Waltz with a Stranger

by Martha Lou Thomas

  There was no constraint in the exchange of pleasantries between the converging trios. Quintilla had divulged to Kitty only those particulars of the disastrous library encounter dealing with the fraudulent Amos. However, the subdued behaviour of the usually ebullient Quintilla had led Lady Guthrie to suggest the Kew jaunt, and Kitty to accommodate the necessary early rising. Smudges under Quintilla’s eyes hinted of a possible sleepless night. Kitty’s suspicions were confirmed when Quintilla now kept her distance from Warrick Dhever, the Baron Eysley.

  Introductions completed, Miss Woodville in honeyed tones enquired of Quintilla, “Are you suffering?”

  “In the midst of a garden? Never!” Oh, people meant to be kind. One could only politely indulge their curiosity...

  Quintilla could not bear to look at Warrick. She trembled with discomfort in his presence, and was glad the brim of her small white satin hat was at least wide enough to hide her eyes.

  “We must applaud Miss Woodville’s enquiring mind, Miss Davenant. It should broaden the scope of her conversation, which is sorely needed.” Warrick smiled at his friend. Her dress of fine cambric muslin matched those hidden eyes and the brilliant blue sky. How was he to convey his apology to her in front of this crowd? “Miss Davenant?”

  “Yes, Lord Eysley. It should.” Quintilla withdrew behind her aunt’s height.

  Edwina had seen Warrick’s usually cold visage take on a surprising warmth at sight of the elder Guthrie niece. Further, Lady Storr had experienced the force with which he had rushed her and Eunice down the incline to Quintilla Davenant’s side. The dutiful stepsister felt her interests threatened, and wondered if she had erred in attributing to a charitable impulse Warrick’s gift of the old music stand. She kept to his side, to stay abreast of any development that would indicate more unexpected strength from the unacceptable outsider. It might be necessary to strike before Warrick realised the extent of his interest in the young woman—a fetching thing, if one overlooked the prominent limp.

  “How did it happen?” Eunice Woodville’s enquiring mind struck again. “Your lameness?”

  “A congenital aberration,” Quintilla answered glibly. Seeing the Exquisite’s confused look, Quintilla hastily translated, “I was born this way,” before any further explanation was requested. She wished Warrick and his ladies would pursue their own tour of the gardens. To the contrary, it seemed to be a foregone conclusion the six would amble together midst the floral grandeur, participants in some stately court dance.

  Only Miss Woodville could not be described as stately, sustaining her winsome ways in front of the slowly progressing pavane. With increasing frequency, she called out to remind everyone how pretty it all was. And Edwina left little room for daylight between herself and her stepbrother.

  “Have you been to the rose gardens yet?” Lady Guthrie asked, taking on the part of hostess.

  “Oh, yes,” said Lady Storr. “We saw Winifred Ambleton with Lord Uxbridge there.”

  “It was so pretty,” Eunice Woodville chirped from her advance position.

  “Edwina,” Warrick spoke in a low voice, “you must give that child a list of ten adjectives to memorise when you return to Eysley House. Her vocabulary is as slender as her form.”

  “And did you see the gardenias Captain Bligh brought back from the South Seas?” Lady Guthrie further enquired.

  Edwina, Lady Storr, dispensed information for her faction. “I cannot like them. Too sweet a smell.”

  “I liked the Ruined Arch,” Kitty added.

  “We have not been here long, so have yet to see that.” Edwina’s tone of voice discouraged Kitty from a tally of the gardens’ interesting sights.

  Warrick moved closer to the “hostess.” “Lady Guthrie, I have purchased a new flute, a clarinet, and a recorder, so I am prepared for almost any musical contingency when I return home. Your melodious evenings inspired me.”

  “We did enjoy your participation, Lord Eysley,” Lady Guthrie graciously acknowledged. “Lady Storr, I did not realise there was such musical talent in your family.”

  “Eunice has the potential, I believe, for even greater musical accomplishments,” said her relative.

  “How fortunate,” murmured Lady Guthrie.

  Warrick could almost pity Edwina as her attempts to promote her cousin Eunice grew ludicrous. And pity was a dangerous emotion to feel towards his stepsister, a skilled manipulator of men.

  He queried Lady Guthrie. “I suppose you have not yet attended the exhibit of the Painters in Water-Colours?”

