The Sensible Courtship

by Megan Daniel

  “Whiskey, Mrs. Gordon,” he replied, slipping easily into a bantering tone. “And on occasion coffee, but coffee such as you have never tasted, I’m sure. Roasted black as coal and brewed just as strong. It’s thick and hot and chewy. A bit of heaven, in fact. I don’t advise it for a lady, however,” he continued mischievously. “The Americans are fond of saying it will put hair on your chest.”

  “Oh la!” she cried on a ripple of mirth, and tapped his hand with her busily working fan. “How naughty you are!” She had long since lost the ability to blush on command, to her vast annoyance, and needs must use her sultry smile instead. She gave him one of her best. “And you, Devlin? Can you prove the aphorism a true one? I daresay you can, but how intriguing to wonder in uncertainty.”

  Disgusted at the woman’s forwardness, though she had been rather amused by it in the past, Francesca excused herself and went to where Sarah was pouring out fresh tea. Devlin was left to suffer alone the pointed flirtations of Mrs. Gordon.

  Luckily for his lordship, the beginning of hunting on the morrow precluded a late night. Everyone was eager to be well-rested and in good trim for the opening meet. It was not long, therefore, before Sarah led the ladies up

  the stairs to their bedchambers. The gentlemen followed very shortly.

  The stars glittered, and the dew fell. The Stopper-up rode over the fields filling foxholes in preparation for the festivities to come. The dogs snoozed peacefully, as yet unaware of the excitement the morning would bring.

  The lights of Hockleigh winked out one by one until the great house lay in darkness, gilded only by the soft glow of the moon as it slid lower in the sky.

  Lady Francesca slept.

  5

  Early-morning dampness best held the scent of the fox on the ground, and the next morning was perfectly calculated to hold high the spirits of the avid sportsmen and women who were out in droves. The day was bright but a bit overcast; everyone looked forward to a brisk ride to warm body and spirit.

  The Hockleigh Hunt had such a grand reputation that everyone for miles around, be he peasant, squire, or stable boy, wanted to be on hand. The Duke was well known for the generosity displayed at the opening Lawn Meet, when all the countryside was invited to gather on his great lawns and partake of his largess.

  The swirl of color that greeted Francesca as she stepped out of the house was exhilarating. There was a crisp autumn chill in the air, severe enough to keep everyone’s blood moving but certainly not enough to keep anyone away from the hunt. Indeed, it would have taken a foot of snow at the least to manage that feat.

  Tenants and ostlers, shopgirls and servants, drank warmed ale from giant cauldrons and munched on crusty bread, salty ham, and good country cheese. Over on the main lawn, the gentry, sporting their pink and leathers, put away great quantities of kidneys, beefsteaks, kippers, muffins, and jam. They burned off the chill with coffee and tea and beakers of hot mulled wine. Tiny puffs of steam emitting from hundreds of chattering mouths wafted away on the cold air. Small groups gathered around warmly glowing braziers, their hands wrapped comfortingly around their steaming mugs.

  One look at the groaning table that provided the hunt breakfast and one could but pity the poor horses; it would be amazing if each was not called upon to carry an extra stone at the least this day.

  Looping the long green velvet skirts of her riding habit over her arm, Francesca began loading a plate with gusto. The first hunt of the season always whetted her healthy appetite. She could hunt with the best of them, and she could certainly eat with the best of them. Her eyes were shining with anticipation, and her cheeks glowed a becoming pink from the chill air. Regardless of her recent lassitude of spirits, it was quite impossible for Lady Francesca Waringham, possibly the finest horsewoman at present in Yorkshire, to feel less than excited about a hunt that promised such good sport.

  “Oh, Cesca, how lovely you look this morning!” exclaimed Sarah, herself presenting a very pretty picture in a Circassian dress of deep rose edged in Muscovy sable. “And you are just the person I need. Do be a darling and go speak to old Mr. Nevensby. He is the local squire, you know, all gruff and bluff. He shall set us all by the ears, I fear. But talking to the prettiest woman present always put him back into a genial mood.”

