by Sandra Heath
The fountain still splashed noisily as she walked beneath the pergola, and she paused for a moment where only a short while before she’d been in Adam’s arms, then she hurried on to the terrace steps.
As she reached the top, a footman suddenly approached her. ‘Madam?’
‘Yes?’
‘Begging your pardon, but is your name Mrs Helen Brown?’
She stared at him. ‘Yes, it is,’ she replied hesitantly.
‘Then I’m charged to give you this, madam. The gentleman told me he had to leave, and that I was to watch for a lady answering your description returning from the gardens.’ He pressed a note into her hand and then walked away.
Slowly she opened the note, and read.
My darling,
Your poor little confession seems doomed, but all is not yet lost. I will be back from London in time to attend the Cardusays’ party at Hagman’s tomorrow night after the races, and at eight o’clock will wait for you by the lake where we met.
Adam
Tears pricked her eyes again, but this time they were tears of happiness. She had another chance.
CHAPTER 18
It was twelve noon exactly as the Bourne End landau, its hoods down, bowled out of the lodge gates and turned west toward the heath and the racecourse, where society was converging in strength for the commencement of the turf ’s most fashionable occasion.
Helen and Margaret sat together, Margaret’s parasol twirling gaily beneath the brilliant June sun. They were both in a buoyant mood, although for entirely different reasons.
Margaret was on top of the world, for she’d heard from Gregory that morning and knew not only that his recall had been entirely due to militia matters but that he’d be home that very evening, missing only this first day of the races. The fact that it was the day of the Maisemore Stakes and Musket’s much-heralded run against the Prince Regent’s well-fancied Cherry Brandy was a disappointment more than compensated for by the good news in the letter. Margaret paid scant attention to the rest of the letter, which spoke of disquiet in the streets of London because of the situation across the Channel; she was concerned only that now Gregory might return in time to escort her and Helen to the Cardusays’ anniversary water party
She looked very lovely in her Royal Ascot togs, soft white plumes curling down from her cerise silk hat. She wore cerise from head to toe, and it suited her very well. Her corded silk pelisse was trimmed with velour embroidery on the cuffs, collar, and hem, and her gown was of delicate, rather paler silk, its neckline low and square, its hem delightfully stiffened with rich rouleaux so that her neat ankles and little cerise patent leather shoes were shown off to excellent advantage. The fringed parasol that went with the outfit cast only a delicate shadow over her face, and she was so bright and fresh that it was hard to believe she hadn’t gone to her bed until dawn after the ball.
Helen wore lime-green frilled muslin, and the color brought out the green of her eyes as well as making her hair shine like warm gold. Her sleeveless full-length pelisse was fitted lightly at the high waist by a wide gold-buckled belt, and the hem was stiffened by frills and by the almost mandatory rouleaux. Beneath the pelisse, she wore a long-sleeved gown, the cuffs gathered in a frill to match the one on the wide collar spilling out over the shoulders of the pelisse. Her hair was dressed in a knot from which fell a single heavy ringlet, and her wide-brimmed lime-green hat was held on by a dainty muslin scarf that was tied in a huge bow beneath her chin. She looked good, and knew it.
However, vanity and pride had little to do with her confidence today; she felt good because she’d come to terms with herself. This evening she had another opportunity to clear the air and let Adam know everything he should know, and after so many failures and disappointments, she didn’t intend to let this chance pass her by. The debacle by the Farrish House fountain the night before had taught her a salutary lesson, for as she’d wept in the landau she’d thought she’d ruined everything once and for all; his note had changed all that, and this time she knew she had the courage to finally say all she should. That was why she felt so buoyant now; she’d summoned up the inner strength that was necessary and she knew her nerve wouldn’t fail her again. Maybe it would all be in vain, maybe he’d spurn her once he knew who she was, but at least she’d have done the right thing.