  “Oh, such a pretty view.” Again, Miss Woodville was heard from.

  “As a matter of fact, Lord Eysley, Kitty and I attend this afternoon, as guests of Mrs. Delaney and her son, who is heir to Viscount Lyle. He was quite taken with Kitty at your ball, Lady Storr.” Lady Guthrie nodded at her younger niece, who smiled obligingly.

  “He looks a bit like a rabbit, Lady Guthrie,” Edwina commented smugly from her stubbornly-held post by Warrick’s side. “But he should do very nicely for Kitty. A matched pair of blonds, so to speak. We, of course, look towards a family connexion for Eunice.”

  Intolerable! Warrick toyed with the idea of smacking his stepsister in the rump. Would she gallop off? Too much to hope for. He was no closer to speaking to Quintilla, who had paused to bury her face in a flowering shrub. “You prefer water-colours, Miss Fairfield, to Astley’s horses?” Warrick queried the maiden, who turned a placid face towards him.

  “It would not be safe to take a rabbit to be trampled by the horses” was Kitty’s reply. She smiled broadly in Edwina’s direction. “Actually, I am waiting for you to take me, Lord Eysley.”

  Before he could answer, Edwina leapt into the conversational pool. “We were just talking about horses, before we saw you. Eysley and I agree how vital to successful breeding are sound lines. They cannot be stressed too much.”

  Quintilla looked up at the complex pattern of an elm tree’s leaves against the bright sky. There it was again, the same message. Love and the fun of courtship—the coy glances and promising smiles—were not for her, since she could not deliver the perfection of sound lines. She grew tired of the constant refrain.

  She stumbled on the path, watching the sky instead of where she was going. Warrick caught her arm. Instantly, Quintilla pulled away from him. Was that pity in his eyes? Insupportable!

  She was driven to speak, waspishly polite. “Rather foolish when you think about it, all that care and breeding when their brains are so very small.”

  Aha! thought Warrick gleefully. At last, there flashed a spark of Quintilla’s fire! Except she was striking out instead of striking at, which would get her nowhere. He had seen the wounded look in her eyes and chafed at his feeling of helplessness in easing her distress. Edwina was a redoubtable opponent, even for a hoary fighter in society.

  “They have enough brains, Miss Davenant, enough brains to perform successfully what is required of them,” Edwina sweetly responded. “I take it you are not fond of horses.”

  “I find it difficult, Lady Storr, to admire brawn over brains, or to be too interested in breeding when the only thing required is pulling a plough, or a cart.”

  Quintilla’s charm and intelligence had developed within the loving atmosphere of a family structure that took its direction from her parents’ positive attitude, and she was unused to the hostilities sometimes present in social intercourse. Unschooled in social combat, she surprised herself with the flow of words on a topic for which she cared not one whit—the breeding of horses, for heaven’s sake! There had been more to it, though, than the breeding of horses.

  Had she been rude to Lady Storr? If so, it showed an inexcusable want of propriety. Looking about the strolling group, Quintilla saw no great alteration, no shocked expressions on any of them in reaction to her outburst. She concluded she had not erred, and continued quietly as before to appreciate the sylvan views.

  Lady Guthrie could only wonder at Quintilla’s sudden strong opinion on horses, a subject she
never seemed too interested in before. All of this talk of breeding, and spawning, in mixed company! Her ladyship felt sure there were hidden currents to this conversation, but was at a loss to determine them.

  “Look, Cousin Warrick, how pretty.”

  Warrick walked to Quintilla’s side and placed her hand in the crook of his arm. Responding foolishly to the appealing power of Warrick’s presence could only lead to further hurt and rejection, and Quintilla tried to withdraw from his handclasp. Firmly he held on. Then he peered down under the brim of the white satin hat framing her flushed face. She stared at him in trepidation, confused by his motives. Had he forgotten their devastating confrontation? The strength of his hand was strangely comforting.

  Warrick straightened up and said, “I have heard from Dr. Lopez.”

  In startled surprise, Quintilla looked up at his face, impassive but for an odd light in his eyes. “Dr. Lopez?” she repeated gingerly.

  “Yes. He confessed to me how deeply he regrets the poison administered to his ... patroness.”

