by Sandra Heath
“I know, I just felt bad about Jack ...”
Chrissie was too mad to say anything more. Instead she conveyed the offending glass into the kitchen, where she then gave another angry exclamation as she found that Summer had forgotten to switch on the oven. She banged the oven door closed. Now they’d have to eat salad instead of the beef ragout she’d so painstakingly prepared, and she wasn’t pleased.
There was an atmosphere when Andrew came home later, but he tactfully said nothing, although he must have felt as if World War III were in the offing. Chrissie picked away at Summer all evening, but it finally came to a head when Andrew casually remarked that he fancied a Chinese carryout.
Chrissie replied to him, but looked darkly at Summer. “Well, you wouldn’t be so hungry if we’d had the beef ragout we were supposed to!”
Summer leapt irritably to her feet. “What makes you think your darned ragout’s so special? You never season it enough!”
“At least I can make one, which is more than can be said of you!” Chrissie fired back.
“Oh, for God’s sake, give it a rest, Chrissie! You’ve been on my case for hours now, and I’ve just about had it!”
“If I’m on your case, it’s because you deserve it!”
“You’re getting to be a real pain, Chrissie Marchant!” Summer cried, venting her fury by throwing a cushion across the room.
Andrew had been toying uncomfortably with his piece of pottery, wishing to God he’d never heard of China, but as the cushion flew past him, he got up hastily. “Look, this is getting out of hand. I don’t know what it’s about, but I’m sure there’s no need for—!”
“Oh, no?” Summer’s bright gaze flew to this new target. “We haven’t even started yet!”
Chrissie was outraged. “Don’t you dare pick on him!”
Summer flung from the room and slammed the door behind her.
Andrew sighed and sat down again, giving Chrissie an inquiring look. “Well? Are you going to let me in on this, or must I guess?” he asked patiently.
* * *
Some time later, Summer was leaning out of her window, watching the sea, when she recognized her sister’s hesitant knock at the door. She straightened warily and turned. “Yes?”
Chrissie came in slowly. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly.
Summer’s anger dissolved. “I deserved it,” she conceded. “It was irresponsible to drink that vodka, spiteful to turn on Andrew, and dumb to forget the ragout.”
“Oh, to hell with the rotten ragout!” Chrissie ran to her, and they held each other close.
Summer gave a wobbly smile. “I promise I won’t do it again, Chrissie, so please don’t fret about me tomorrow.”
“I’ll do my best, but I guess I’m just a natural-born fussbudget. Are you coming back to watch TV a while?”
Summer drew back and shook her head. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I think I’ll go to bed now. I’ve had a few lousy nights recently and need a long laze, and as it’s Saturday tomorrow, I can have a good lie-up in the morning as well.”
Chrissie smiled. “Okay. Sleep well.”
“I will. Oh, and tell Andrew I’ll grovel suitably tomorrow.”
Chrissie smiled, and the door closed behind her.
Summer drew a long breath. Sleep was the last thing on her mind, for tonight was the night of the masked ball at Bevincote, and she was no more capable of staying away than she was of flying.
Chapter Ten
Summer turned the recorder volume down because she didn’t want anything to be heard accidentally from the passage. Then she lay back and commenced her breathing exercises. She knew a moment of alarm because the cassette sounded distorted, as if the recorder’s batteries were almost spent, but then it seemed okay again, so she relaxed and began to sink into the trance.
The tinkle of hairpins told her she was Olivia again, and she opened her eyes to find herself seated before the dressing table in her room at Oakhill House. A lighted candlestick stood beside the mirror before her, and the room was also firelit. It was a large, very beautiful room, with dark oak paneling on the walls, and a low ceiling of richly patterned plasterwork. The bed had a cream silk canopy and was so large that a little set of steps was required to climb into it, but it was very comfortable, and close enough to the fire to never be cold.
Like Caro’s room, this one also had a window seat that enjoyed a fine view toward the estuary, but the maroon damask curtains were drawn because the winter night was very cold and dark. It had become windy now, and from time to time she heard the scratch of ivy on the front of the house as it was blown against the glass.
