by Megan Daniel
He knew he should speak to her, apologize, say something. She felt so wonderful in his arms, so warm and feminine, so right. He felt so close to her, closer than touching. He could not bring himself to break the spell.
They danced as if they were the only people in the room, locked in a dream. It was like no other dance either of them had ever known, full of melancholy and delight
Sarah, who had just taken the floor with her lord, watched them and smiled.
Caspar, fully expecting to do his duty and open the ball with his betrothed, was more than a bit taken aback when she waltzed off in the arms of another man. He was also strangely relieved, though he would not have been able to explain why. He turned to Priscilla. “Would you care to waltz, Miss Pennington?” he asked in his grave way.
Mrs. Pennington gave the girl no chance to answer. “Oh, sir. I am afraid Priscilla and his lordship are . . .” Devlin and Francesca waltzed by, oblivious both of Priscilla and of her mother. “Well!” the woman exclaimed.
“Thank you, Mr. Maltby,” said Priscilla very quickly to cover her embarrassment and even more to keep her mother from saying anything further. “I should be pleased.” She laid aside her crook and hurried away with him before she could be stopped.
To her surprise, she found herself enjoying the dance. It was a rather unique experience in her young life. Caspar found it pleasant as well. Miss Pennington was really such a very comfortable girl.
When the waltz finally ended, Francesca and Devlin reentered the realm of reality with something of a thud.
Before long they could expect the Duke to call for attention and make the momentous announcement of the double betrothal. They would then find themselves besieged by well-wishers. They would be required to stand hand in hand with their soon-to-be-spouses and be congratulated and accept it all with a happy smile. They neither of them felt overly happy.
They had, however, convinced themselves of the rightness of their action and they were ready to get on with it, impatient, even, to have the thing over and done with.
But the Duke seemed in no hurry to accommodate them. In answer to their queries, he found ways of putting them off. “Got to be just the right moment, y’know,” he said to Devlin. “Drama. Sarah likes that.” To Francesca he explained, “Make a big climax to the evening, y’see. More impact that way.” As His Grace had come up with no way to avoid what he saw as inevitable, he was doing what he could to put it off as long as possible. Sarah did not want the announcement made, and there was nothing the Duke would not do for his beloved Sarah. He wasn’t the brightest fellow around, he well knew, but Sarah thought he was, and he was in no hurry to abuse her of the notion. Given enough time, he might even come up with something that would do the trick.
And so the evening wore on in a swirl of color and sound and romance. Sir Algernon Pett danced again and again with his lovely wife, defying anyone to laugh at him for doing so. The Honorable Miss Lettice Hollys received and accepted an offer of marriage from the Honorable Mister Graham Symington, pending the approval of her father, which Mr. Symington intended to waste no time in obtaining. Jane Magness and Julia Dalton, seeing the hopelessness of their cause with Lord Devlin, turned their considerable charms to the other eligible gentlemen in the room, to gratifying effect.
Lord Devlin danced with Priscilla; Francesca danced with Caspar. It was to be expected that they would. But Mr. Maltby also danced with Miss Pennington. In fact, Pris so far forgot herself as to dance with the gentleman four times'. Her mother, assuming that Pris’s future was now secured, so far relaxed her vigilance as to adjourn to the card room, where she could sit comfortably over a hand of whist and ease her feet out of their too-tight shoes under the table and give up worrying over her daughter. Soon she would have to return to the ballroom to receive congratulations on her daughter’s good fortune. But until then ahhhh ...
Thus, there was no one about to shoo Caspar off nor to insist that she refuse him. It never occurred to Caspar to stay away on his own. Dancing with Miss Pennington seemed the most natural, harmless thing in the world. Actually, it very nearly was harmless as far as the censorious eyes of the others were concerned. No one but the two most directly involved even noticed. Both partners were so nearly insignificant that they drew no attention to themselves at all except when in the company of their betrotheds.
