Waltz with a Stranger

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Waltz with a Stranger Page 17

by Martha Lou Thomas


  “Ah, Quintilla. A number of imaginations have been overexercised lately. Now I would like the pleasure of a real dance with you, to real music.” Warrick led Quintilla into the awesome splendour of the Long Gallery.

  “Oh!” gasped Quintilla. “Does everyone in the world have his picture hanging here?”

  “A distinct possibility. Certainly every Dacre.”

  “How long, sir, will it take us to dance to the other end of this gallery? I estimate a week, at least.”

  “Let us try and make the trek in one night—and generate a minor scandal in the doing of it.”

  They joined a set for the country dance, Sir Roger de Coverly. Forward and back, forward and back, hands joined to glide up and down the set. Quintilla was breathless, swept away by the music and the steps, and the feel of Warrick’s arms guiding her in the movements, touching and parting before the pleasure of rejoining hands and moving in unison.

  Quintilla blissfully abandoned herself to the slow circling of the waltz. Its lilting music allowed the constant pressure of touching hands.

  Side by side, they danced the allemande, arms interlaced at shoulder level. Chasse to the right, chasse to the left, Quintilla and Warrick reached the far end of the Long Gallery. Its brilliant lustre reflected in their eyes.

  “Now, that did not take long,” Warrick quipped. “Not nearly long enough.” He looked at Quintilla’s radiant face. “Shall we dance back?”

  Quintilla nodded. She had no words to express her elation, and, after all, this was the last time to be with him. She must make the most of it.

  “You know you risk being relegated beyond the pale, Quintilla, if we continue to dance together,” Warrick persisted. “There are implications—”

  “I propose we ignore them,” she said.

  He wanted no harm to come to her from this evening—designed to find her a husband rather than to gratify his pleasure in her company. Did she have any idea of the implications, leaving her one step away from membership in the muslin society? A poor way for her to lose that delightfully insouciant innocence, to be brought low by mean whispers behind fans and hands of playing cards—one more female rejected by the Ice Baron. The devil! He wanted to be with her, this last time, and she did say she was exempt from obeisance to society’s dicta. Besides, he would do the honourable thing by her if it came to that. “I accept your proposal.”

  Warrick and Quintilla promenaded and chassed with the right foot and the left. Gliding and whirling and stepping, they danced the Scottish reel and a French quadrille. Even the mandatory minuet was pure pleasure.

  Step forward, fall back, and all take hands. They danced country dances—The Irish Lady, and Drops of Brandy. Exchanging partners in a set made their reunions the sweeter.

  They even danced the foolish Grave and Gay, bowing at each reference to his majesty while “God Save The King” was played, then skipping to the bottom of the set to the tune of “Polly, Put the Kettle On.” Quintilla danced, doing what everybody else was doing, and doing it exceptionally well, with Warrick Dhever. Her exultation was boundless. It was almost as if she belonged. Hungrily, she wished it could go on forever.

  When the orchestra performed, Quintilla and Warrick danced. Their exhilaration was shared as more and more guests moved from the alcoves to the dance floor until it became too crowded to do much more than happily circle about while commenting on the great crush and agreeing on the success of the ball. It was all rather like the universal cheer engendered when everyone worked together in a common disaster.

  As for the flounting of convention perpetrated by Warrick and Quintilla, little notice was taken. With everyone spending the hours so marvellously, with all the speculation on the Regent’s Fete, few had the time to censure one dancing couple. Comments made indicated gratification that the Guthries’ nice young relative was having a deservedly good time. Certainly, no one made calculations involving a match with the Baron Eysley. A few did wonder at the kindness of the usually indifferent Ice Baron. Perhaps a family connexion prompted his concern.

  Drawing considerably more attention was Miss Eunice Woodville, the stunning young beauty who, in the short time since her arrival in town, bade fair to become the most glorious Incomparable ever. During the hubbub while the Prince of Wales briefly graced the ball with his presence, HRH devoted most of his attention, and conversation, to her. After the royal departure the triumphant maiden’s ring of besieging males doubled in size, and was seen to include a marquess, two earls, and an heir to a dukedom. Even the Delaneys’ son, heir to Viscount Lyle, felt obliged to infiltrate the charmed circle, though he did not stay long. Miss Woodville’s white lace fan fluttered so prodigiously, it should have been in tatters by the end of the evening.

  Lady Mallow, one of the few holdouts immune to the lure of the orchestra and the joie de vivre on the dance floor, set the record straight from the alcove where she roosted with fellow gossips. Her reliable sources confirmed that the latest Woodville beauty had melted the heart of the Ice Baron, and imminent was the betrothal of all that beauty to all that money.

  Given her reputation for inaccuracy, Lady Mallow was challenged by one experienced countess who had witnessed more than sixty years of ballroom flirtations. To the countess, the baron looked more like one besotted by love for the one he continued to partner. To scotch this heresy, Lady Mallow was forced to reveal her direct communication with Mrs. Leddersworth, who had been apprised by Lady Claire, new bosom bow to Miss Woodville. Satisfied, the group disbanded in order to disseminate this information amongst those less knowledgeable.

