by Joan Smith
Clara thought it best to get Nel off to the inn as soon after dinner as might be arranged. She met with opposition from Allingcote, whom she made sure would be a supporter in her plan. He had received, during her absence, a brief notice from the inn informing him that a certain gentleman had been making inquiries. The man had not registered, but he had been there asking questions, and Ben thought Branelea the best place for Nel.
It was when the gentlemen joined the ladies after dinner that Clara suggested to Ben they leave early. “Not tonight,” he said. “Aunt Charity has a sort of party planned. Some of the neighbors are coming in. I shouldn’t think you would like to miss it, Miss Christopher.”
She had been looking forward to the party, but was on thorns with Nel’s behavior and told Ben about the scene in the blue parlor. “I’ll keep an eye on her,” he said. “She will enjoy the party. There’s no need she must miss all the fun only because Prissie is spoiled, and Oglethorpe an ass.”
“And herself a hoyden,” Clara added curtly. It was obviously Nel he wished to have the pleasure of the party, not her. That the bride must be inconvenienced did not appear to bother him in the least.
“Nel is frisky tonight,” he admitted, looking across the room at her. She had garnered Herbert Ormond to her side. “Did anything of interest occur this afternoon? You didn’t see any sign of our greasy hedgebird?”
“No, nothing of the sort.”
“No one tried to attract Nel’s attention? She was not, perhaps, slipped a note or anything like that while your back was turned?”
“No. It was Miss Muldoon, who was trying desperately to attract all the attention herself, and my back was not turned. She enjoyed only one flirtation, not with a greasy hedgebird, but a very dashing captain. The whole passed under my very nose.”
“A friend of yours? You know him personally?”
“I never saw him before today, worse luck. My visit might have been a good deal more agreeable had I made his acquaintance sooner. He is new to the area, a Captain Carruthers by name. I believe Lady Lucker knows him, or of him at least.”
“Which of you was it who had the pleasure of a flirtation with him? You mentioned Nel, but your smiles intimate it was not only Nel.”
“Very true. It will no doubt come as a surprise to you that I occasionally arouse a little interest from gentlemen myself. In fact, I met him first.”
“Where did you pick him up?” No smile adorned his usually agreeable face.
“I picked him up—such a delightfully genteel expression—in the circulating library. One always feels that any acquaintance struck up in a library must be unexceptionable. I met some of my best friends there, over the tomes. Ecclesiastical gentlemen in the department of theology, scholars among the classics, and so on.”
“Where did you meet Captain Carruthers? Was it in the romance department, amidst the marble-covered novels? Or would it be the history books that served as an introduction, down among the battles and wars.”
“No, no. He is not at all gothic, or severely military either. More of a man about town. It was Sir Walter Scott and Lord Byron actually who introduced us. We smiled at each other over Guy Mannering, and got down to names over the Corsair—and a very apt place it was to meet, too. There was something of the corsair in my captain, except that he was a little shy. I have taken him on for my own, you see.”
Allingcote became stiffer as the conversation proceeded. “What was he like?”
“Simply beautiful. Tall, broad-shouldered, handsome, marvelous smile, wearing—”
“Spare me the details.”
“You asked!”
“I was merely confirming he was not the hedge-bird.”
“There was not a speck of grease on him anywhere. I never saw a better-groomed gentleman.”
“I didn’t think he had been basted for frying. You didn’t notice what the gentleman drove?”
“Alas no, but it ought to have been a white charger. We only saw him in the library. Nel was quite as infatuated with him as I. She said she never saw anyone so gorgeous.”
“Then it cannot have been Moore. She would have let on to be disinterested if it had been him. She’s obvious, but not utterly transparent.”
“She is acting strangely tonight,” Clara said, glancing across the room at her. “I hope Herbert keeps her busy.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll keep her busy.”
“Then I shall have my turn with Herbert. I promised him an hour of my time, and don’t know when I shall have another free.”