Francesca and Devlin, both of them in a reckless humor, did not notice either.
Lady Aurelm was the first to see the snow. It was just before midnight. The Duke had been growing very nervous, still thrashing about in his underactive imagination for some means of avoiding making the announcement. His worrying was quickly drowned out by the excited exclamations of delight and dismay that issued from the crowd at sight of the fluffy snow drifting down outside the long wall of windows. The younger members of the group crowed with pleasure; the oldsters worried and muttered about the difficulty of getting themselves home.
The drifting flakes were heavy and wet, and they clung wherever they touched. In no time at all, the ground was dusted with white, a veritable fairyland to complement the enchanted ballroom within. Sarah ran lightly to the window, her husband right behind her. “Oh, George!” she sighed. “How perfect!”
“Perfect?” he asked.
“Yes, of course. For the neighborhood guests will now all be anxious to get away before the snow grows too heavy. And we cannot be expected to make an announcement of any kind while we are bidding our guests good-bye.”
“By Jove, you’re right!” She put her hand on his arm and beamed up at him with such force that for a moment he almost believed that he had summoned up the snowstorm just for her benefit, clever fellow that he was.
Sarah was right; the ball did begin to break up almost at once. Carriages were called for, and wraps were fetched, and extra bedrooms were made ready for those who feared they would not be able to reach their homes in safety. Sarah rushed about here and there, prettily beseeching Francesca’s assistance and handling everyone and everything in a masterly fashion.
When the last guest had left and the last resident had gone upstairs to bed, all four members of the quadrille found themselves officially, or at least publicly, still unengaged.
19
Francesca arose early next morning with a light heart, an unusual circumstances of late. She couldn’t think why she should feel so optimistic. It must be the weather. The unexpected snowstorm had lightened her spirits; winter had always been her favorite season. She hopped from her bed and went to stand at the window.
The world had lost all its color; everything as far as she could see was draped in crystalline white. Bare branches were lacy with the snow; terraces and balustrades were smothered in it. Everything looked new and fresh and pure, unmarred as yet by so much as a single footprint.
In truth, there had not been more than a pair of inches, and it was so early in the season that even that much had been something of a freak occurrence. The snow would not last long. But it was enough for Francesca. She threw open her windows and breathed in the new winter.
A sound came to her ears, a light laugh. The snowy world below her was not quite deserted. She stepped out onto the small balcony outside her window and looked off toward the source of the happy sound. A heavily bundled figure appeared around the comer of the house, followed by another. Why, it was Caspar! There was no mistaking him even under the heavy overcoat, hat, and muffler he wore. And with him was Priscilla. She was wrapped up in an old woolen redingote, a serviceable hat, and thick mittens. Her mother must be still abed, else the girl would never have been allowed to be seen thus clothed.
The young couple did not see Francesca—odd how people never seem to look up—and she watched them with interest. She had never seen Caspar so informal, so relaxed. He was even laughing. With amazement she saw him scoop up a handful of the wet snow, form it into a serviceable ball, and throw it at his companion. He was pelted in return, with rather good aim as it happened, and they both laughed.
; “Shall I make a snow angel?” came Priscilla’s clear happy voice.
“A what?”
“You do not know about snow angels?” she said. “Watch!” She threw herself onto her back in the snow, laughing delightedly all the while, and swished her arms back and forth. “There!” she said triumphantly. He took the hand she reached up to him and pulled her to her feet, being careful not to disturb the snow. She stepped back to show off her handiwork. “You see?” she said. “That is a snow angel.”
When Caspar looked down at her with the snow clinging to her head and shoulders and her eyes shining with her high spirits, he did look rather like a man gazing at an angel, but a decidedly warm and living one.
Francesca, who was almost directly over their heads, began to feel distinctly uncomfortable. She was clearly not meant to witness what she was witnessing. But if she moved now, she would only draw attention to herself, and that would make for a very uncomfortable encounter. She remained where she was.