  “Then you should do the honors yourself, my love,” said Francesca. “You look a picture. I declare, if that is what being in the family way does for one’s looks, I am half-tempted to try it myself.”

  “Well, I wish you would,” said Sarah matter-of-factly. “After securing a proper husband, of course.”

  “Of course,” said Francesca wryly.

  “Well, it would do you a world of good, you know.”

  “Perhaps your squire would do. Nevensby, is it?”

  Her answer was a little choke of laughter. “Thank goodness you are not being serious. The squire is all of eighty and would drive even you to distraction in a week. But do go and talk to him, I beg you. Actually, you needn’t talk at all. Only listen and smile and nod occasionally and open your eyes very wide in admiration.”

  “Use all my feminine wiles, you mean,” Francesca laughingly returned. “Very well. Where is this ogre in such need of taming?”

  “He is over there blustering at poor George,” said Sarah, discreetly pointing out the offending personage. “And I fear my poor love is in great need of rescuing.”

  Francesca, her lack of a white charger notwithstanding, hied herself off to the rescue.

  The Duke of Hockleigh was not the only one in the party in need of rescue at that moment. Lord Devlin, however acute his need, saw no hope of it, though. He had been cornered by Mrs. Gordon. By some wonderful trick, he knew not how, she had managed to maneuver him to a stone bench in the topiary garden, where the pair of them were all but hidden from the view of the others.

  “Do tell me more about these strange American Indians, Devlin. Do they have fanciful mating and fertility rites and all?” she asked as she slowly stroked the deep soft velvet of her riding habit. It was crimson, her best color, and was cut to show off her ample bosom and tiny waist.

  “Some tribes do,” he answered in a casual tone that hid his discomfort. “They have more need of them than we do, you see. Many of their children die, and a man’s status is measured by how many sons he has. But even more respected are their holy men, who choose to remain celibate.”

  She gave a ripple of laughter, cocking her head to the precise angle to show to best advantage her little red toque with its curled black feather carefully set on her glistening black curls. “One would hope that their numbers are few, for the sake of their women as well as for the future of the race.”

  “I heard few complaints from their ladies.”

  “None, I’ll wager, whilst you were among them, my lord,” she returned with a smile nicely blending coyness with archness.

  Fortunately, his answer was drowned out by the horns giving the call to mount. The hunt was about to get under way.

  A flurry of activity now began. Prancing horses were led out, fresh and eager, snorting clouds of steam into the air. The yapping of the dogs filled everyone’s ears. In the general melee, Devlin magically managed to detach himself from Roxanna and blend into the milling throng.

  Francesca, just as willing as his lordship to call a halt to a tedious conversation, happily relinquished her empty plate and cup, bade a civil good morning to Squire Nevensby, and strode confidently to Desdemona, her newest hunter, a high-bred and prickly bay mare. A handful of sugar lumps found their way from her skirt pocket to the mare’s soft mouth, for which the mistress received an affectionate nudge from a cold wet nose.

  “Yes, yes, my darling. I am eager too. We shall show them all today, shan’t we? But you really must not draw over the fox and bring me home in disgrace.”

  “Is it a practice with her?” came Devlin’s voice behind her.

  “Good morning, Devlin.” said Francesca pleasantly. She had to smile at sight of him. She had thought him very
fine in his traveling clothes. Last evening she had remarked how well evening clothes became him. But now, in the finely molded leather breeches that showed the entire line of his powerful thighs, in the olive coat that perfectly fitted over his broad expanse of shoulder, with a single shaft of sunlight glinting on his sun- streaked hair, he looked like some sort of a god. She felt a small lurch in the pit of her stomach, a feeling she had not experienced in many years, but she managed to keep her voice calm as she remarked, “Oh, no, Desdemona is the best horse in the world. But she has only recently learned her manners. This will be her first trial in the field. But I have every confidence in Desi.” She patted the velvety nose.