Ben cast a look of rebuke on her before walking off to Nel. He stayed with Nel for the better part of the evening, despite heavy competition from the neighboring bucks. Clara’s small consolation was that Herbert appeared happy to be with her. She trusted Allingcote would not know that the dreamy smile on his face was due to Nel Muldoon, whose merits he extolled till Clara was ready to crown him.
Over all, it was an exceedingly tiresome party, and with a late-night supper, it lasted well past midnight. Clara mixed among the other guests as a sort of assistant hostess, seeing that everyone had a full glass and that empty glasses were whisked out the door for washing. She had no helper that evening and felt ill-used at doing the same chores she had been doing for weeks with no reluctance at all.
She had many jobs lined up for the morning, and though the wedding was not to be performed till eleven o’clock, she was to be back at Branelea from the inn by eight-thirty or nine. One special duty that had somehow devolved on her was the mixing of the wedding punch. Three large bowls of fruit punch enlivened with wine and soda water were to be mixed up and served just before the wedding feast. The bride would be toasted in champagne at dinner, but before eating, the crowd would have a few glasses of punch to slake their thirst and lessen the quantity of champagne consumed. It was Lady Lucker’s wish that the soda water be added just before serving so that the punch would effervesce. This, in some magical manner, was to remove the taint of thrift from the beverage.
Outside help had been hired (and borrowed) for the great day. Among their number was one man who professed to know something about brewing up a good punch. A chat with him had revealed to Lady Lucker that his punch was a heady brew comprised to a large extent of various wines. Her own mixture was to be mostly juices (not cheap either, she pointed out to Clara). Three dozen oranges and a dozen lemons, to say nothing of the pineapples she had had crushed. These had come from her neighbor’s succession house, as had the oranges, but the lemons had cost hard cash.
With the aim of mixing the punch as the guests came in the front door, Clara was to sit well to the rear of the church and get herself into the first carriage leaving it. The removal of wraps and taking of a seat in the gold saloon was all the time allowed Clara to mix her three bowls. The prospect of it unnerved her somewhat, as she had not before mixed punch for such a special occasion, and never in her life one of such strange ingredients. She knew the soda water to be the crucial item, and it was to be added last. She had received a dozen warnings not to let the professional punch maker take over on her and go adding extra wine behind her back.
As the evening drew to a close, she went to the room where she was to oversee the punch making. She wanted to check that all was in order and that her apron was there. Splashes of juice on her rose gown would be the ruin of it.
It was late and Clara was tired. She was also unhappy with the evening just past and unnerved at the prospect of the morrow’s busy activities. She saw her apron resting on a table and unfolded it to see it was a fresh one. Shaking it out, she examined it and refolded it with a weary sigh.
“Take heart. It will soon be over,” a voice said from the doorway. Turning, she saw Allingcote had followed her from the gold saloon. He had been sparing of his attentions all evening, and she was surprised to see him.
“Not too soon to suit me,” she said, replacing the apron on the table.
Allingcote advanced into the room and looked at the table, set with punch bowls turned ups
ide down to keep out the dust, ladles, cups, serviettes, and all the apparatus required for the job.
“It takes a lot of work to put on a big wedding,” he mentioned idly.
“Too much. If I ever marry, I’ll elope.”
His eyes widened in playful surprise. “This cannot be the cautious Miss Christopher contemplating such a wicked deed! You are overly tired.”
“I am,” she agreed. The thought flitted through her harried mind that if it were not for his bringing Nel here, she would be less fatigued. Or even if they had left when she suggested, she would have been tucked up in bed at the inn hours ago.
“An elopement is not at all the thing,” he pointed out.
“I know that,” she said curtly. “I was joking.”
“Ah! It was your scowl that led me astray. Jokes are more usually accompanied by a smile, or at least an effort to conceal a smile.”
“You would know, Allingcote.”