Caspar never did know what got into him that morning. He was acting totally unlike himself. But when he looked down at this girl, at the damp brown curls that escaped her hat, at the round cheeks pink with cold and pleasure, something he could not control made him lean
over and kiss her. It was a pure, simple kiss, a sweet kiss, so much sweeter and more tender than the kiss he had given Francesca. It was a kiss filled with joy.
But then the lighthearted joy disappeared and it became a kiss filled with horror. What was he doing? He was a cad of the worst sort! He was engaged to marry another woman. What must Miss Pennington be thinking of him?
Priscilla closed her eyes and savored the kiss, the gentlest, kindest kiss she could imagine. But when she realized what she was doing, her eyes flew open in dismay. She let out a gasp; she covered her face with her hands; and she ran away, her quick steps silent on the snow.
Caspar watched her go. Francesca watched him watch her go. She heard him exclaim, “Damme!” in a totally uncharacteristic fashion, saw him shove his hands deep in the pockets of his overcoat and walk away in the opposite direction.
Alone again, Francesca shivered from the cold and let out a long sigh. But the tiniest of smiles was creeping, almost unbidden, up one comer of her mouth. And the cold did not seem able to penetrate to her insides. Her mind told her over and over how terribly upset she was by the little scene she had just witnessed. But a definite glow seemed to be warming her from somewhere deep inside, somewhere in the vicinity of her heart
The freak snowstorm had temporarily put an end to all plans for immediate departure. Trunks and valises were reopened. Abigails and valets were sent scurrying to repress pantaloons and morning dresses so that their masters and mistresses might keep up their sartorial splendor.
The breakfast table buzzed with chatter about the weather and speculations about the state of the roads and how long the snow was likely to remain on the ground. Everyone seemed in high spirits, even Francesca, though she could not imagine why she should be.
She was anxious for a moment alone with Devlin. She really must inform him of the surprising development she had discovered that morning. But Pris was seated next to him, unsmiling and silent as the grave. And Caspar was beside Francesca, pouring out her coffee and trying unsuccessfully to smile. He conspicuously avoided looking at Priscilla. Francesca frowned. How to get off alone with Devlin? She could scarce come out and say, “Meet me in the library,” in front of everyone. She must bide her time yet awhile.
The others at the table were busily making plans for their morning. Sarah suggested having runners put to one or two of the carriages for a sleigh ride. Jane Magness thought a snowman-building competition would be amusing. The enthusiasm of the company was infectious.
“I say, George,” said Lord Devlin. “You must have a sled or two about the place. There’s a perfect sledding hill just back of the house.”
“Oh, yes!” cried Lady Aurelm, who had grown up at Hockleigh. “Remember how we used to race each other there, Georgie?” she said to her brother. “Do find the sleds. The children would love it so.”
“The children?” exclaimed Devlin. “T would love it. I hereby challenge all comers to a sledding race down that hill”
“You’re on!” came a chorus of voices.
The company dispersed to change into attire somewhat more suited to such hoydenish behavior and high spirits. When Francesca came down again, warmly and prettily attired in a fur-lined cherry pelisse and a shako hat edged with sable and with her hands tucked into a large sable muff, Caspar was waiting for her.
“The sleighs are waiting, my dear,” he said gravely. “I was persuaded you would wish to join the outing.”
“Then you were persuaded wrong, dear Caspar,” she replied. “I am going sledding.”
“Sledding?” he asked. It did not exactly fit his idea of an activity suitable to a young lady.
“Certainly. Who would choose to ride along in a sedate old sleigh when one can be whooshing down a hillside at great speed? I intend to beat Lord Devlin to the bottom.”
“But surely, my dear ...”
“Oh, don’t be so stuffy, Caspar. You need not whoosh with me, after all. I know very well it is not in your style. Take Priscilla for a sleighride. I’m sure she would like it of all things.”