  Edwina, from Warrick’s other side, expressed her outrage. “One simply cannot trust foreigners.”

  Warrick ignored the interruption as his eyes held Quintilla’s. “He greatly admires her and cannot conceive what possessed him to destroy such a cordial association ... through his improper actions.”

  The physician’s wife spoke. “I cannot identify him, Lord Eysley. Does this Dr. Lopez practice in London?”

  “No, Lady Guthrie.” Warrick’s eyes never wavered from Quintilla’s. “Dr. Lopez wonders if recovery is possible.”

  “You might want him to consult with Sir Ian.” Lady Guthrie’s advice reflected her pride of place in the medical world.

  Cautiously, Quintilla replied, “No doubt ... the patroness shares his hope for a complete recovery ... from the poison.”

  “I think the return of trust is important, too, Miss Davenant. Do you agree?”

  Softly, soberly, Quintilla answered Warrick, “Yes,” suppressing fears of future pain, future rejection—when he married a family connexion. “I doubt it ever left. I know I would prefer to trust, and be in error, than to err in not trusting,” she continued, removing her hand from the crook of his arm.

  “Dr. Lopez would be most pleased to hear your judgement.” Warrick’s confidence in the day was confirmed. He filled his lungs with the extraordinary fresh air and reconquered Quintilla’s hand, which he again imprisoned in the crook of his arm.

  “He does not sound like much of a physician to me,” Edwina muttered.

  “No, he is not. He quite lost his head, but I have a certain fondness for him, and would like to see him again well established in his relationships.”

  Warrick’s eyes had not left Quintilla’s face during this exchange.

  She now closed her eyes and turned away from his warm smile so he could not see what she thought must be blatantly revealed on her face. She wished, how she longed for him to lean down and kiss her lips, right here, under the towering evergreen, forgetting everyone else. Her only brush with la grande passion. Of course, it was impossible, but she had never experienced a romantic kiss, and she wanted to, with Warrick.

  “So many foreigners here.” Edwina would not forget her outrage. “All those French émigrés. How do we know they are not spies, every one of them?”

  “Oh, what a pretty little house.” Eunice Woodville pointed to a miniature Grecian temple, eight columns beneath a hemispherical dome, which graced the top of the wooded mound.

  “Miss Woodville,” said Kitty, “let’s investigate.” The bored young woman, without looking to her Aunt Guthrie for an approving nod, sprinted through the grasses thick with wildflowers on her way to the sundrenched top of the hillock.

  Miss Eunice Woodville watched for a moment, rapidly twirling her parasol. She drew near to Quintilla, and leaned confidentially close to sympathise. “I am sorry you are crippled and cannot run with us, Miss Davenant.” Then, holding her parasol high, she bounded after Kitty.

  The lilting cadence of their girlish cries while mounting the hill and circling the Grecian folly intensified the idyllic nature of the country scene. Their squeals of delight were a reminder of how recent their exit from childhood had been.

  “If she had seen you dance, Miss Davenant, she would have insisted you accompany them,” Warrick said ironically, as the remaining four continued their slow promenade.

  “Thank you, Lord Eysley. She has not persuaded me to fully embrace feelings of inadequacy, if that is what concerns you.” The sparkle had returned to Quintilla’s eyes above her wry smile. She had to assume Miss Woodville was childishly frank rather than deliberately cruel.

  “What concerns me is who let her out of the nursery.” Warrick spoke directly to the hovering Edwina.

  “I did not know you two had shared a dance,” said Miss Woodville’s disgruntled chaperon.

  “In every library in London,” answered Warrick. Let her feed that to her gossiping acquaintances! “And how are your children, Miss Davenant, the hungry ones?”

  “Well you should ask, Lord Eysley, when they are just as much your responsibility as mine.”

  Quintilla’s radiant smile of mischief should have alerted Edwina, but it did not. That lady concentrated on her unruffled appearance in the face of collapsing expectations. She had moved too fast, allowing the look on Warrick’s face to cloud her wits. Edwina was astounded at the extent of the camaraderie between Warrick and Quintilla Davenant. It had gone far enough for them to have a mutual acquaintance. She would have to see what she could find out about this Dr. Lopez, and, if possible, meet him.

  “Lady Storr,” Lady Guthrie gently tried to calm her companion. “No need for raised eyebrows. I know they mean the children from Coram’s Foundling Hospital. I did not know you, too, helped the worthy group, Lord Eysley.”