Seeing that she was determined to be grumpy, he joined in her complaints. “I cannot imagine why Aunt Charity chose December for a wedding. And between Christmas and New Year’s, too, such a busy season. Spring is much better, don’t you think?”
From sheer perversity she answered, “No, I think this is a very good time for a wedding. Spring is a pleasant season, it needs no help, but the winter months are dull. A wedding enlivens things.”
Allingcote appeared to be considering this remark with more weight than the speaker intended. “Yes, a little later in the winter, perhaps, after the excitement of the holiday season has worn off.”
“No, no. Prissie chose an excellent time. There is invariably a sense of letdown after Christmas, and a wedding, one assumes, would mitigate it somewhat for the married couple at least.”
“You may be right,” he said, frowning in concentration. “But it is a dreary season for a honeymoon. Where does one go in January?”
“In the case of Oglethorpe and Prissie, one goes to Scotland to visit relatives.”
“Oh, the Highlands—they are miserable in any season. A pile of rocks and sheep and frigid winds, even in midsummer. In winter they are intolerable.”
“Was there not some mention of your going there yourself? Your mother wrote you were going somewhere, I think. She was not sure you would be here for the wedding.”
Allingcote directed a surprised and rather angry stare at her. “And you still didn’t intend telling me you were here, knowing that!”
“Certainly not. Why should I tell you?”
“Clara Christopher, you should have your ears boxed. I have a good mind to do it,” he exclaimed.
“How very civilized you have become,” she said coolly, but something in her warmed at his angry outcry.
“A paper-thin veneer of civility, just barely covering the snarling primitive man beneath,” he warned, but she could see he was no longer angry. “You know just how to puncture that veneer, too, don’t you?” With a little laugh, he took her arm and locked it closely in his own to begin walking slowly toward the door.
The position in which he held her arm necessitated their walking so closely together that Clara’s skirts brushed his trousers at every step. It lent an air of intimacy that embarrassed Clara. She wanted to disengage herself before they returned to the company, but her slight pullings went unheeded as he chattered on. “Prissie will be greatly disappointed in the Highlands. A pity one could not go to the Midi, but with Boney marching his soldiers back and forth and lugging his cannons about, it would not be conducive to romance.”
“Nor even to safety. Napoleon is such a ramshackle creature he has purloined all the best countries: Italy, Spain, Portugal—he has a toe in them all, depriving winter honeymooners of a ray of sun. Really I don’t know what option Cousin Oglethorpe has but to take her to Scotland.”
“Did you like it? You spent some time there.”
“It was not my favorite spot in the world.”
“Where is your favorite spot in the whole world, Clara?”
That “Clara” sounded so natural on his lips that she scarcely noticed it. She felt she was in her favorite spot, locked to Ben’s side, but when she replied, she said with all her usual calmness, “I like London as well as anywhere.”
“I like London, too.” He turned his head toward her and leaned down, as she had seen him do dozens of times, but the charm of it never diminished. “It’s time to leave. Best get your things. Nel has gone for hers. I’ll meet you here.” He patted her hand and let her go.
What a strange man he was. But after ignoring her all evening, he could still send her heart soaring with a few foolish comments about Prissie’s honeymoon because she imagined they were discussing their own.
Chapter Twelve
It seemed impossible that Nel was not fagged to death after tramping in the fresh air for hours in the morning, shopping in the afternoon, and staying up partying till well past midnight, but she was still full of life. In fact, she was wide awake and almost feverishly active in the carriage during the trip to the inn. She chattered and laughed, peered through the window, and did not sit still or silent a moment. She reminded Clara of an infant who had had an overly wearing day and was using her last gasp of energy before sinking into sleep.
Clara had to be up early in the morning, and it occurred to her that she hadn’t mentioned it to Allingcote. Presumably his driver could take her to Branelea and return later for himself and Nel. She suggested this, and he replied in an undertone that he wanted to speak to her privately before they all retired. It would not be easy to arrange, but perhaps at the door of her room she could manage a word without Nel’s overhearing.