As Priscilla was standing not ten feet away, and as Francesca was smiling at her encouragingly, he could not simply ignore this surprising statement. In a low voice he began, “I am sure Miss Pennington—”
“Come, Pris,” said Francesca. “Would you not like to join the sleigh ride? I would count it a very great favor if you would keep Caspar company for me.” She sent up a prayer of thanks that Mrs. Pennington was nowhere to be seen.
Priscilla raised her eyes to Francesca, then to Caspar, then looked down again. She dared not speak. Caspar, despite his preference for the country over town, was a well-brought-up gentleman. Good manners dictated that he invite Priscilla to accompany him. He did so. She nodded her acceptance.
“That’s settled, then,” said Francesca briskly, shooing them out the door. She saw them safely ensconced in the sleigh, making quite certain that they were seated side by side, then headed up the sledding hill with an easy heart.
She reached the top of the hill to find Devlin directing the disposition of sleds and the laying out of routes down the steep slope. He had donned a heavy fisherman’s pullover under his coat and knotted a long knit muffler around his neck. His cheeks were glowing under their tan, and he was laughing. She thought he looked just like an eager schoolboy granted an unexpected holiday.
“Hey, Cesca! Over here!” he called “Where’s Caspar? Not up for a bit of sport?”
“He’s gone for a sleigh ride with some of the others.” She looked at him thoughtfully. “I really must speak with you, Dev.”
He looked at her and stopped smiling. “Serious?”
“Quite serious, I’m afraid.”
“Well, then, it must wait. Nothing serious is allowed on a sledding hill, you know. Come on.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her to a sled.
Before long she was lying on her stomach on a silly red bit of board, careening down the hillside and loving it She screamed with delight when her sled ran into a drift and flipped her into the white powder. Devlin laughingly prilled her out and brushed her off.
They sledded for nearly two hours, the most purely joyful hours Francesca could remember spending in years. She carried Gussie’s children down the hill with her several times, delighting in their delight, getting very wet and dirty along with them, and enjoying herself hugely.
As the merry group finally trudged back to the house, ravenously hungry and ready for lunch, the sleigh riders pulled up the drive. Unlike the fun on the hill, it had been a largely silent ride, at least on that side of the one sleigh carrying Caspar and Priscilla. But their eyes had been chattering madly awajr at each other for the whole drive, declaring all those things they would not allow their mouths to utter. The major mes
sage they both conveyed was, “God help me, I love you.”
Priscilla had never expected to find love. Now that she had, she was wretched. It seemed that she was destined to go through life with nothing ever turning out right Why must she discover Mr. Maltby only after she had been persuaded to marry someone else? More importantly, why must Mr. Maltby discover her just when he had offered for Lady Francesca?
When Lord Devlin had informed her of Francesca’s
betrothal, she had felt little. She barely knew Mr. Maltby then, and she was too wrapped up in her own problems to give the matter much thought. That was before she realized what a warm, intelligent, thoroughly wonderful gentleman he was.
Could one really fall in love so quickly? she asked herself. Especially with a man one had met several times with no reaction whatever? Apparently one could. Apparently one did.
Caspar’s thoughts were not far different from those of the girl beside him, though perhaps tinged rather more heavily with guilt. He knew very well that Priscilla was engaged to another man—the man had told him of it personally—and he knew even better that he was engaged to another woman. As a gentleman, he could never honorably cry off from his betrothal to Francesca. He wasn’t certain how the entire thing had come about. It was very unlike him to act so rashly. But that was just what he had done. And now he must live with the consequences of his own folly. He must live without Miss Pennington.
Francesca, standing near the window of the dining room, where a hearty buffet luncheon had been laid on, saw Caspar tenderly lift Priscilla from the sleigh. Setting her on her feet, he allowed his hands to remain a brief moment on her waist while he gazed down at her. Then he suddenly dropped his eyes, and Priscilla hurried away into the house.