Lions and Lace

by Meagan Mckinney

  Alana could hardly bear to look at them. Joanna Varick, with her Teutonic paleness, was a striking contrast to Trevor’s dark, menacing good looks. It wounded her to see him having such a grand time. Though she had wanted to gain his acceptance into society, she could see quite clearly it had gone too far. He was hardly ostracized now. If anything, the women fluttered around him like gaily feathered peacocks, curious and excitable, all too willing to embrace him.

  With this picture burned into her mind, it suddenly came to Alana that none of the Sheridans needed her any longer. It was just a matter of time before Mara was settled with her duke, and Trevor, who scorned this society, was a part of it now, whether he cared about such things or not. Caroline Astor might still be eyeing him with contempt from her gold chair on the dais, but Joanna Varick’s eyes held something different altogether. The Four Hundred had finally been penetrated by the Irish, and if they let the Irish in, could the Vanderbilts be far behind with all their vulgar new money? The change Alana had predicted was happening. She was no longer needed as the bridge to a new society. A new society had been born when she had not been looking.

  She glanced at her husband once more. His dark gaze held a gleam of wickedness that any woman would find attractive. Joanna Varick certainly did as she touched his arm in a gesture of intimacy. Hopelessness threatened to engulf Alana, but soon Granville was at her side again, asking the honor of her company at dinner.

  Dinner consisted of twenty-three courses of such things as aspic de canvasback, forequarters of lamb with mint sauce, turtle soup, salmon, asparagus, and truffled ice cream, but Alana could hardly touch any of them. Her appetite was severely diminished every time she looked down the long table and saw her husband enjoying himself.

  After dinner the ladies soon rejoined the gentlemen, and once more Alana had to endure Joanna Varick’s attentions to her husband, who seemed to ignore the fact that his wife was in the room. Alana became so miserable finally that she decided to leave, but before she could, a voice stopped her.

  “Caroline wants a word with you, darling.”

  Alana missed the arrow of her husband’s stare as she found Anson at her elbow. She had never seriously considered him a prospective husband, but now just seeing him made the prospect of losing Trevor that much more excruciating. “I don’t want to speak with her, Anson. I’m not well. In fact, I’m going home.”

  She tried to turn away, but he took her arm. “Come along, me darlin’,” he mimicked.

  Unwilling to fight, she let him drag her to the dais to speak with Mrs. Astor.

  “How are you tonight, Alice?” the matron asked, falsely solicitous. She lowered her feathered mask, revealing a face much like Marie Antoinette’s, complete with white wax makeup and a patch seductively placed to the left of her upper lip. “I was so hoping you would honor me with a visit.”

  Alana kissed her, knowing full well she was the one supposedly honored by being allowed on the dais with the matron.

  Alana was about to make an inane comment about the wonderful ball when from across the room the duke stood upon the threshold to the ballroom, clanging a spoon against his champagne glass. “Everyone! I have a very important announcement to make.” The duke stared down at Mara, who looked up at him with glowing happy eyes.

  Alana held her breath. The announcement of their engagement was going to happen after all. Though she was happy for Mara, she felt time slip helplessly through her fingers.

  The duke continued. “I must tell you, first of all, that I will always remember my visit to New York with great fondness. You are a most gracious people, who’ve done nothing but see to my every whim and desire, and for that I am most grateful.” Nigel then turned to Mrs. Astor on the dais. Every head turned in her direction. “Mrs. Astor, I salute you. You are a renowned hostess, and I will sing your praises to the queen herself.”

  Everyone clapped, and Mrs. Astor nodded, the flush on her cheeks either false modesty or relief that the duke hadn’t lived up to that vile rumor about wanting to marry that Sheridan girl.

  “I have another announcement. One that eclipses this one.”

  The room sank into utter silence. Those rumors could prove true after all. Mrs. Astor tensed. Alana’s gaze shot to Trevor. Judging from his expression, he was surprised.

