But she had stopped listening.
Flint had turned around to greet a woman who had left the sitting room, a woman dressed in a gown whose neckline exposed the tips of her rouged nipples; whose bosom was so whitely powdered that tiny flakes floated to the bodice of her gown when she moved quickly. The woman’s hair was so ridiculously entwined around what looked from Caitlin’s view to be a small cage of some kind that she seemed ready to tip over from the weight of it. It was so blatantly a copy of the French queen’s style, and so glaringly out of place—and would have been even in London—that Caitlin almost laughed.
The woman was Morag Burton, and Flint’s ogling was so coarse and false that Caitlin thought she would choke.
“Caitlin!”
“I hear you, Oliver,” she said stiffly.
Peasants and whores, she thought. It was just what she needed to draw herself up, lift her chin, and take Oliver’s offered arm. And as if she’d needed further goading, she spotted Nate Birwyn standing just out of sight from the gallery, down the corridor toward the back. He was well dressed, but unlike the other men he had tucked a brace of pistols in his waistband. If Birwyn was armed, she knew there were others with weapons, also.
Suddenly the evening’s pleasure took on an entirely different hue.
23
She walked into a fairyland.
On the far wall great pine logs had been piled on the andirons and their blaze climbed high beyond view into the chimney. Most of the tapestries had been taken down for the evening to protect them from candle smoke and wax, and from the excesses of the guests. In their places tall mirrors had been hung, framed in filigree-carved walnut and covered with gleaming gold leaf. They were all the same shape—thin and rectangular—and their reflections multiplied the tapers in their candelabra and in their polished pewter sconces by the hundreds. It was as if she had walked into a cavern of tiny flames, each of them fragile and imbued with gemlike beauty. They softened, too, the faces of her guests, enshrouding their winter-harsh countenances in a delicate mask of transparent silk.
The guests applauded when they saw her.
It came as a rippling sound from the front of the crowd as she walked with Oliver through the doorway. Then, as the quartet of musicians—violins and flutes—struck up a touching, original fanfare, the applause spread and expanded its volume until the walls and mirrors trembled at their moorings. Then came the easiest gesture she’d had to make that day— a genuine, heartfelt smile, and as Oliver led her into the room and the crowd parted, still applauding, she inclined her head regally to everyone whose gaze she caught, winking at some and flashing a warm smile at others.
The furniture had been moved to another room; nothing remained but a long table before the hearth upon which several large silver bowls of fruited punch laced with brandy had been set; vases of flowers in wild profusion nearly blocked the fire, and in the center a tall, beautifully wrapped package drew all eyes.
The applause died to an excited silence.
Caitlin found herself free of Oliver’s grip as she moved to the table, reached out and touched the silken wrapping. She turned to face her well-wishers. They maintained a respectful distance, but she could sense the pressure as they reached out without motion to touch her, reassure her—or was it, she thought suddenly, merely gratitude for relieving the dreary winter? The notion fled at once. The truth lay most likely somewhere in between, but she was not going to spend the evening uncovering the true feelings of all present. What mattered was that they had come. In spite of everything, they had come. And she was hard put to keep the lump in her throat from exploding into tears.
Orin Daniels shouldered his way through the front line. He looked awkward in frock coat and breeches. His hair was plastered down, and his already ruddy complexion was even more red from a harsh scrubbing. He took the center of the crescent-shaped clearing and cleared his throat, causing a faint titter to rise and fall behind him. Oliver merely rearranged his expression into one of benign tolerance.
“Mistress,” Orin said, “everything is ready.” Caitlin held her smile.
“We’ve the music, and the feast, and that there on the table behind ye is a measure of our… our…” He frowned at the loss of the word. Then he smiled. “Our esteem.” He bowed quickly and pushed his way back to his place, one hand mopping perspiration from his brow.
Caitlin blew him a kiss. There was laughter from the villagers, and a brief scowl from her husband.
“So? We gonna stand ’ere all night?” a voice called from the back of the room.
