Christmas in the Country

by Carola Dunn

  As Prudence had suspected, rudeness to a female was utterly unnatural to him. His natural acting ability held only as long as the part was not at odds with his own character.

  Hardcastle had them repeat the scene a couple of times, then sighed again and said, “No doubt it’ll improve with practice. Are you ready, Miss Hardcastle?”

  Aimée muddled her way through, her speeches erratic but her lively, teasing manner to her indulgent father perfect. Then Prudence joined her, to discuss their respective suitors. She was very much aware of Rusholme watching her, and when she called Tony a “pretty monster” she couldn’t help glancing at him with a smile. He grimaced at her.

  A moment later Constance Neville was describing her cousin Tony as “a good-natured creature at bottom.” Prudence managed not to look at Rusholme, but from the corner of her eye she saw him nodding vigorously. She almost laughed.

  Next came the tavern scene. The stage-hands shifted tables and chairs and took their places as Tony Lumpkin’s low drinking companions. Tony seated himself at the head of the table.

  Prudence knew Rusholme had taken the sheet of music of his song for one of his sisters to play for him upon the pianoforte, but she had not heard him try it. She was as surprised and delighted as the rest when she heard his resonant, tuneful baritone. As he finished the refrain of the third verse, “Toroddle, toroddle, toroll!” the players burst into spontaneous applause, adding their bravos to those of his alehouse friends.

  “Don’t tell poor Ben I said so,” Aimée said to Prudence, “but your earl sings a sight better.”

  “He’s not my earl,” Prudence said crossly, her pleasure spoilt. Tomorrow they were to rehearse Act II, and she’d have to pretend to flirt with Rusholme. Somehow she must persuade herself to regard him solely as Tony Lumpkin or she would never be able to do it.

  Chapter 7

  “The gamekeeper says the lake’s frozen over, my lord,” Samuel announced, bringing a pot of fresh coffee into the breakfast room.

  “Hard enough for skating?” Rusholme asked.

  “Yes, my lord. He walked all round the edge and right across the middle.”

  “Splendid,” crowed Lady Estella. “I hope you have skates, Rusholme.”

  “Plenty. The lake—it’s more of a large pond, really—quite often freezes during my father’s Christmas house parties.”

  “I’ll go with you after breakfast to check that it truly is safe.”

  Rusholme cried off on the grounds of having a rehearsal. Though he was not at all sure he was progressing in Prudence’s affections, the play was proving useful for at least one of his purposes. Lady Estella had to be satisfied with the several other gentlemen who offered to escort her.

  “If your report is favourable,” he consoled her, “I shall certainly skate this afternoon.” So, undoubtedly, would a great many other people. There was safety in numbers.

  His breakfast finished, he turned his eager steps towards the Elizabethan gallery. Today Prudence had to flirt with him while he rebuffed her. He was looking forward to the switch, anticipating no little amusement.

  On the way, he was waylaid by his older nephews and nieces. They had heard about the ice.

  “And we want you to take us skating, Uncle Garth,” said one of the boys. “It’ll be much more fun than with our mamas and papas telling us to be careful all the time.”

  “We don’t mind if you bring that lady,” William added. “You know, the one who helped us pick holly; the one Sophie thought was a wood elf. She’s a Trojan.”

  “I rather doubt she’d be able to come,” Rusholme said with regret. Chatting with an actress met by chance in the presence of his sisters’ children had been bad enough. He could not actually invite her to join them.

  “Then you will take us?” they clamoured joyfully.

  Having trapped himself he gave in. “But sliding, not skating,” he said, remembering a great many painful falls when he learnt to skate. They would fall sliding, too, but with luck do themselves less damage.

  “All right. We’ll fetch our coats and boots.”

  “Not yet! I’ll take you for an hour before luncheon if you are all ready and waiting. I have to rehearse now.”

  “Is acting fun? Grandfather says we may watch you on Twelfth Night but Grandmama says we may not.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” he promised.