Caro’s maid was combing her hair for the ball. Her name was Gwenny, and she was a local girl, the daughter of a plowman on one of the End of the World farms. She had straight brown hair, which she piled on top of her head beneath a hand-embroidered mobcap, and her full-bosomed country figure was neat in a simple blue woolen dress and crisp white apron.
The position at Oakhill House was not her first; indeed before coming here she’d been employed at Berkeley Castle itself, where she’d acquired great skills when it came to fashionable coiffures, but her mother’s ill health required her to work closer to home, and so she’d taken the post with Caro, whom she’d already attended tonight. Caro was now virtually ready in her room, but still agonizing over the final detail of which jewelry to wear.
Gwenny had pinned Olivia’s black hair into the style known as a l’Egyptienne, which consisted of a froth of little curls at the front with the rest of the hair pulled back and tightly plaited before being coiled into a corkscrew shape that was adorned with a jeweled comb. It was an intricate style, but very a la mode, and was worn with a circlet of two dainty gold chains that held a turquoise-studded ornament in the center of her forehead.
The ornament would be shown off to great advantage when she donned her domino, a gold velvet eye mask with a little gauze veil that concealed the lower half of her face. Her gold-embroidered turquoise silk evening gown was very décolleté and high waisted, with tiny sleeves and a lavishly trimmed hem.
Gwenny put the comb and last pins down, then met Summer’s eyes in the mirror. “Will that do, madam?”
“It’s excellent, Gwenny, thank you. Berkeley Castle’s loss is definitely Oakhill House’s gain,” Summer replied, smiling and then smoothing her long white evening gloves so there wasn’t a wrinkle in sight.
There was a tap at the door, and Caro’s green-masked face peeped in. “Are you nearly ready? Father has instructed the carriage to be brought to the door.”
“Yes, I’m ready, Caro. Come in and let me see you.”
Summer nodded at Gwenny. “That will be all now. I’ll attend to my cloak myself.”
“As you wish, madam.” The maid bobbed a curtsy and withdrew, closing the door softly behind her.
Caro turned for her simple emerald satin slip and gauze overgown and elegant coiffure to be admired, and Summer smiled approvingly. “You look absolutely beautiful,” she declared truthfully.
“Do you really think so? I don’t know what to think anymore, for I’m so nervous I feel positively sick,” Caro confessed. “I wondered if the rose taffeta would look better after all, and if my pearls—”
Summer got up quickly and interrupted. “Believe me, Caro, you look exquisite. Francis will adore you all over again,” she said reassuringly, squeezing her cousin’s fingers. “Francis Lytherby is a very fortunate fellow to have snared you, and I trust he knows it.”
“I’m the fortunate one, Olivia, as you’ll realize when you meet him.”
“So you keep insisting.”
Caro laughed self-consciously. “Forgive me for thinking only of myself,” she said, and then glanced enviously at Summer’s gown and hair. “You look very lovely too, Olivia. Oh, how I wish I had a figure like yours.”
Uncle Merriam’s voice echoed along the passage from the top of the staircase. “Come on, ladies, or it will be time to come home before we’ve even l
eft!”
As Caro hurried out to get her cloak, Summer put on her own cloak and looped her reticule and fan over her wrist, and then went back to the dressing table to don the domino. She gazed at her masked reflection in the mirror. If Brand were there tonight, surely he couldn’t possibly recognize her now!
She turned away. The longer she stayed here at Oakhill House, the more likely it was that Brand would find out exactly who she was, so for Caro’s sake it would be better if within the next day or so cousin Olivia found some pressing reason to return to Kensington. But Brand filled her heart as well as her fears, so knowing what was best and actually bringing herself to do it were things that were poles apart.
She left the room and joined Caro, and together they went down to the entrance hall, where Uncle Merriam and George Bradshaw were waiting. Both men wore plain black velvet eye masks and formal evening clothes, but even on an occasion like this the lawyer managed to look more like an undertaker than someone setting out for a ball.