  Too involved in joining hands after a contretemps to the right and contretremps to the left, Warrick and Quintilla paid no attention to events in the Long Gallery.

  Kitty, with them in a set for the Money Musk, whispered to Quintilla, “Do you know what you are doing?”

  “Yes! What great fun this is, Kitty!” Quintilla would think no further than the next dance, and that was with Warrick.

  Warrick intercepted a few enquiring glances from amongst acquaintances. It was easy to ignore them and concentrate on the camaraderie of each country dance set, the feel of Quintilla’s sweet, lithe body against his when their arms intertwined as she followed his lead. He sensed her exuberance in the feel of her hand and the swing of her small, round derriere whenever she left him to move on to the next partner in a set. He had not been this close to intoxication since his return to England.

  A Corinthian, no longer willing merely to observe, sauntered over to the two between dances. Quizzing glass in position, he drawled, “Eysley. I must be presented to the intriguing charmer who so successfully penetrates your wintry reserve.”

  “Ah, Uxbridge. Do forgive me if I spare her your inquisition.” Warrick nodded to the beau and moved Quintilla to where a set formed for the country dance, I Am the Duke of Norfolk.

  She gazed at him in questioning wonder.

  “You are no doubt aware of my icy reputation,” he parried.

  “Which you do everything to cultivate,” Quintilla teased him.

  “He would make a very poor husband,” Warrick settled the matter.

  After a very late, a very meagre supper—the Dacres had not endured for so many centuries by extravagantly throwing money around—Warrick’s original plan bore fruit. While Quintilla’s circle of admirers in no way rivalled Eunice Woodville’s, it was enough to give her delight—and alleviate her unease at Warrick’s absence from it. Quintilla’s wit, coupled with her desire to discuss the state of public health in Britain, discouraged one or two, but one or two very presentable males were enkindled enough to ask for her direction and to make known their intention to call.

  A jubilant Warrick was extremely satisfied with the effectiveness of his strategy, and the affirmation of his selection of women. He retired to an alcove, joining Sir Ian and other assured gentlemen who could with great authority point out the faults in Stanhope’s bill, aimed at solving the depreciation of paper currency. Equally sensible were sta
nds taken to lessen the alienation between the United States and its mother country. Even the inevitable pronouncements on the Whig most able to lead the party out of the Slough of Despond did not diminish Warrick’s keen enjoyment of the evening.

  When Sir Ian reached the limit of his endurance for social amenities and commanded his wife to gather their nieces for an immediate departure, Warrick sought out Quintilla. “Now, we shall see what this evening’s work does to the male population count in the Guthries’ rose room,” he said confidently. He escorted the blooming young woman through the conservatory towards her relatives waiting in the hall for their carriage.

  Eyes still dancing, Quintilla turned to pull Warrick’s head nearer hers. On her toes, she lightly kissed the lower corner of his mouth. “I shall always remember this night, and you, Warrick Dhever. When I am old and grey, I will still think on you.” The darkness of the conservatory obscured their intimacy from others shuffling through the garden room to departing carriages. The ball’s brilliance was waning.

  Dryly, in his low voice, Warrick answered her. “If there is too much stir over this night, count on me to marry you.”

  Quintilla shook her head as she looked in his eyes. “I would never ask it of you, Warrick. Only love must prompt that question.”

  “Only a grand passion?”

  She nodded, and whispered, “Always. Thank you. I love—.”

  Quintilla turned and slipped through other guests to where Kitty waved, indicating the Guthrie carriage waited at the door.

  From the shaded foliage, Warrick stood and watched Quintilla leave. Another venture successfully executed, and he could return to the sanity of his well-organised existence. He hoped to hear she had made a regulation Splendid Match. She must have all she desired.

  Her silky lips brushing against his—the sensation lingered... She had not finished her sentence. What did the poppet love? To dance? He knew that.

  15

  They rode their horses into the westerly breeze that was rapidly dispelling morning mist rising from field and spinney. Warrick breathed deeply of the summer air with its hint of wildflowers’ spicy scent. It reminded him of Quintilla, the fresh smell of her, like a sunny, windblown day in March—rare, and invigorating.

  He and Bates had missed the earlier morning traffic, wagons lumbering into the City to furnish its tables with the yield from surrounding farms and orchards. Now the horsemen approached an empty cart returning home. In the back, a young boy and girl, legs hanging over the end, waved cheerfully.

  “A profitable morning?” Warrick hailed them.

  “Ay,” the two rustics smiled. The cart’s driver twisted around in his seat to return Warrick’s friendly salute while the horsemen cantered around the slow-moving vehicle. The squeak of its heavy wheels harmonised with the rhythmic creaking of their leather saddles.

  “Ah, Bates. It is good to smell country air, and deal with country folk.”

  “Yes, sir,” the taciturn servant responded.