  The rehearsal had already started when he reached the gallery. As Tony did not appear until near the end of the second act, the delay didn’t matter, but Hardcastle looked so relieved at Rusholme’s arrival that he resolved never to be late again. The manager must have feared he had deserted them. He had forced himself upon the poor man and it was up to him not to disrupt the company’s schedule.

  To his disappointment, Prudence was sitting between Mrs. and Miss Hardcastle, intent on Hastings and Marlow on stage. She gave no sign of noticing his arrival.

  Hardcastle returned to the scene, and Rusholme watched Prudence’s bright face as she laughed at the misunderstandings of the three men. She was beautiful, and the thought of her in another man’s arms was unbearable.

  Had she left a lover behind when she came to Easthaven? Had she bid him adieu or only au revoir? Or, worst of all, was she involved with one of her colleagues?

  Marlow and Hastings were both personable young men and competent actors, and she was Hastings’ beloved on stage. In fact, she had a scene alone with him before her scene with Tony. Rusholme didn’t want to watch it. He wished the children had delayed him longer.

  Prudence rose and moved with graceful dignity to take her place ready for her entrance. As she passed Rusholme, she nodded soberly and murmured, “Cousin Tony.”

  “Garth,” he whispered.

  With a tiny but determined shake of the head, she continued on her way.

  The scene was not as painful as Rusholme feared. Hastings met Constance Neville with outstretched arms, but she only clasped his hands briefly. The warmest words they exchanged were “My dear Hastings,” and “my dearest Constance.” Rusholme saw no sign of a consciousness of intimacy between them, and he didn’t think Prudence was a good enough actress to hide it if it existed.

  Actually, loath as he was to admit any inferiority in Prudence, Miss Aimée Orlando was a far better actress. In spite of her garbled speeches, Kate Hardcastle’s scene with the bashful Marlow was a delight.

  Then came the scene Rusholme had been waiting for. To mislead her aunt and guardian, Constance Neville pretended to acquiesce in Mrs. Hardcastle’s plan to marry her to her unwilling son. He protested mightily as she followed him on stage.

  “‘I tell you, Cousin Con, it won’t do!’“ Rusholme found it difficult not to grin, impossible to infuse his voice with the necessary petulance. “‘I beg you’ll keep your distance. I want no nearer relationship.’“

  He fled to the back of the stage, Prudence at his heels. While Hastings buttered up Mrs. Hardcastle at the front, Prudence laid her hand on Rusholme’s arm, smiled up at him, a fixed, unnatural smile, and batted her eyelashes. She looked as if she had something painful in her eye.

  “Stop,” called Hardcastle. “That won’t do, Miss Savage. You need a fan. Someone find a fan. My lord—Mr. Lumpkin, I mean— pray turn your back on her, fold your arms and scowl. No, just partway round, the audience must see your face. That’s better. Let’s take it again from your entrance.”

  The fan somewhat improved matters, but Prudence remained stiff and clearly ill at ease. She didn’t seem to know how to flirt, nor to have any desire to learn. Rusholme wanted to reassure her, to promise he’d not profit from the situation by taking unwanted liberties, to explain that his aim was to win her, not to force her.

  This was neither the time nor the place.

  “Once more,” Hardcastle ordered. “No, you still haven’t the way of it, Miss Savage. I suggest you apply to Miss Orlando for lessons in coquetry. All right, we’ll go on.”

  Mrs. Hardcastle called Tony and Constance to come and measure he
ights against each other. Hardcastle explained to Rusholme how to jerk his head back and to one side while Prudence cocked her head to the other side, to give the appearance of a sharp blow without actual contact. This they managed to his satisfaction.

  “‘Oh lud!’“ she cried, “‘he has almost cracked my head.’“ She clutched her head and stumbled forward in so realistic a fashion Rusholme was afraid for a moment he had really hurt her though he’d felt nothing.

  Turning, she peeked through her fingers at him, eyes a-sparkle. The uncomfortable flirtation over, she was once more enjoying herself. Satisfied, Rusholme exerted himself to respond with churlish sullenness to Mrs. Hardcastle’s reproaches.