Summer’s glance moved to Uncle Merriam. How inordinately low and anxious he seemed, she thought. Until this morning in Berkeley he’d been looking forward to tonight’s ball, but now she felt he’d rather break a leg than go to Bevincote.
A manservant opened the front door, and the wind gusted icily over them all as they hurried out beneath the lamplit porch to the waiting carriage. A few moments later the whip cracked, and the coachman tooled the restless team away from the house, down through the grounds, and then out onto the road that led around the foot of the hill to Bevincote.
* * *
Seeing the tops of the domes and pinnacles of Lord Lytherby’s incredible house during her ride hadn’t prepared Summer for the brilliantly illuminated scene of Oriental splendor that greeted her astonished eyes as the carriage turned through the gates of Bevincote. A procession of gleaming vehicles was making its slow way along the drive that led between an avenue of magnificent specimen trees, and she pressed close to the window to gaze at a building that was the Taj Mahal and the forbidden city of the Chinese emperors rolled into one.
The brilliance of the illuminations was wondrous, for not only was the house itself lit from top to bottom by a thousand lamps or more, but every nearby tree was lavishly hung with variegated lanterns that trembled in the wind so they resembled fireflies. Lord Lytherby’s residence shone miraculously through the January darkness, as if vast invisible doors had opened to allow a glimpse into an eastern treasure cave.
Caro glanced at Summer. “Is it not the most breathtaking sight in all the world?”
“It is indeed,” Summer murmured, then gave her a sly smile. “And to think that one day you will be its mistress.”
Before Caro could respond, George Bradshaw broke in. “A terrible responsibility, one might say,” he said coolly.
Caro lowered her eyes, but Summer’s flashed toward him.
“Or a great honor, depending upon one’s point of view,” she said tersely.
“What other view can there be other than that being mistress of Bevincote will be a difficult task that may even prove an impossible burden?” he replied, his little masked eyes sliding to Uncle Merriam and then away again.
Summer’s lips pressed angrily together. What was the matter with the odious fellow? He was like a death’s-head at a feast! Why couldn’t he hold his tongue entirely if he didn’t have anything pleasant to say? Oh, how she’d like to lean across and jab him with her closed fan, if only to see the look of astonishment on his sour face!
Uncle Merriam shifted uncomfortably on his seat, cleared his throat, and said nothing, which angered her still more. He was the proper person to put George Bradshaw in his place, but instead he just sat there. She fiddled with her fan, wishing she knew what had gone on while she and Caro had visited the haberdasher’s shop.
The carriage had slowed to snail’s pace now, caught up in a jam of vehicles close to the main entrance, where oil lamps shone beneath a porch of elegant Indian arches. As the coachman at last maneuvered his team to a halt before the steps, menservants dressed in golden Chinese silk hastened to open the door and lower the rungs, and a small boy got up like a Tartar emperor brought a huge basket containing floral wrist favors for the ladies.
The party from Oakhill House alighted, and as the little emperor tied a favor to Summer’s wrist, she heard the faint melodic sound of windbells somewhere in the park, but it was almost drowned by the music and voices in the house. Summer took a deep breath to compose herself and was very glad indeed of the anonymity afforded by her domino, for now that she was here, she could almost feel Brand somewhere close by!
She avoided George Bradshaw’s grudgingly offered arm to follow Uncle Merriam and Caro toward the dazzling red-and-gold entrance hall, where the crush of elegant guests seemed almost impenetrable. It was very warm inside because log fires burned in two huge marble fireplaces carved with dragons, and everything was lit by half a dozen lotus-shaped lusters which added to the heat. Doorways adorned with scarlet bamboo trelliswork were set in walls decorated with Chinese river scenes, and there were flowers everywhere, as was expected at a grand ball, but added to their fragrance was the sweetness of Oriental spices in open potpourri jars in the hearths.
From the far end of the entrance hall rose a splendid staircase, and Summer and her party joined the queue of masked guests making its slow way up to a landing on the next floor, where the triple-arched entrance to the ballroom could be seen. Progress was very slow, and the farther up the stairs they went, the more uneasily she glanced around for any sign of a gentleman who might be Brand, but she saw none.
