons’ pardon for evicting them from their own drawing room. They removed themselves gracefully, taking Jacob with them, and a few moments later Laura entered.
“Please sit down, Miss Fieldon,” he said, bowing. “I understand we are to have a masque?”
“Yes,” she replied. “Did Emily tell you? I suppose she commanded you to make the scenery, instead of begging you prettily.”
“She did. She also informed me that you are to write the manuscript. I am all admiration!”
Laura coloured. “It will be nothing; a trifle.”
“And the theme, I presume, will be marriage?”
Laura stared at him. “How did you know?”
“Under the circumstanc
es, what else could it be?” he answered, disappearing for a moment behind his easel. “Unless it were simply love, with no marriages,” he continued tentatively.
“And what circumstances are those, pray?” She had still not forgiven him for ignoring her that morning.
“Why, your impending nuptials, of course. Had you forgotten?” he teased.
“I did not forget,” she snapped. “I beg you will not either.”
“I am not likely to,” he answered, emerging from behind the canvas. She glowered at him. “Oh, Laura,” he said suddenly, rushing to her side and kneeling next to her chair, “do not let us be cruel to one another!” His tone was profoundly gentle as he looked up into her face. “I beg you—I am miserable—I implore you…” His voice faded.
“Miserable?” she asked. “Beg what?”
“My dearest Laura, can you forgive me? I think I have fallen in love with you! Tell me—you must be honest—oh, I am making a mull of this! My sweet Laura, do you love him?”
She gazed down into his intelligent, pleading eyes. They were so dark, so brilliant. The quizzical expression that sometimes clouded them was absent; there was nothing in his eyes but sincerity, and eloquent helplessness. Her vexation with him disappeared; she knew she had it in her power to hurt him dreadfully, and she would not. Only the simplest truth would do.
“No,” she answered. Their glances locked for an instant, then she averted hers. She was ashamed, like a criminal confessing his wrongdoing. Ashley knew that she had consented to marry a man she did not love. “You will hate me now,” she whispered.
“Oh, God, hate you! If only I could hate you! Will you wed him, Laura? Will you wed him, knowing this?”
Her colour deepened and she made a helpless little gesture with her hands. “I must.”
“But you must not!” he exclaimed, standing up suddenly. They still had not touched. “You must not!” He began to pace the room frantically, like a beast in a cage. “I cannot allow it. You do not know what it means: You will rise with him, eat with him, talk with him, work with him. At night, you will lie by his side! Will you bear it all? And shall I have no more happiness than this? Tell me, do you know what it all means?”