  “She is a beauty,” he replied, “just like her mistress.” His eyes glowed the admiration he felt at the sight she presented.

  Francesca felt an acute need to change the conversation and gestured to the big raking grey Devlin was leading. “Isn’t that the Duke’s Odysseus?”

  “Yes. George has been kind enough to mount me until my own horses arrive.”

  “He will give you a superlative ride. I have had him under me once or twice; he shows good spirit.”

  “Oh, I am sure we shall do fine. May I?” he asked, offering her a lift onto Desdemona’s high back.

  The horse pranced about as she mounted, and it took all Francesca’s attention to calm her. Devlin watched in admiration as the frisky mare was brought easily to heel. Throwing a leg over the broad back of Odysseus, he smiled at her and the pair made their way toward the others.

  The swirl of movement had by now organized itself into some semblance of order. The Master blew his horn, and the Whipper-in led the yelping pack toward the first covert. The whole field was off at a gentle trot behind them, trailing a cavalcade of prancing children, holidaying tenants, and ladies in elegant carriages. Most of the ladies could not deal with anything so strenuous as actually hunting themselves, but they must just dress up in their prettiest frocks and drive out to “see hounds” and wave their gentlemen off.

  The excitement within the group grew as they neared the covert, until it was almost palpable. The cacophony of sound—the yapping dogs, the clopping horses, the rumbling carriage wheels, and the chattering riders— grew to a crescendo until the children were nearly beside themselves with the excitement of it all. Francesca looked at Devlin, and they offered each other a smile of genuine delight.

  The hounds were thrown into the covert, and the group quietened in expectation, nearly holding their breaths while the hounds searched out their quarry. Their luck hit almost at once. The barking increased to a roar. “View-Halloo” was sounded at the very moment the fox broke covert; the hounds were quickly gathered and given the scent. The field was off at the gallop.

  Francesca felt her heart lurch and her blood begin to pump at the sound of the View. She dug in her heels, and Desdemona surged forward. Francesca heard herself laugh. This was why she hunted, this feeling of exhilaration, of danger, of knowing that she must count only on herself and her own skill to bring her through.

  The mare broke into a long rolling gallop. They flew past trees, scrubby bushes, and low stone walls. Pebbles and clots of turf thrown up by the hooves of the horses ahead whipped past Francesca. There were probably birds twittering in the trees not far off; she did not hear them. She heard only the thunderous roar of the hooves and the thudding of her equally thunderous heart, the rush of the wind past her ears as she pushed her way through it, and the strong steady breathing of the mare. Over it all was the occasional exclamation point of the huntsman’s horn as he tried to keep the field in some sort of order.

  She scarce noticed the other riders, so wrapped up was she in the exhilaration of the chase. But as one of the horses began to gain on her just to the left, she let her eyes glance briefly over. Lord Devlin grinned at her as he drew even. She grinned back. Then, almost at once, they found themselves laughing outright, the sound lost in the rolling thunder below them and carried away on the rushing wind.

  Just ahead lay a gritstone wall, dark with age. They eyed it at the same moment, glanced at each other, then spurred their horses to even greater efforts.

  Francesca measured the wall with her eye, even as it grew closer. She tried to guess what lay on the other side. Damp glittered on the stones, grey with patches of green where moss had been allowed a hold. A slight change in speed, a minor shift in position. She put down her head. She could feel the heat rising from the neck of the straining mare. Here was the wall. She held her breath and threw her heart over it.

  The two horses left the ground at the same moment. They sailed over the wall as if they were of one heart, and touched the soft earth on the other side in absolute unison. Francesca let out her breath with a sigh.

  The two young people now dared to look at each other again, this time offering each other a smile of the most perfect understanding.

  What a magnificent horseman he is, Francesca told herself, as though it were a surprise. The magnificent horseman himself was having similar thoughts about her, albeit in somewhat more colorful terms. Damme! But that girl can ride! was what his mind was repeating.