In the ballroom a minuet gave way to a polonaise, and then to a country dance, but still Summer and her party had not reached the top of the staircase. The heat from the entrance hall rose all around, and both she and Caro had to resort to their fans.
As the queue moved up a step or so, Summer and her uncle were momentarily separated from Caro and George Bradshaw, so she seized the opportunity to speak to her uncle. “Uncle Merriam, I asked you at the Crown if something was wrong, and you said not, but clearly there is. Can’t you tell me what it is?”
He forced a smile. “You’re quite mistaken, my dear, for there’s nothing wrong at all.”
“But—” She broke off because Caro and George Bradshaw rejoined them, but as she continued to watch her uncle, she saw how anxiously his tongue passed over his lower lip. All was far from well, and she wouldn’t leave it alone until she found out what it was.
At last they reached the landing, and Summer was able to look through the archways into the ballroom. It was another breathtaking scene of eastern opulence, a shimmering vision of blue and gold, lit by chandeliers that resembled immense clusters of Chinese lanterns. The domed ceiling glittered with gold mosaic, the walls were alternately paneled with blue silk and hand-painted mirrors, and the elegant gold-cushioned sofas around the edge of the floor were studded with ivory and mother-of-pearl. There were potted ferns everywhere, and more on the dais where a fashionable London orchestra played. A small army of gold-clad footmen hurried to and from the adjacent supper room with iced champagne and fruit cup with which the overheated guests could quench their thirst.
The queue from the staircase edged across the landing, then through the arches to the small flight of white marble steps that led down into the ballroom. At the foot of these steps Lord Lytherby and his son were waiting to receive everyone.
The Honorable Francis Lytherby was exactly like his portrait, romantically handsome, with dark hair, brown eyes, and sensitive lips. Few gentlemen present tonight appeared to greater advantage in the close-fitting evening clothes that were de rigueur for such occasions. A solitaire diamond flashed on the knot of his starched neckcloth, and a quizzing glass swung idly from one white-gloved hand as he diligently endeavored to show interest in each new face presented before him.
But he kept glancing at the bronze chrysanthemum clock on the wall nearby, and Summer knew he was anticipating Caro’s arriva
l. Seeing him in the flesh, she could understand only too well why her cousin had fallen so head over heels in love.
Lord Lytherby was tall and stout, with fair skin that flushed easily, and he was so tightly laced into his clothes that he looked very uncomfortable indeed. His manner was abrupt, and even from where she stood Summer could hear how staccato his voice was.
It was hard to believe Francis was his son, for they could not have been more dissimilar—the one so slender, dark, and sentient; the other so overweight, fair, and brusque.
Uncle Merriam and George Bradshaw were presented first, and Summer watched her uncle. He greeted Lord Lytherby with becoming grace and civility, but when it came to Francis, he hesitated visibly before inclining his head at all. A puzzled look passed through Francis’s dark eyes, but then Uncle Merriam moved on and George Bradshaw took his place.
Summer wondered if Caro had noticed anything, but her cousin’s adoring gaze saw only the object of her heart’s desire, until suddenly she had to drag her eyes away from Francis as Lord Lytherby addressed her.
“Miss Merriam,” he said in his odd, almost disjointed manner.
Caro sank into a hasty curtsy, and he raised her hand briefly to his lips, releasing it with almost undue haste. As Caro quickly moved on to her beloved Francis, Summer hung a little to one side, hoping to sidle past without being presented to Lord Lytherby, to whom she’d taken an instinctive dislike. It was a ploy that worked, for he hardly noticed her as his glance moved on to the next group in the queue.
She had no such reservations about meeting Francis, with whose warmth and charm she was quite taken as Caro introduced them. “Mrs. Courtenay?” he said smilingly, drawing her hand fully to his lips.
“Sir.” She returned the smile.
The country dance had ended, and as a ländler was announced, Francis glanced surreptitiously at his father, before drawing both ladies away from the staircase. Then he looked at Summer again. “Would you mind very much if I stole Caro for this dance?”