Allingcote went to the desk as soon as they entered the inn. Clara and Nel went on upstairs. He was smiling when he left the desk, but before he was halfway up the stairs, some new doubt or fear came to nag him. The gentleman was not at the inn, but that did not mean he was not loitering about outside, with his spavin-backed team hitched up, ready for trouble. He tapped at Clara’s door. She had managed to get away from Nel early. The girl was not in bed, but moving about in her room.
“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” he told her. “I would like to take you to Branelea, but daren’t risk leaving Nel alone here. It would be best if she slept till nearly time for the wedding. The less she’s at Branelea the better. My driver will take you and return for us. A pity you won’t have long to sleep, but this is the end of it. I shan’t get a wink myself, if it comes to that.”
“She must be dead tired. Surely she’ll sleep like a log tonight.”
He shook his head ruefully. “No, she’s too excited, and I should warn you of the reason for it. The proprietor just told me Moore has arrived. She may bolt tonight. I plan to sit up on a chair fully clothed the whole night long, with my ear to the door. I’ll hear if she tries anything. You try to get some sleep.”
“What, exactly is afoot between them? Is he an out-of-work actor, her future costar in the theater?”
“He is an out-of-work something, but not an actor, to my knowledge.”
“So it is purely romance.”
“A romance, far from pure on his side, I fear.”
“And Covent Garden was a story to hoax me?”
“Not entirely. That was last month’s scheme. This month’s hopes are pinned on running away with Moore.”
“What a shatter-brained girl she is!”
“She is,” he smiled, tolerant still. “But she’ll come around with time. She’s not really a bad girl at heart. She’ll settle down when she meets the right man.”
“A pity Moore is not the right man,” Clara said wearily.
“That villain! He’s only after her fortune. A wretched, underhanded fellow. I’d gladly run him through.”
This violent answer sounded very like jealousy. Really, it was hard to put any other construction on it. “Does she know he’s here? Is that why she is on edge?”
“I don’t know whether she knows or not. Very likely it was arranged between t
hem that he would come. She expects him, I suppose. He’s been inquiring here for her. The proprietor, on my instructions, denied having seen her, but the servants gave us away, so he knows she is here. He might try to contact her tonight. He mustn’t be allowed near her.”
Such jealous guardianship as this robbed the conversation at Branelea of any further charm for Clara. She nodded and closed her door. Nel came in a moment later to get her dress unbuttoned.
“What did Ben want?” she asked.
That a young lady who rifled through one’s reticule also listened at doorways was no surprise. “He wanted some private conversation with me,” Clara replied.
“I suppose he was telling you to keep a close watch on me,” Nel said, smiling contentedly. “Ben is so jealous,” she added, sliding a glance at Clara from under her long lashes. “We were supposed to be getting married, you know, Ben and I. It was all arranged, and then I met someone I liked better.”
As Nel was being so informative, Clara did not bother with concealment. “Mr. Moore?” she said.
Nel pouted. “Oh, he told you about Georgie. I made sure he would hide it to protect my reputation. Yes, George Moore is the man. He is very handsome, Miss Christopher. I wager even you would admire him.”
“I doubt that very much, from the description I have had of him,” Clara replied, undoing the buttons as fast as she could. She wondered if Nel was telling the truth about marrying Allingcote. “Were you and Allingcote actually engaged?” she asked.
“Unofficially. It was arranged by his papa and my Uncle Anglin.”
“His father has been dead for two years. What is the delay?”
“I was only fifteen at that time, so of course the marriage was not to take place at once. We were together a good deal later on. He loves me,” she said, full of confidence. “You must have noticed how jealous he is of anyone I show the least partiality for. Your cousin Herbert, for instance. Ben hasn’t a good word to say of him. But it is George he especially despises, because he knows I love him. Why, he has even taken the notion George is ugly, and he is really very handsome.”