As the landau drove smartly along the road to Ascot, she wondered if Mr St John had confronted Ralph. At the ball nothing more had been said, and when Ralph had escorted her and Margaret back to Bourne End, his manner indicated that he was still confident of having his own. way. Helen was glad he was to be taught a singular lesson, but her silent delight had been more than tempered by a deep regret that that lesson was being administered too late to undo the damage to Adam’s honor, and thus to her prospect of complete happiness. More than anything in the world she wanted to be with him, and she wanted him to be reconciled with Margaret and Gregory, but after all that had happened she doubted if that would ever be possible. She could either be with him, or with her sister and brother-in-law, but not with both; and if he spurned her tonight anyway, then the decision was made for her.
The nearer they drove to the racecourse, the more the traffic and the landau’s speed was reduced to a mere crawl as it joined a crush of carriages, gigs, chaises, curricles, cabriolets, phaetons, and wagons. There were horsemen too, weaving swiftly in and out of the jam, or riding directly across country toward the heath.
As the racecourse loomed ahead, Helen’s thoughts returned to Adam again. He was in London now, expecting to return in time for the water party, but what if he returned earlier than that? What if he came to the racecourse and saw her in the Bourne box with Margaret? Suddenly she wished she’d worn a hat with a veil, but it was too late now.
Ascot racecourse could have been the camp of Wellington’s army, for there were horses and tents everywhere, to say nothing of countless battalions of people, both elegant and not so elegant; it was as if Bonaparte himself must also be camped somewhere nearby, maybe in Windsor Great Park, and that soon the long-expected battle would commence. The noise was tremendous, and clouds of dust rose from the road as the vast concourse of vehicles and riders came together. The jam was made worse than ever as the Bourne End landau halted in the middle of the highway, the coachman alighting to solemnly raise the hoods in order to protect the occupants from the unpleasantness of the dust and noise. Other travelers were less than amused by this additonal delay to progress, and made their feelings known volubly, but the coachman returned impassively to his seat, driving on without giving anyone else the satisfaction of so much as a glance.
Behind the racecourse, the mushrooming of tents was now complete, and the city of canvas seemed to stretch for a half a mile or more over the heath. Along the white posted course, the two permanent stands had now been joined by a variety of temporary ones, including the one belonging to Bourne End. Close to the royal stand were those of the Jockey Club and the Master of the Buckhounds, the Marquess of Cornwallis. Next came the Bourne stand, then a number of lesser boxes, before the rows of fine carriages drawn up behind the fence. From these carriages, the wealthy and privileged would watch the day’s racing, and during luncheon partake of their sumptuous picnics of cold viands, salad, fresh-baked white bread, and champagne. A military band was playing near the royal stand, the brisk notes of a march just audible above the general hubbub of the meeting.
The landau left the crowded road and made its exceedingly slow way toward the Bourne box, and Helen gazed out at the colorful scene. In the tents and booths, the vendors of spruce beer were doing a roaring trade on such a hot day, and the rigged gaming tables had already succeeded in relieving the unwise of their money. Every vice could apparently be indulged in, for there weren’t only alcohol and gambling tents, there were tents outside which paraded ladies of very dubious virtue, with painted faces and brazenly low-cut dresses. Helen stared at them for a moment, and then hastily averted her eyes, looking instead at some of the traveling enter
tainers without whom race-meetings were incomplete. There were some young women on stilts, some dancing dogs, numerous jugglers and dwarfs, and a giantess from Prussia, or so the gaily clothed showman on the raised stage proclaimed. Next she saw a hunch-backed ballad singer from the Low Countries, and a Bohemian who balanced coach wheels on his chin, much to the marvel of the onlooking crowds.
She lowered the window and the noise and excitement seemed to leap into the landau, a mixture of voices, music, and smells, the latter ranging from the odor of hundreds of horses to the appetizing aroma of hot pies. Helen’s gaze moved over the tumultuous scene. There were knowing ones and insiders everywhere, and bookmakers, or blacklegs and pencilers, as Margaret called them. Such an occasion as this attracted the shadier characters, and she knew there’d be a very liberal sprinkling of thieves and rogues. A large contingent of Bow Street Runners and constables had been drafted in to cope, and as she looked there was a disturbance as a pickpocket was caught in the very act of relieving a gentleman of his purse. Ladies in the crowd cried out in alarm as several burly runners pounced on the culprit, ignoring his vain protestations of innocence as they dragged him away to the pound.