  The women left the stage and Tony proceeded to vilify Constance to Hastings in thoroughly abusive terms. With Prudence watching and laughing at him, Rusholme let himself go and ended the act with a snatch of song to a burst of applause.

  “Not bad, my lord,” Hardcastle observed hopefully.

  Much as Rusholme wished to talk to Prudence, he had to rush off to keep his promise to his nieces and nephews. Scraped hands, bruised knees, and one bloody nose made him regret not having invited her. She would have known how to cope! However, he returned the children to the house with no limbs broken.

  After luncheon, with only a couple of hours left of midwinter’s short daylight, he went back to the frozen lake with most of the younger guests and a few of the older. Though an icy breeze blew fitfully from the northeast, the sun shone and a shrubbery of evergreen laurels and junipers sheltered the lake.

  Several people, as soon as they actually saw the ice, decided discretion was the better part of valour and spectatorship the better part of sport. Footmen had carried down chairs to supplement the two wooden benches, so they sat or strolled about.

  Two or three ladies not quite bold enough to try skates sat on chairs to be pushed about on the ice by obliging gentlemen. Lady Estella regarded these with great scorn. Strapping on a pair of blades, she set off whizzing across the lake with the same verve and aplomb with which, mounted, she tackled the highest hedges.

  This was a tactical error if she hoped for Rusholme’s company. Lady Anne sat prettily helpless on a chair and held out a dainty foot in a pink leather half-boot.

  “If you would be so kind, Lord Rusholme. I have no notion how to put them on, I vow.”

  Politeness won. “Of course, ma’am,” he said, swallowing a sigh.

  Once the skates were attached, she revealed that she had never skated in her life. “But I am determined to try it, if you will support me, sir.”

  So he gave her his arm and she clung to it as they made a circuit of the lake. Her progress was suspiciously free of staggers and stumbles, although she gave less attention to her feet than to fluttering her eyelashes and looking up at him adoringly—in a way Prudence would have done well to emulate. Rusholme was certain she was a competent skater, but he could hardly call her a liar.

  “I expect you’d like to rest for a while,” he suggested hopefully as they returned to the chairs.

  “Oh no, I am just beginning to master it. Pray let us go round again.”

  As the sun’s red disk began to sink behind the hills, the air seemed to grow chillier. The spectators, shivering, started to stroll back towards the house. Soon skaters were taking off their skates and departing likewise. Footmen came to remove the chairs.

  Rusholme and his partner once more approached the benches.

  “What an excellent teacher you are, Lord Rusholme,” cried Lady Anne gaily. “I do believe I shall venture across on my own, if you will wait for me at the other side.”

  No gentleman could desert her alone in the dusk. With the deepest reluctance, he agreed. He was not in the least surprised when, reaching the centre, she floundered for the first time and subsided gracefully onto the ice.

  “Oh, my ankle!” she wailed. “It hurts dreadfully. I fear it is broken.”

  Rusholme looked around wildly. Not a soul in sight. Whether he carried her home in his arms or stayed with her in growing darkness until someone realized they were missing, Lady Anne could claim she was compromised and demand marriage. What the devil was he to do?

  * * * *

  “Go out in the bloody cold when we don’t have to,” Aimée exclaimed with a shudder, “and all for what? So’s we can fall down and get bruises all over! And maybe break a leg like Ben. You know what, Sera, you got windmills in your head.”

  “I’ve always wanted to try skating.”

  “Go ahead, dear, but I’m not going with you. If you’re not back by half an hour after dark, I’ll send someone to pick up the pieces.”

  Prudence had much the same reaction from the rest of the troupe. She was determined, however. With visions of herself swooping gracefully across the ice, she went to find the First Footman.

  “Yes, miss, I’ll find you a pair of skates, and show you how to put ‘em on, right enough. If you go down to the lake round about sunset the nobs’ll be leaving and you’ll have it all to yourself.”

  “None of you servants skate?” she asked.

  “After Twelfth Night, maybe. With all the people in the house and the New Year’s ball coming up, we’ve none of us a minute to call our own. A couple of the under-footmen’ll go to fetch the chairs, though. You can go with them.”

