“Uncle Guthrie said Dr. Jenner will never be knighted because he was kind to Princess Caroline.”
Eyeing Kitty, Quintilla shrugged her shoulders and walked over to the window opposite the one with the garden view. “I shall never understand the thinking behind political moves ... Oh, Kitty, come look at the sky! How beautiful!”
Kitty joined Quintilla to watch the ribbons of pale apricot that streaked the grey sky to the southwest. The late afternoon sun was trying to break through leaden skies.
“I would like to have a dress with those colours swirling through it,” Quintilla enthused, “or fly up there to see if there is more apricot behind the grey. I wonder if a balloon goes that high?”
“Umm. Tilla, do you suppose he will be in the Cravenhursts’ library tonight?” Kitty slowly walked along the bookshelves, bumping her hand along the spines of the folios and quartos and octavos holding the sum of medical knowledge since Hippocrates in Sir Ian’s book collection.
Quintilla leaned against the wall of the window’s embrasure, arms enfolding her breast. “I think I must have dreamed the encounter in the Storrs’ library.”
“But you said you saw him from the carriage when you and Aunt Margaret drove to Coram’s Foundling Hospital.”
“Yes. He was walking ... with such determination, not strolling along, but—”
“Well, no one casually strolls on the north side of London, Tilla, only in Mayfair, on Bond Street, or in the Park. Aunt Margaret is always telling me I walk too fast.” Kitty imitated her aunt, “Gracefully, Kitty, gracefully,” and sank onto the maroon leather seat of the chair she had earlier abandoned.
Quintilla crossed the room to join her. Elbows on the table, chin in her hands, she stared through the window at vague outlines of the garden’s lush greenery, grown indistinct in the late afternoon fog. “I think he might be poor.”
“Why?”
“The scientific method.”
“Observe. Observe.” The two laughingly chanted in unison the commonplace of a family familiar with physicians trained by John Hunter. Forty years before, Sir Ian Guthrie and Dr. Edward Jenner had met in the Hunter home, where the beloved curmudgeon required his medical students to be scientists rather than armed savages indiscriminately wielding lancet and saw.
Quintilla continued. “I observed him walking and deduced he cannot afford a carriage. He walked as if he had come a long way, firmly resolved to get where he wanted to be—perhaps to make his fortune through the door I saw him enter. He does not attend many social affairs because he is too busy earning his way. He is probably too tired at the end of the day to charm the queens of society and its flirts.”
Kitty wriggled in her chair to get more comfortable. Quintilla always contrived such interesting stories.
“And he cannot afford to share the interests of wealthy acquaintances.” Abruptly, Quintilla stopped weaving her tale. “Do you think there is a possibility?”
Kitty, startled, asked, “A possibility for what?”
“A possibility that I might sell this story for publication?”
Kitty slumped back in her chair. “What else have you observed, Tilla?”
“I know how he feels, to not fit in, to be different. Oh, Kitty, how comfortable to be like everyone else! It is a curse to be unconformable!”
Kitty said nothing. She was too surprised at the suddenly serious direction in which her cousin had taken the conversation. Quintilla had always seemed wonderfully different, so much cleverer—except when it came to boys and flirting, of course.
“A curse to be special, Tilla?”
“Am I special, Kitty?”
“Oh, yes, Tilla. Yes!”
“Then, to hell with being special!”
Shocked silence. Kitty had never heard Quintilla use such language. Her eyes, unusually bright, flashed fire, daring Kitty to scold.
Quintilla jumped from her chair to the window looking southward to the Thames. Silently, she stood for a moment. When she turned around, her usual warm smile lit her face. “There is still some apricot in the sky,” she said.
Kitty’s heartbeat resumed its steady pace. “Will you wear tonight what you wore to Mrs. Pelham’s Venetian breakfast, or what you wore to Lady Treward’s rout?” Her soft voice returned the room to its usual quiet calm.
“We did not attend Lady Treward’s rout, if you recall. At the last minute, we went instead to the theatre, as Dr. Jenner’s guests. You know how he loves the theatre.”