  “He is planning to, Aunt, on my recommendation.”

  “Tell me about the foundling hospital, Lady Guthrie,” Warrick encouraged her.

  Here was a golden opportunity for Lady Guthrie. She enjoyed basking in the grateful thanks of those for whom she played benefactress. How very gratifying to have the interested support of so distinguished a nobleman as the Baron Eysley. In the past, she had questioned some of Quintilla’s ... adoptees, but this time the girl triumphed in pulling such a prize in her orbit. If only Quintilla—so much better qualified to be an Incomparable than the foolish Miss Woodville—had been eligible. How satisfying to have had under one’s roof a wedding of great import.

  Walking side by side in the magic of reconciliation, Quintilla and Warrick increasingly revelled in their repartee. Edwina could not share their amusement, but Lady Guthrie did.

  When, at a juncture of paths by a grove of birch trees, the four encountered Mr. Henry Pomfret-Page with Mrs. Adelaide Percy and her very curvaceous young daughter, their slow progression halted temporarily.

  Edwina whispered to Lady Guthrie, “I shall not be surprised to see Pomfret-Page begin to scout everyone’s nursery. He is too old to act the schoolboy.”

  Kitty appeared, to sidle up beside Quintilla. The rambunctious girl took her cousin’s hand to pull her away, hurrying them around a curve in the walk before speaking. “Miss Woodville is stuck on top of the Ruined Arch.” More disgust than concern filled Kitty’s voice.

  “What!” Quintilla could not help laughing. She and Kitty both had admired the appealing climb from gnarled tree trunk to branch to the top of the Ruined Arch when earlier they had passed the replica, designed to cater to the public’s fondness for ruins. With their aunt present, they had resisted the urge to climb to the top.

  “I told her it was a perfect place to be King of the Mountain. We got up easily enough, but she is afraid to come down. I thought, with your help, we could get her safely down.”

  “Oh, Kitty!” Quintilla expressed exasperation, but could not keep from her mind the picture of Miss Woodville, stranded, on top of the arch like some gargoyle—a very beautiful gargoyle, Quintilla
had to admit. She giggled.

  “I know.” Kitty hustled them along the walk. “She is bird-witted, with her die-away airs, but we cannot abandon her. See. There she is.” Kitty stopped her cousin behind a clump of flowering shrubs as the Ruined Arch came in view, with a glum Miss Eunice Woodville perched on top, ruffled parasol shielding her from the bright sun.

  “If I go to the top of the arch, and you climb to the tree branch, between us, we can ease her down, and no one will be the wiser.”

  “You mean you think she would say nothing about it?” Quintilla asked in astonishment.

  Kitty grunted.

  Quintilla commented to her cousin, “She does not look very happy, in spite of her excellent view.”

  “She insisted she was Queen of the Mountain, not the King. Do you think we can persuade her down?”

  “Oh, yes. Easily.” Quintilla looked carefully at the openwork in her sheer blue dress, and back to the sulking Miss Woodville. “But I do not care to. She looks comfortable enough. Let Lord Eysley play the gallant and rescue his ... bride.” With that, Quintilla turned to walk briskly back the way they had come.

  “Tilla!” Kitty’s amazement did not keep her from giggling. “I promised her I would get help.”

  “You will.” In the bored voice affected by society’s young women with the highest expectations, Quintilla aped the Exquisite. “How fine to see the pretty gardens from this pretty spot.”

  Hurrying back, they saw Warrick stalking down the walk, a panther loose in a country garden. Further behind him were the Ladies Guthrie and Storr.

  “Ah, Lord Eysley,” Quintilla greeted him. “You will want to rescue Miss Woodville before viewing any more pretty flowers.” She turned to gaze at the top of the Ruined Arch.

  Warrick spotted the annoying Miss Woodville’s new roost. Another look into Quintilla’s eyes, and he threw back his head to laugh heartily at the task she had thrown him.

  Quintilla had not quite finished. “Unfortunately, we cannot stay. There are pretty water-colours to see, and the pretty ... reports on smallpox to proof. But I doubt you, and Lady Storr, will need our assistance.” Quintilla grinned as she sailed past him, with Kitty in tow, to join their aunt.