  So Prudence set off with an escort of three smart footmen in puce livery. One carried the skates for her, curly-toed steel blades attached to wooden soles, with leather straps to fasten them to the feet. As they approached the lake, they heard voices coming towards them. With a whispered word of thanks, Prudence took her skates and, stepping off the path, she slipped in among the bushes.

  She found a spot where she could watch without being seen. Several people were leaving already, but a number of skaters still skimmed and whirled across the ice with varying degrees of expertise. It was a delightful scene, the ladies in vivid-hued velvet pelisses with fur pelerines and muffs, the gentlemen with their coat-tails flying.

  Quite against her will, Prudence’s eyes sought out Lord Rusholme. She had not the least difficulty recognizing him, though he was on the far side of the lake, a lady in ruby velvet clinging to his arm.

  As they moved around the perimeter towards her, Prudence recognized Lady Anne. Her beautiful face, framed by golden ringlets and aglow from the exercise, was raised to gaze adoringly up at Rusholme. Prudence watched her smile, pout, delicately flutter her eyelashes, tap him on the cheek with one gloved finger.

  So that was how it was done, though admittedly Rusholme did not look as if he was enjoying the flirtation. In fact, he seemed to be trying to hurry while she held him back.

  By then the rest of the skaters had taken off their blades and set off for the house, chatting hopefully of tea and hot chocolate. The footmen gathered the chairs and trudged after them. Rusholme and Lady Anne stopped on the ice near the benches.

  “What an excellent teacher you are, Lord Rusholme,” cried Lady Anne gaily. “I do believe I shall venture across on my own, if you will wait for me at the other side.”

  “It’s getting dark. You had best try it tomorrow.”

  “There may be a thaw, or I may have lost the knack by then. I want to do it now.”

  She let go his arm and started straight across the lake, her movements not fast but with none of a learner’s precarious balance. From behind her juniper, Prudence heard Rusholme softly groan.

  Hands on hips, his stance the essence of exasperation, he watched Lady Anne for a moment, then set off after her. Reaching the centre, she suddenly faltered, waved her arms, and sank down onto the ice.

  “Oh, my ankle!” she wailed. “It hurts dreadfully. I fear it is broken.”

  Rusholme swivelled on his skates and looked back, peering through the gathering gloom. His shoulders slumped. He turned and headed for Lady Anne, deep reluctance in every line of his body.

  Prudence decided it was time to intervene. Dropping her skates on the nearest bench, beside a greatcoat draped ov
er its back, she set one tentative foot on the ice.

  “May I be of assistance?” she called.

  Rusholme swung round. “Miss Savage! Thank heaven! Lady Anne has injured her ankle.”

  His sceptical voice echoed Prudence’s thoughts. However, when she set her second foot on the ice and realized just how slippery it was, she began to feel more charitable. Lady Anne had undoubtedly deliberately contrived to be left alone with Lord Rusholme, but it was just possible her fall and her injury were genuine.

  Sliding one foot forward at a time, Prudence made her way towards the pair. Lady Anne scowled at her.

  “Allow me to present Miss Savage,” said Rusholme, always the gentleman even in the most unpromising circumstances.

  “My lady.” Prudence embarked upon a curtsy and quickly changed her mind as one foot slithered a few inches.

  “I don’t care to consort with actresses,” said Lady Anne coldly.

  “Don’t be caperwitted,” snapped Rusholme, and she gasped in shock. “Miss Savage, if you wouldn’t mind supporting me while I take off my skates, perhaps between us we might help Lady Anne off the ice.”

  Prudence willed her feet not to slip out from under her as he put one arm round her shoulders. He stood on one leg, reached down to unbuckle the straps on the other foot, then reversed the process. The weight of his arm was warm and somehow comfortable. She thought he gave her a brief, one-armed hug before he released her but she couldn’t be sure.

  Crouching, he removed Lady Anne’s skates. “I cannot carry you across the ice,” he said. “We should both go flying. With Miss Savage on one side and me on the other, I hope we can lift you so that with support you can hop to the bank.”