More laughter followed, and Caitlin gladly joined in as she turned to the package and stared at it. It was so lovely she didn’t want to spoil the vision of its silvered purity, but rather than wait too long and insult her guests she took a deep breath and grabbed hold of a red string girdled about its center. She pulled, and the rustling of the silk was the only sound in the room; she gasped and put her hands to her cheeks; when she turned, she found there was no need for words. They saw the tears that gave her eyes an ethereal shine.
Oliver was transfixed. His eyes darted from the gift to Caitlin’s face, and a tic throbbed at the corner of his eye. His hands, which had been folded over the top of his walking stick, were white from the pressure, but he did not turn his head nor did he utter a sound.
Quinn Broary, short and looking even shorter in a forest of beige ruffles, took a timid step forward. “’Twas from the stones, m’lady,” she said, her voice throaty. “After the accident, a small block was brung t’me. I did the best I could.”
She spoke in Welsh, and Caitlin could not resist looking at her husband and translating. When he nodded, once, she said to Quinn Broary, “It’s the most magnificent gift I’ve ever received. I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Not me, m’lady,” Quinn demurred quickly as she moved back to her place. “’Twas all our doin’.”
She scanned the crowd of nearly two hundred and found she was no longer in control of her voice. She looked away quickly, back to the table where a small bust sat on a base of mirror-like oak. To her it seemed a perfect likeness: the laughing eyes, the one-sided smile, the hair that curled slightly down around the brow and ears. She could almost hear him speak. It was her father, David Evans.
“I will treasure it always,” she said softly, and in Welsh. And as though her words were a prearranged signal, the musicians broke into a rapid melody that scattered the guests reluctantly. Some went to the dining room across the hall where the foodstuffs had been laid out amid a great deal of pomp, some to the hall where the air was cooler, the rest to the walls around the dancing floor. Talk filled the room, boots beat time on the floor, and Caitlin recalled that evening in Windsor Castle and wondered how she could have ever thought it was so wonderfully grand. She may indeed have met King George and his queen, but upon reflection she realized that the guests there had been engaged in posturing and ceremony, that the entire night had been a facade, with no underlying substance.
She brushed a tender hand over the bust of her father and felt Oliver’s presence beside her. “It’s grand, don’t you think?”
“It’s an insult,” he said, keeping his voice low.
“They loved him.” Her tone was neutral. “I shall keep it in my room, if that pleases you.”
“It would please me not to have it in the house. But under the circumstances, yes, you may keep it in the tower.”
Flint joined them unexpectedly and stood on her right. He grunted and shrugged when he saw the sculpture.
“You should be circulating,” Oliver said without looking at him. “I am, I am,” Flint told him.
“Then don’t you think—”
“I do what is required, Sir Oliver,” he interrupted coldly. “My men—”
“My men,” Oliver corrected.
“As you wish. Your men have been fed, and those who don’t seem too disreputable are in their places. Nate is following orders.”
Caitlin listened to the bickering over h
er head as long as she could. When their voices began to rise, however, she turned abruptly and faced the three circles of dancing. “Do you mind?” she said, though she kept her smile. “Do you bloody well mind keeping your little intrigues to yourself?”
She walked off before either of them could respond, then flashed a smile at Martin Randall when he broke from the sidelines and offered her his hand. She curtsied before him, and one of the circles made way for them as they joined in a Welsh dance of spinning, graceful figure eights, and a great deal of laughter. The women, their gowns much simpler than hers but no less colorful, were less restrained in their harmless flirtations and abandoned dancing; the men saw no harm in suddenly throwing their hands high over their heads or setting them on their hips and expressing their delight in quick, sharp yells. Spontaneity was rampant, though they observed the circles that were the reel’s convention, and before long Caitlin was able to put aside her worries and let the music carry her away.
And so the evening passed.
Reverend Lynne spent most of his time wandering between the food table and a long sideboard that held flagons of foaming ale. Morag was nowhere in sight, but as long as his stomach was not complaining, he didn’t mind. Sooner or later she would turn up. The later the better.