“I had forgotten. It was such a dreary play. I do not understand Shakespeare most of the time,” Kitty complained.
“Neither do I. But Lady Treward’s rout would have been as dreary, I am convinced. I do not believe she has ever read a book ... nor does she know anyone who has!”
“I never read books.”
“Oh, you do,” Quintilla denied her young cousin’s self-belittling.
“I only listen to the ones you read us ... Kitty paused, squirming in her chair. “Tilla, Aunt Margaret has found some widowers for you, and they are coming to dine.”
Quintilla swallowed. A few guests at a few family dinners—harmless enough. Why then did she want to cringe? “How do you know this?”
“I heard Aunt Margaret give orders to Cook Hopkins. You are not to know so you will not have time to fret. We are to have roast pork ... and cake made with raspberry cordial.”
“When—who?” Quintilla swallowed again. Was the Plan truly her last chance, her only chance for a life at her own fireside?
“Mr. Pomfret-Page comes tomorrow evening. The next night, a Mr. Blumpton. He is a librarian, so Aunt Margaret hopes you two will have something in common.”
“Doth the bridegroom cometh?” asked Quintilla, sighing. “Now I wish I knew what you know about men and courtship.”
“I have shown you over and over how to use a fan.”
“Yes, and I can never keep from laughing. Such posturing and posing.” Quintilla pulled back her head and regarded her cousin skeptically, and then changed course. “A cake made with raspberry cordial?”
“Yes. Wouldn’t some taste good now?”
“Then, let us head for tea by the fire in the rose room,” said Quintilla, a suggestion of such wisdom it was immediately followed.
As the cousins sped through the garden, Quintilla asked again, “Mr. Pomfret-Page?”
“And Mr. Blumpton.”
Quintilla shivered. June, and still so cold.
4
The social pace grew more frenzied as the date of the Regent’s Fete drew near. A frantic buzz from swarming revellers accosted Warrick when he entered the Cravenhurst mirrored ballroom just after midnight. Edwina, Woodville cousin in tow, appeared immediately from behind one of the orange trees that marched around the room’s perimeter in gilded jardinières.
She pounced instantly. “Warrick! You must meet my cousin, Miss Eunice Woodville.”
Warrick assessed the heralded relative. Wars were started in antiquity over such beauty as Miss Woodville’s. Smoothed tawny hair formed a chignon just behind the crown of her head, while a few soft curls escaped to frame her oval face with its classically perfect features. She was tall. Her tawny eyes gazed directly into Warrick’s, and promised—what?—before she lowered heavy lashes during the formal introduction.
“Miss Woodville,” Warrick acknowledged, “do you enjoy your London stay?”
“I am having a fine time, Lord Eysley,” she demurely responded. One small topaz suspended from a thin gold chain around her slender throat drew his eyes down to the well-proportioned figure her white muslin gown did not conceal.
“With Storr in the north at Mama’s, we have not gone about as much as I would wish, Warrick,” said Edwina, looking like a ripe pear in pale yellow flecked with gold. “When one is lacking an escort, one is limited in the places one may go.”
“Indeed,” Warrick agreed. “Storr is with your mother in Yorkshire? Too harsh a punishment, Edwina.”
“Mama needs a man’s viewpoint on
certain matters. Since William has left her side—.” Edwina’s voice was edgy, her face stern, until she remembered the evening’s primary goal. “When you sent William away, you truly hampered efforts to maintain our social position, Warrick.” Edwina pushed the end of her ivory fan into Warrick’s upper arm.
“What have you not seen, Miss Woodville, that you are longing to see?” Warrick asked.
“Well, she has not seen the horses at Astley’s Circus.” Edwina smiled.
“Miss Woodville?” Warrick again looked into her velvet eyes.
“No, I have not seen the horses at Astley’s Circus.”
“A pity. I hear the spectacle is quite unexceptionable.” With a faint smile, Warrick made another attempt. “Doubtless you have sampled the shops?”
“Yes, Lord Eysley.”
“And did you find them filled with items you could not resist?”
“Yes. They are very fine.”