The landau reached the Bourne box at last, and the footmen who’d been dispatched there not long after dawn with the copious supply of iced champagne and Fortnum and Mason hampers, hastened to open the carriage doors and assist the two ladies down. The select party of distinguished guests who were always invited to view the races from the box had already gathered inside and turned gladly to greet Margaret and Helen as they climbed the wooden steps and entered the luxuriously appointed room inside.
There were velvet-upholstered chairs and sofas, a table laden to groaning point with superior refreshments, and a matchless view over the racecourse itself. The grass where soon the horses would gallop was for the moment crowded with strolling people, but when the marshals cleared them all away, the winning post would be clearly visible.
Helen knew all the guests, having met them either at the dinner party or the ball, and she was no longer beset by nerves at the thought of conversing with a countess or a duke. Nor was she intimidated by the lady patronesses of Almack’s, for Lady Cowper and Countess Lieven were among the party, and both spoke graciously to her. One face was, for Helen, glaringly absent from the proceedings, for although Ralph St John had been invited, there was as yet no sign of him.
Sipping champagne, she moved among the guests, who were primarily interested today in Musket’s prospects in the Maisemore. As with Prince Agamemnon the year before, a great deal of money was resting on the outcome of the race, and everyone was impatient to see if the Prince Regent’s horse was going to be seen off. Musket’s performance had improved at his last gallop, and before leaving for London Gregory had expressed himself much happier with the horse, so that today’s race promised to be very close indeed, although there were some reservations about the jockey’s weight. While discussing the race, it was inevitable that Prince Agamemnon should be mentioned, although clearly no one relished doing so, for it wasn’t at all the thing to speak of an event that had almost resulted in the permanent banning of their host from all races run under Jockey Club rules. One thing became clear to Helen, however, and that was that although the evidence against Adam seemed conclusive, many of the guests thronging the elegant Bourne box harbored grave doubts about his guilt. Helen actually heard the Duke of Rutland murmur in an undertone to his uncle, the Duke of Beaufort, that he was dashed if he could believe Adam Drummond would ever do such a thing, not even to an enemy, and certainly not to a friend.
At last the prerace period came to an end, and the band by the royal stand broke off in mid-note to change from a march to the national anthem. It was the signal that the royal procession of carriages had arrived from Windsor, and the marshals immediately came out to clear the course. The great crowd began to cheer, pressing eagerly forward to watch as the first open carriage appeared, drawn by a team of cream horses. The Prince Regent was seated inside with his mother and sisters, waving graciously in acknowledgement. The cheering reached a crescendo, however, when the second carriage came into sight, for it contained the prince’s brother, the Duke of York, who was the racing fraternity’s darling.
As the prince’s carriage drove slowly past the Bourne box, he smiled charmingly at Margaret, who stood looking down at him, then he smiled at Helen too. Her heart almost stopped with pleased surprise. He’d actually remembered her!
Margaret waited until the royal procession had all passed, then came to speak to her. ‘How honored you are, sister mine.’
‘I can hardly believe he remembers me.’
‘He always remembers a pretty face, and you, you wretch, are very pretty indeed.’ Margaret glanced at Helen’s watch, which was pinned to the bodice of her lime-green pelisse. ‘I wonder where Ralph can have got to? He’s never late, especially not for Royal Ascot.’
‘Perhaps he’s had to change his plans.’
‘No one, but no one, changes plans for today,’ declared Margaret firmly. ‘I hope he hasn’t met with a mishap. The Windsor road is so busy today, maybe his carriage has overturned!’
‘Don’t overdramatize, Margaret. I’m sure he’s quite all right.’ To herself she added, He’s probably just nursing his furious disbelief that the tables have been turned on him.
But even as this uncharitable thought entered her head, the door of the box opened and Ralph came in. He was dressed very elegantly in a dark gray coat and cream cord trousers, with a gray beaver top hat pulled forward on his head. A diamond pin glittered in the excellent folds of his starched neckcloth, and a silver-handled cane was held lightly in one gloved hand. He looked the picture of nonchalant sartorial excellence, but Helen could see by his eyes that his father had carried out the threat.