  Nigel gazed down at Mara. Their eyes locked, and he raised his champagne glass. “New York has been doubly kind to me, for not only have I found matchless friends, I’ve found the woman I want to be by my side into eternity. Thank you, New York.” He looked through the crowd to where Trevor was sitting. “Before I make my final toast, I must take the time to thank a man, one whom I admire. I toast him because in this wretchedly modern age, he is a man who has shown me that noble passions such as loyalty and devotion to one’s family still exist. His sister would not be the girl I know without having grown up in his shadow. And so I thank you, Sheridan.” The duke raised his glass to Trevor, who sat in his chair absolutely still, obviously waiting for whatever came next. The duke obliged. “I want to say that at precisely seven o’clock this evening I was wed. Would you all toast the bride, my beautiful wife, the former Miss Mara Sheridan, Her Grace the Duchess of Granville.”

  The room uttered a gasp, and Alana felt as if she’d just been knifed. She wanted to smile and run to hug Mara, but she felt as if the rug had been pulled from under her feet. She’d expected the engagement. She’d made her promises that when Mara was engaged, she would leave Trevor. Now Mara was married. Everything she loved was soon to be lost forever.

  She looked to Trevor to see his reaction. Even from across the room she could see him mouth the words “I’ll be damned.” She looked at Caroline Astor who was so shocked and appalled, she appeared as if she were ready to fall into Anson’s arms in a dead faint.

  The duke ignored the pandemonium around him. He drank to his bride while Mara simply looked up at him, a becoming blush to her cheeks. Any other girl might have circled the room gloating over her catch, but it was clear Mara had considered none of that when she wed her duke. Her happiness seemed to stem only from the fact that she finally had the man she loved.

  “Oh, this ruins everything!” Caroline Astor flung aside the smelling salts proffered by her maids, her anger reviving her. “How dare Granville do such a thing after all I’ve done for him!”

  “Why would a duke of the realm consent to marry some immigrant Irish biddy from New York?” Anson muttered, bewildered.

  Alana stared at them, disgusted by their words but pitying them too. Their secure little world was changing, leaving them terrified. But they weren’t the only ones whose world had changed this night. Alana’s had shattered before her eyes. Tomorrow the rift between her and Trevor would be permanent. There wasn’t another thread to keep her by his side: no baby, no Mara, no social ambitions, and now no time.

  From the dais she watched Trevor move through the crowd and begrudgingly shake Nigel’s hand. He hugged his sister, and Alana prayed that he would turn and search the crowd for her. She ached for him to come to her, to tell her that time had caught up to both of them and that he indeed loved her and desperately needed her to remain his wife. But the crowds thronged around the duke, and soon she could hardly see Trevor’s dark head among the well-wishers. Her heart heavy, she stood numbly at the dais realizing that tomorrow she would pack her bags and go. If she was lucky, her husband might be gracious enough to hold the door for her departure.

  “And this is all your fault, Alice!” the matron said, turning on her. “Your mother must be turning in her grave to have raised such an upstart! None of this would have happened if you hadn’t married that—that man!” Mrs. Astor flicked a glance at Trevor.

  Desperate not to fall apart in front of these two, Alana snapped, “Well, if you don’t like it, Caroline Astor, then the devil take you!” She left without saying another word, Anson and the matron shocked into silence that such a vulgar Irish retort had just come from the mouth of one of their own.

  Stumbling, Ala
na found her way through the crowd to one of the exits. She wanted to congratulate the newlyweds, but she knew that if she didn’t flee immediately, she would become totally unglued. Outside, she procured a hired carriage from Brown and rushed back to the chateau.

  It was quiet there. She walked through the marble foyer, every footstep echoing off the polished walls. Lifting her now-hated green satin skirts, she ascended the grand staircase, her heart as heavy as the stone of the walls. For the first time in her life, she wondered what she had left to look forward to. Christal was gone, perhaps in far worse straits than when she’d last seen her. And now her husband was gone too, the man she’d grown to desire and love.