“She should see the flowers at Kew Gardens,” Edwina interjected firmly.
“Yes. I like flowers. They are so ...”
“Fine?” Warrick assisted her.
“Yes!” Miss Woodville’s pleasure at this meeting of their minds evoked the first real expression on her exquisite face, until now, devoid of emotion.
“Edwina, your young relative is all I expected. Accept my felicitations, Miss Woodville. I am reminded once again of what I miss by not maintaining closer ties with your family.” Almost as an afterthought, Warrick added, “Please put me down for a dance, if there is room on your programme.”
“Fine, Lord Eysley,” the goddess replied.
“And shall we say later in the week for a trip to Kew Gardens?” Edwina persevered.
Warrick raised his eyebrows. “I think not. I return to Devon.”
He walked away from Edwina’s exasperation, taking no pleasure in having obstructed her well-laid plan. Few young women in society overcame their evident discomfort in his presence to stammer out more than the usual phrases of flirtation or weather comments. The bold ones, matching his self-assurance, did not have the conversation to command his attention, much less hold his interest. When did simpering misses become the fashion?
His dance obligations met, Warrick sought the isolation of the Cravenhurst library, a spacious room in the wing opposite the ballroom. Taupe velvet curtains hid windows closed against the night’s chill. He sat in one of the tapestry-covered bergère armchairs grouped in a semi-circle around the large fireplace, where the fire’s smoke merged with the aroma of fine tobacco in his cigar.
He could not suppress thoughts of Miss Woodville. Someone had done a brilliant job of retarding her ability to think. What had been perpetrated in the name of social achievement?
Edwina would not rest until she had him leg-shackled to one of her relatives. Why not put his stepsister out of her misery and take on this current beauty? What would she be like in bed? Did those eyes hint at suppressed passion—or vacuity? Probably she could be taught to converse on something besides the ... fine weather.
Further ally himself to the Woodvilles! Umh, no! Yet here he was, unattached, without even regrets over lost loves.
The click of an opening door interrupted his ruminations, and he looked to the source of the sound. By God! The elusive object of his search, here! That warm smile lighting her face, the same shimmering blue dress. His strategy of pursuit had succeeded! How else to explain the elation that surged through him?
Slipping between the half-opened double doors, Quintilla paused. It was he! As darkly handsome and assured as she remembered! The sudden onset of a howling gale inside her threatened her ability to stand. Did he feel its force? She did, and clung to the edge of the door for support. “Do I interrupt?”
Warrick stood. “No. I believe we have a waltz to finish.”
“Yes! I am happy you remembered.” To be wanted—if only for a dance—by this exciting man! Glorious!
Hurrying towards him, she tripped. He caught her hands, and they stood, hands joined, expectantly regarding each other. Slowly they began to circle the long length of the room. Quintilla looked up into his eyes with their gleam of welcome, and felt the warmth of his hands holding hers. Against his lean strength, the gale could not wreak its havoc. Faster, then faster, they whirled, the faint spicy smell of him enveloping them, until Warrick deposited her, breathless, in one of the armchairs circling the fire.
“What fun! I do love to dance!” And I will take care not to waltz into heartache, she reminded herself.
Warrick bowed. “You have been dancing with Warrick Dhever.” He sat in the chair next to her, his enigmatic smile disguising the intensity of his interest in this unconventional girl.
“Mr. Dhever, the dance was a great pleasure for Quintilla Davenant.”
“An unusual name.”
“Generations ago there was a fifth daughter. Her name had been maintained among her descendants.”
“My perception of possible danger from a thief trying to break in prompted the interruption of our last dance.” Warrick watched her reaction.
“A thief?” Her eyes questioned him. “I had wondered, of course.”
She did not seem upset at the idea. “My perception proved false,” Warrick confessed. “A somewhat tipsy young relative of the house was trying to fumble his way in.”
“I am glad there was no danger for you to face alone. I could have assisted you.” When he looked at her askance, she explained, “Run for a footman, or screamed loudly to frighten the man away.”