Randall danced as long as his legs would hold him, then walked with Quinn Broary outside for a few minutes to clear his head and catch his breath. Snow lay untrammeled on the ground—a blanket of ghostly white covered by a thin coat of ice to rival the river-sweep of stars that formed a diamond canopy over the valley. Twice he wished aloud that Griffin Radnor could have been at the celebration, and twice Quinn dug at his ribs with her elbow, nodding in silence to the dark figures around the estate, men in shadowy army uniforms. Save for a handful of minor incidents, the worst of which had been the partial destruction of the ringstones, they’d kept to themselves. Quiet in the homes where they’d been quartered, they stayed away from the villagers for the most part; nevertheless, they were a sinister force, all the more so for their silent, secretive ways.
Orin Daniels watched Randall and Broary leave the house. Though he’d reconciled himself to the fact of their not marrying, he’d hoped to keep Quinn as a lover. When the goldsmith claimed her attention, however, Orin in his usual taciturn manner had stepped aside. There were no recriminations; the village was too small. Besides, helping his mistress with her plan was a more satisfying way of striking back at the major. He emptied his goblet, refused an offer from Shamac to join her in a dance, and made his way along the side corridor toward the south tower. He wanted to check one more time on the roan, on the clothes Davy had packed with Alice Courder’s help, and then he wanted to see Gwen. She’d been as nervous as a cat since she’d come downstairs. He had to be sure she wouldn’t show herself to the guests, or to Flint. One look, and it would all be over.
Flint watched the burly farrier leave the hall. Then he turned his grim attention to Birwyn, who was still at his station at the rear of the building. There was someone with him, and it didn’t take Flint more than a half-dozen steps to realize the person was Morag, shoving herself against him while his hands worked their way around her buttocks and squeezed tightly. He swore harshly under his breath and lengthened his stride, deliberately coming down hard on his heels to send Nate a warning. It worked. Suddenly, Birwyn pushed Morag to one side, and she smothered her protests when she saw Flint approaching. Quickly, she tidied her hair and gown and gave him a sickly sweet smile before heading back to the ale.
“You’re impossible, Nate,” Flint said, standing with his back to the hall.
“She done asked for it,” Birwyn replied without apology. “Aye, that’s the truth.” He paused. “Morgan is getting drunk.”
“So I’ve noticed.”
“Shouldn’t take me long to get him into the study. You remember what to do?”
Birwyn winked with his good eye, then squirmed uncomfortably in the tight-fitting jacket he’d been required to wear. One hand rested casually on the butt of a pistol.
“See that you do,” Flint cautioned. He faced the hall slowly, brushing at his cuffs. “The major hasn’t gotten this far by being an idiot. Unless we do it right, he’ll suspect the truth.”
“He won’t,” Birwyn assured him. “And the men?”
“They know who pays ’em, Flint. And the few what have complaints will have to answer t’me. Personally.” His grin was brief and diabolical. “You just do your part, and I’ll do mine. Quick as pie we be masters, don’t you worry.”
But Flint did worry. Too many things could go wrong, including a sudden appearance by the rebels who were hiding in the mountains. For weeks he’d been hearing rumors of restlessness, and he knew the source of the problem was Griffin Radnor. Damn him! he thought. He should have killed the cur when he had the chance. Birwyn did not make many mistakes, but when he did they were colossal ones; and now that Radnor was still at large, and with men at his command, there was no telling what might happen. Thank God for the winter storms. The valley would be effectively cut off from the swelling rabble until spring, and by then—
He smiled.
Nate Birwyn suddenly found the toes of his boots fascinating. He had no idea what was running through Flint’s mind, but when that devil’s grin crossed the man’s face Nate couldn’t help but shudder. And he couldn’t help but feel somewhat sorry for Sir Oliver Morgan.