  Every step to her room was slow and difficult, her mind filled with memories of Trevor. She pictured his face, handsome but never serene, his expressions varying from intense pride to deep passion. She mourned that never again would she have the joy of lying in his embrace watching his expression as they laughed and shared a tender moment.

  “If only you’d let me go with you, Christal,” she whispered, flinging herself on her bed. She lay there for an eternity, it seemed, burdened by a heart and soul too weary to allow her to cry.

  After nearly an hour, she rose, hearing Margaret’s knock at the servant’s door. Alana decided it was just as well the maid had interrupted because she wanted her to begin packing. It was imperative she leave tonight. To make a drama out of departing tomorrow seemed unnecessarily painful.

  She was just about to give Margaret her instructions when the maid held out a small music box. “The master came home, Mrs. Sheridan. He asked me to give this to you as soon as I saw you.”

  Alana took the music box. With a trembling hand, she stroked the naively painted lid of forget-me-nots, thinking how refreshingly pretty it was against all the preponderance of gilt in her room. Nervously, as if she were afraid of putting too much store in its symbolism, she opened the lid and watched the mechanism chime out “Blue Danube.”

  The music touched her, haunted her, because it was so beautiful and because she had never waltzed to it in her true love’s arms. And never would.

  The thought sent a small crystalline tear cascading down one cheek. She wiped it away so that she could read the note inside.

  Alana,

  You once told me there’d come a day when I would regret making you marry me. I do regret it now, Alana, with all my heart. For tonight I’ve seen the joy on a willing bride’s face, and I regret that I was never able to see that on yours. I mourn the sorrow I now understand that I’ve brought to you, but if you leave me, I’ll mourn my own sorrow at losing you infinitely more. Let these words assure you that in this world of injustice, God’s sword is ruthless upon the wicked. If I lose you, one man, this man, got what he deserved.

  Trevor

  Breathless with sobs, she could no longer read the tear-stained ink of his letter. His words touched her soul, saying everything she had ever wanted him to say. Desperate to see him, she wiped her cheeks and looked around, bewildered. Then, without hesitation, she ran from her bedroom.

  She didn’t have to go far. From the top of the banister she looked down and watched Trevor walk with tired stiff movements to his library, then shut the door. She wanted to run down the stairs and rush into his arms, but she squelched the impulse, knowing instinctively that wasn’t the way to approach a lion. She had to do it cautiously, warily, to take each step with care and thought.

  She made her way down the stairs and through the foyer, her eyes never leaving those austere library doors. Once there, she thought to knock but decided not to give him the option of refusing to see her. She entered and closed the door behind her.

  He stood at the hearth staring into the cold ashes, his broad forbidding back to her. His blackthorn was clutched in his hand as if he needed its support even more tonight. She watched him, wrestling with her options, her emotions. She cleared her throat, unsure how to begin. Finally all she said was “Trevor.”

  He stiffened but didn’t look up. She could almost picture his frown.

  “Are you sorry you hurt me?”

  He turned finally and caught her gaze. His voice was husky and low. “I never meant to hurt you.”

  She stared at him, the man she’d grown to love. Everything about him was contradictions. He hated the British, but she knew he would accept Nigel into his family because Mara loved him. He hid his background in that forced, overly mannered speech, but he burned with pride to keep his heritage alive in songs like “Bridget O’Malley.” He was a man who could hate and love with equal ferocity, but he was never reduced to mediocrity. Life in society had surrounded her with senseless chatter or vacant silences, but never had her soul heard a roar. Until she met him.

  “I want a man who loves me. Are you that man?” she whispered.

  The silence became leaden. He turned away to stare at the cold hearth.

  “Do you love me?” Now the answer was simply yes or no, and she could act accordingly.

  “I want you to have the right man, Alana.”