  Just then the fox was headed, and turned sharp to the right. The pack followed, and Francesca and Devlin were separated.

  It was a fabulous opening to the hunt. A run of a full twenty-seven miles, the whole field in at the kill. Francesca was presented with the brush, and everyone returned to Hockleigh very weary and very dirty and very well pleased.

  After a hearty luncheon during which they all congratulated themselves profusively on some very good sport, the company retired to their respective chambers. Tonight was, after all, the grand Hunt Ball, and they must make certain repairs to their persons.

  6

  The new Duchess of Hockleigh had always had excellent taste tinged with a touch of natural whimsy. Until the dramatic change in state brought about by her marriage to the Duke, she had had little opportunity to exercise it. Now she was giving it full rein, and delighting in the freedom to do so. She had decided that her first Hunt Ball was the perfect opportunity to show off her skill.

  Until the death of the old Dowager Duchess some two years ago, Hockleigh in general, and the Hunt Ball in particular, had been steeped in tradition. Potted palms in the ballroom had always been the rule. It was past time for a change.

  And so Sarah had decided that the ball was not to take place in the ballroom at all but in the Orangery. It was much the prettier room, with its long wall of glass and its bounty of greenery. And it was nearly as large as the ballroom and far less formal. The banana palms and citrus trees in their huge white tubs were pushed into the comers of the room. Among their branches were hung dozens of gilded cages housing brilliantly plumed parrots and cockatoos, fluttery finches, and sweetly singing canaries. Fragrant blooms from the hothouses were banked around the wooden tubs holding the trees. More deep red and golden flowers graced the doorways, windows, and the many mirrors that doubled the images of the swaying dancers.

  Beyond the window wall, tiny lights twinkled in the trees along the terrace, and overhead the heavy crystal chandeliers glowed with hundreds of candles, their light mirrored in the highly polished floor.

  As the residents filtered in from the dining room, the guests invited from the neighborhood began to arrive and express their awe and pleasure at the sight the Duchess had created. The room quickly began to fill. All the gentry for many miles around were expected. The date had been specifically chosen to coincide with the full moon, to help guide their carriages. And although an autumn chill had set in, there had been no rain for nearly a fortnight. The roads were in excellent shape and the sky free of moon-obscuring clouds. No one was expected to remain at home.

  The Duke and Duchess, as was the custom, led off the ball with the highest-ranking lady and gentleman present. This chanced to be the Duke’s sister, Lady Aurelm, who had snagged a marquis, and her husband. The Duchess strode into the opening cotillion on the arm of her brother-in-law. The regal manner of
both the host and hostess did nothing to hide the fact that both were in high spirits and ready to enjoy their own party.

  “Well, little miss,” said the Marquis of Aurelm as he led Sarah through the stately moves of the dance. As he had known her since she had been in short skirts, she was unlikely to object greatly to his familiarity. “I hear we are to have a miniature peer added to the realm before many months are up. Good girl!”

  Sarah blushed a pretty pink. “I accept your congratulations, Ronald. Naturally we are delighted. But I wish George had not told you. I know you will tease me to pieces, for you always have.” She laughed up at his “Who, me?” look of mock surprise. “Well, I warn you, Ronald. I shall have the vapors or faint or do something equally dreadful if you do. You must remember what a delicate state I am in.”

  “Ho!” he bellowed. “You, delicate, Sarah? You may be built like a twittery little bird, you may even have bamboozled George into thinking you delicate. But I know you. Hardy as a bear. You’ll sail through the whole thing. Daresay you would have been on a horse’s back today if George hadn’t forbidden it.”

  “Well, I should have been,” she admitted. “What a bore it is! And I hear you had a famous run, too. Cesca could hardly stop talking about it, till I was green.” She let her eyes wander shortly around the room, checking on the progress of her guests. She saw Cesca dancing with Dudley Dalton, and received from her a a smile of encouragement. “Tell me, Ronald,” Sarah chattered on to her partner, “do you really think my party will be a success?”