Shortly before midnight the party subsided. Energies were flagging, and the drinking had caught up with most of the guests. The music had shifted into a low background melody, soft and pleasing, and a few of the villagers had already paid their respects to their hosts and left for home. But not before Oliver stunned the assemblage and his wife with a brief speech thanking them all for attending Caitlin’s birthday celebration. Then, with Bradford’s solemn assistance, he passed around to each family a tiny package which, when opened, was found to contain three gold sovereigns. The gasps, muffled cries of joy, expressions of disbelief—both astounded and suspicious— filled the halls of Seacliff for the better part of an hour.
Oliver reveled in the attention. He accepted gratitude and a few women’s tears with magnanimous bows, brushed aside perfunctory protests, and totally ignored Caitlin’s amazement. Where he’d amassed all that gold she did not know, but she was positive it had not been from any legitimate dealing. And she was sure his magnanimity was an unabashed ploy to gamer loyalty and incur debts. To her dismay, in many cases it was working.
But his gesture also produced the precise moment she’d been waiting for. With all the commotion, the renewed toasts to Oliver’s health and hers, she realized she would have no better time than now. A sharp pain pierced her breast as she made her decision. What she was doing was irrevocable, and to postpone it further would be lethal. She made her way through the groups of dancers and talkers as quickly as she dared without seeming in a hurry. Catching Orin’s eye, she gave him a brief, significant nod. He disappeared. Then she checked on Birwyn and found him talking with one of his men at the back of the center hall; Flint was nowhere to be seen, and Oliver, she saw as she left the room, was leaning toward Bradford and listening intently to him.
Her heart drummed, and she felt beads of perspiration begin to form on her brow. Her smile stiffened falsely, and when she suggested that the musicians play something more lively, she thought the quaver in her voice would betray her in an instant. But no one seemed to notice anything amiss. They took her hands and shook them, kissed her cheeks, complimented her on her gown and coif, and left her alone.
In the hall she remembered her gift. She caught Bradford on his way to the dining room and told him to take the bust immediately to her apartments. When he balked, she snapped the order again, stood there not caring how insulted he felt, and watched as he picked up the sculpture in his arms. When he returned, she nodded, but she did not take her eyes from him as he made his way up the stairs. She wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d contrived to stumble and drop the piece.
&n
bsp; A draft from the front door chilled her ankles and made her shiver.
Morag Burton swept past her on the arm of a farmer who was too drunk to notice anything but Morag’s exposed breasts.
“Are you all right, m’lady?” Reverend Lynne asked solicitously, his hair disheveled and his cheeks flushed with drink. “May I get you something?”
She did not look at him. A cold serpent was making its way through her, and no matter how hard she pressed her gloved hands to her stomach she could not still its effects.
“M’lady?”
“I’m fine,” she said quickly. “It’s all this excitement, that’s all.” Again she was positive her smile was too rigid. “A moment of quiet and I’ll be right as rain again.”
“I’m sure,” the vicar said. “Well… I believe I shall try a taste of your cellar’s marvelous brandy. I’m told it’s quite elegant.”
She nodded, said nothing, then released a long-held breath when he walked unsteadily away into the dining room.
It isn’t going to work, she told herself. I just know it’s not going to work.
A brief scuffle sounded somewhere, followed by the raising of a few angry voices. The music played on. The glow from the candle tree blurred and shimmered. People passed her without speaking, and it was some time before she understood they weren’t even seeing her. The gold sovereigns, the food, and the drink had combined to render her virtually invisible.
It isn’t going to work, she thought again.
Orin stepped out of the side corridor, brushed a hand wearily through his hair and vanished again.
Bradford returned from her rooms empty handed. My God, she thought; my God, it’s now or never.
A slow and steady inhalation, a holding, a prayer, and she started down the hall, exaggerating her nervousness in hopes anyone passing would think her slightly under the weather. From drink or her illnesses, she didn’t care which. Those who noted would remember her heading for the staircase, looking rather lost and somewhat befuddled.
Seacliff Page 24