  She shook her head and said again to that unyielding back, “Do you love me?”

  “I’ve never been in love before. I don’t know what being in love is like.”

  “I’m asking you. Do you love me?” Her voice caught with unshed tears.

  He paused as if thinking through each word. “I’ve nothing to compare it to, but if love is obsession, if love can be so powerful it overtakes a man’s reason and his will, if love is the feeling that one would rather die than live only to grieve its loss—” He turned, and she could see the desolation on his face. In one sweet rough whisper, he said, “Then yes, I love you, Alana. I’m doomed to love you. I’ll always love you.”

  Tears streamed quietly down her cheeks. The tension between them stretched taut, the seconds passing with no words. She groped for the right thing to say, the way to express just how much he meant to her, how desperate she’d been at the thought of losing him, how much she needed him, loved him.

  But when the words would not come, she did the only thing she could that would ensure he would never leave her. She picked up her skirts and ran to him, flinging herself into his embrace. With a gasp of relief and joy, he held her with both arms, his walking stick clattering to the marble floor, at long last useless.

  Epilogue

  How many loved your moments of glad grace,

  And loved your beauty with love false and true,

  But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,

  And loved the sorrows of your changing face.

  —William Butler Yeats

  “Wintertime” came the feminine whisper, muffled in the huge walnut tester bed, “Christal and I would go sleighing in the park. What a wonderful time we’d have. Father bought us a sleigh one year, and it was a beautiful sleigh, in the shape of a seashell, painted a deep green and lined in red velvet. It was small, only big enough for two girls, and I remember one snowy afternoon when Father followed us with his trotters, grooms in tow, and we drove through Central Park, the cold ruddying our cheeks, snowflakes clinging to our hair, the sharp liniment smell of our ponies comforting us in the midst of all the ice. Our feet were frozen, our hands too—we never wore our muffs—but we didn’t want to return to Washington Square, though Mother had promised us chocolate upon our arrival.” Alana touched her husband’s bare chest, reveling in his warmth and hardness. She smiled at him, a wry smile but one very much like the secret, intimate smile of a wife. “I must seem so spoiled to you.”

  He didn’t answer, so she playfully tweaked his chest hair. “Tell me your best childhood memory—I know you have one. Tell it to me.”

  Trevor stared up at the high canopy. The gaslight flickered shadows over his pensive face. “Perhaps my best memory is that of my father.”

  She was quiet. He spoke so little of his former life, she listened with rapt attention.

  “We had family in Connemara, and summers me father and I would go out on t’eir boats with the other men to
catch rockfish from Galway Bay.…”

  She watched him dreamily, his accent, which he used often now, softening the hard edges of his English. He spoke of innocent childhood tasks, hero worship for his father, the simple joy of riding the waves high in the curragh and being counted one of the men. When he was through, her soul mourned for the child that was no more.

  She rested her cheek against his chest and stared out the windows of his bedroom in the chateau, noting every frozen windowpane of February. She grew quiet, her eyes taking on a misty faraway look.

  “You’re thinking of Christal, aren’t you?” he asked softly, stroking her back.

  “I’m thinking of Christal and dreams.” She was quiet for a long while. “Will we ever find her? Or Didier?” Her voice had an edge of unresolved sadness.

  “The last we heard, your sister was in Bolivia, but you cannot go there, love, and you know it. So promise me you’ll let me find her. It may take some time, but I swear to you I’ll do it.”

  “I know you’ll find them. I just wish it were soon.”

  “You said you were thinking of Christal and dreams. What are the dreams, á mhúirnín?”

  She smiled softly. “Before I was married, I used to dream of a simple white clapboard house, and a man, and children. I yearned for the simplicity of another life, a poorer life.”

  “Are you sorry I can never give you that?”

  “You’ve already given me that. Rich or poor, I want the man I love, a family—not the trappings, be they simple clapboard houses or mansions by the sea.”