‘Greetings, mes enfants,’ he murmured, removing his hat and bowing over Margaret’s hand. ‘Forgive me for being late, but it was just one dashed thing after another.’
Margaret smiled, reaching up to kiss his cheek. ‘Well, you’re here now, and that’s all that matters. Isn’t it, Helen?’
‘Yes, of course.’
His eyes slid to Helen’s. ‘How kind of you to say so,’ he said softly.
She met his gaze squarely. ‘Not at all.’
For a long moment he continued to look at her, but then returned his attention to Margaret. ‘I’m afraid I have some very disagreeable news. I have to return to Jamaica immediately with my father.’
Margaret stared at him. ‘Oh, no, surely not. Whatever’s happened?’
‘My father had word this morning that there’s been a terrible fire on the plantation, and much of the house has been gutted. He has to go back immediately, he has no choice, and under the circumstances I can hardly permit him to go alone. It’s my duty to accompany him.’
Helen lowered her eyes. How very noble of you, Ralph, she thought wryly.
Margaret was upset. ‘Oh, Ralph, how dreadful. And how caring you are to go as well.’
‘I’m rather afraid that being caring where my father is concerned has brought about a situation that might appear uncaring where Miss Fairmead is concerned.’ He looked at Helen again, his brown eyes cool and veiled.
Margaret was puzzled. ‘Uncaring? Whatever do you mean, Ralph?’
‘Simply that I cannot possibly say how long I’ll be away, but it’s bound to be some considerable time, which means that I cannot with any degree of justification or honor expect her to wait.’
Helen’s face was expressionless, but Margaret was dismayed. ‘Oh, Ralph….’
‘You must understand my predicament, Miss Fairmead. I trust you will find it in your heart to forgive me for failing you.’
Before Helen could reply, Margaret spoke for her, ‘Failing her? Oh, Ralph, my dear, how can you possibly speak like that of what you’re doing? Of course you haven’t failed her, and of course she forgives you. Why, she might even wish to wait, no matter how long it takes.’
He smiled a
little, his eyes searching Helen’s face in a way that told her he suspected her of having been indiscreet in her conversation with his father. ‘I couldn’t possibly expect her to wait,’ he murmured.
Helen gave a slight smile. ‘And I couldn’t possibly place the responsibility for such a wait upon your shoulders, Mr St John. You’re already enduring problems enough without having me to concern yourself with as well.’
‘You’re far too kind, Miss Fairmead,’ he replied.
Margaret was close to tears. ‘Oh, dear, this is such a disappointment, and to think I was so pleased with today so far. Tell me, Ralph, when exactly will you be leaving? I must arrange a farewell party….’
‘There isn’t time, I’m afraid; we’re setting off before dawn tomorrow morning.’
Her eyes widened with still more dismay. ‘Oh, no, surely you don’t have to leave as quickly as that.’
‘My father wishes to return with as much haste as possible. There’s a ship sailing from Falmouth the day after tomorrow, and we expect to be on board.’
Margaret blinked back the tears. ‘Oh, Ralph, we’ll all miss you more than you’ll ever know. Society will simply never be the same again.’
No, it will be much improved, thought Helen, looking away.
A footman was hovering nearby with a tray of champagne, and Margaret quickly took a glass, pressing it into Ralph’s hand. ‘You will at least remain with us for the racing, won’t you? And you’ll be at the Cardusays’ do tonight?’
‘I’ll gladly remain with you for the races, but alas, the water party has to manage without me.’
Margaret slipped her hand through his arm. ‘Ralph, I simply cannot believe you’re leaving us, it’s too awful for words.’ She glanced around the box. No one else had heard Ralph’s news, they were all too intent on watching the runners for the first race. ‘Listen, everyone,’ she cried, causing them all to turn, ‘I’m afraid I have something very sad to tell you. Dear Ralph is leaving us to rush off across the Atlantic to Jamaica, we only have him for today.’