Warrick smiled. “I did not know I was with a lady who would cry for help instead of her hartshorn.” He studied the appealing figure next to him—sloping shoulders, small, well-rounded breasts. The uplifted chin suggested she would not falter, even when most afraid. “What makes you assume a thief would have been a man? It might have been a woman ... a bored guest, perhaps.”
“Indeed.” Quintilla sighed, and shifted in her chair. She seemed uncomfortable with his admiring catalogue of her person. “I pity many who break the law, Mr. Dhever, who almost have to break the law in order to survive. I know if my children were hungry, and I had nothing, I would break the law to feed them.”
“You would steal what someone had worked very hard for?” Warrick tensed.
“If my children were hungry!” Quintilla defied him.
“And how are your children?”
She could not suppress the smile lurking around the corners of her mouth. “Hungry!” Quintilla laughed, and then, immediately contrite, said, “This is a serious, ethical question, I know, but you spoke so righteously—and I did not like the way you were appraising me.”
“How?”
“Oh, like a tiger—who sees a good dinner.”
“And you know exactly how tigers regard their next meal.” Warrick could not control his laughter at her unorthodox conversation. The chaperon of this chit should never leave her side.
Quintilla brushed aside a wave of hair that had fallen over her forehead during the vigorous defence of her nonexistent children. “What social catastrophes induce you to seek refuge in libraries, Mr. Dhever?”
Warrick deliberated. “Yet another account of the military strategy that beat the French at Barrosa ... a list of Whigs capable of leading the party back to power—”
“Certainly you were not spared the most recent on dit concerning Lady Caroline Lamb?”
“Nor the latest figures on what the Prince of Wales is spending on next week’s fete to celebrate his official designation as Regent,” Warrick added.
“I heard it was ten thousand pounds.”
“I believe it now amounts to fifteen thousand,” he replied. In the pause after this exchange, he watched with amusement as she considered her next statement. With that expressive face, she would make a poor card-player.
“My family has a friend, Dr. Jenner, Dr. Edward Jenner. Have you heard of him?” Quintilla proceeded cautiously.
When Warrick shook his head, she continued. “He developed the vaccina
tion for smallpox. Because of him, thousands of lives are now being saved that never would have been in the past. Think of a world free from smallpox!” She leaned forward, her fervour growing, then relaxed when she noted Warrick’s failure to match her mounting enthusiasm. “Dr. Jenner has devoted his life and most of his monies to the better health of mankind. Yet when friends sought government money to aid him in his work, Parliament, after months of debate, granted him ten thousand pounds.”
“You do not think this adequate?” Warrick pondered the passing thought of altruistic motives behind a theft from Edwina’s desk—assuming there had actually been a theft. Perhaps this animated beauty was a Robin Hood, stealing from the healthy to give to the sick.
“Not when fifteen thousand pounds is spent on one party ... or on the turn of one card in a ... gambling den! You, Mr. Dhever, do not like the world’s conversation. I, sir, do not like what the world does with much of its money!” Her eyes blazed, and the capricious wave of hair again dropped over her forehead.
Heaven help me, a reformer! Warrick inwardly shuddered. Perhaps she stole to punish the gambling Lord Storr—the idea intruded again. Damn Edwina for planting the suspicion!
Quintilla’s delighted laughter recalled him from his dismay. “You fled the ballroom to escape boring society chatter, only to find yourself trapped with a bluestocking!”
“Or an Evangelical. I hope, Miss Davenant, you do not intend to start here in this library to make the world a more moral one.”
“My apologies, Mr. Dhever.”
“Why aren’t you dancing, flashing your impudent smile in the ballroom?”
Quintilla hesitated before plunging into her explanation. “I am a watcher, languishing on the border of ballrooms, longing to dance but no one will ask, filled with intelligent conversation and no one to listen.” Her airy account concealed the pain of her isolation. Shipwrecked on the seas of social bias was doing it up too brown, she thought, and ceased her chatter. In making light of the situation—before anyone else could—she sometimes went too far, and instead of being a wit, she played the fool.
Waltz with a Stranger Page 4