  It was a day, thought Warrick, to understand Shakespeare’s paean to the land. This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England. Warrick could not remember the rest of it. Quintilla would know. He would write her to ask. No. Not necessary. The vicar living near Eysley Court was well-read, and more than likely could recite the whole thing.

  Farther ahead, on the outskirts of a small village, a vacant cottage, thatched and clapboarded, brooded in a golden field speckled with the white of early candytuft. A bird sang of the rural beauty.

  “A fair sight, isn’t it, sir?” Bates was moved to comment. “In the City, you miss the bird songs.”

  “Indeed,” Warrick agreed. Was Quintilla at the pianoforte, singing to a room full of admirers? He should have stayed to oversee the visitors’ qualifications for entering the rose room. If Uxbridge was there—. Warrick hoped Quintilla would have the wit to see beyond that dandy’s shallow flattery.

  At the far side of the village, the riders paused at a small hostelry owned by the blacksmith, whose wife brewed an excellent ale. Warrick with Bates sat at a crudely hewn table outside and quaffed the delicious beer to the clang of hammer on anvil and the hiss of steam.

  Warrick put his mind to the abandoned cottage they had passed. Had Enclosures or Corn Laws forced out its inhabitants? He should take his seat in the Lords and participate more actively in the country’s future direction. Quintilla would approve, he knew, and would help him—edit his notes, direct the necessary research. He visualised their long evenings together in front of the fire, before they went up ... before they went up to bed, when he would take her in his arms to caress her, to make love to her. Oh, that would come first, long before any editing, any research ... But what was he thinking? He had turned her over to some as-yet unspecified suitor—his own doing! What a fool he was! Did he actually think he could live any kind of happy life without Quintilla in it? Without her firm little body ... without her soft silken lips moving against his? Warrick groaned with his awakening desire raging unfulfilled, the burning in his loins. He had suppressed his emotional responses for so many years, he had failed to recognise the depth of his feelings for this Miss Quintilla Davenant until her image refused to go away. A persistent chit. And he longed for her.

  So what was he doing on the road to Devon when it was Gloucestershire where he must go? “Bates!” he barked, and knocked over the empty mug in his eagerness to leave the table.

  “Sir?”

  “We are wasting time!”

  At their first opportunity, Warrick altered course, heading towards the northwest. To Bates’s questioning look, Warrick replied, “We go to Berkeley.”

  “I heard the earl is quite ill, sir, and in no condition to have guests.”

  “We do not visit the earl.”

  “Sir?”

  “I have been incredibly stupid, Bates. A champion slow-top.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Which I aim to remedy immediately.”

  “Good, sir.” Satisfaction spread over the servant’s countenance, his trust in the baron’s sagacity restored. Sometimes it took even the most astute of men longer than usual to realise they were ready to marry.

  Out of nowhere came Edwina’s voice ringing in Warrick’s ears. “You would never breed a mare with weak hocks or over at the knees.” The hell he wouldn’t—take his chances! How much more important to reproduce Quintilla’s agile mind! He would match his little bluestocking against any other woman in this whole blessed realm!

  Quintilla’s agile mind was taking a census of the rose room, where her aunt presided over a scene heady with the fragrance of fresh-cut flowers. Three of the four callers had arrived carrying bouquets.

  Only Mr. Chiswell Blumpton of the group clustered in the centre of the long room had come empty-handed. He slumped now in a small oval-backed gilt chair, his arms resting across his abdomen, his chin settled at the base of his throat. He looked as ill at ease as a punished schoolboy.

  Mr. Yates Trumpett, with a hairline receding as his waistline expanded, wore the comfortable clothes of a country squire. He sat on an embroidered settee next to Kitty, and laughed heartily at her exploits on horseback. So graphically was she relating her experiences, with such telling gestures, she had badly rumpled her dress of primrose yellow jaconet, and appeared to have come to the drawing room directly from her bed, without bothering to change. Town bronze for Kitty might well be a lost cause.

  Mr. Trumpett, kind last night, and light-footed in a country dance, glanced at Quintilla periodically during Kitty’s recital. Quintilla smiled in return. He had confessed quite frankly his need to find someone willing to join him in an immediate marriage, having delayed that rite long enough while he concentrated on building up his farm holdings. Approaching forty, he wanted a large and jolly family, soon. She noted Mr. Trumpett carefully assessed the hips of every female encountered. Since Quintilla’s were not very broad, she questioned whether she would pass the final muster.

  “What do you say when you con
verse with yourself?” begged Kitty, breaking the heavy silence.

  Lady Guthrie frowned at her younger niece before directing a pleading look at her elder one. Quintilla responded with alacrity, already regretting her quick impertinence over the Plinys. Mr. Blumpton’s willingness to talk should be fostered. “I imagine some favourite books start you thinking, Mr. Blumpton. I know I find it to be true.”

  Mr. Blumpton shook his head. “Cookbooks. All a woman needs to read.” The absence of any response to his opinion spurred him on. “No amount of conversation improves dry artichoke tarts.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out a paper which he unfolded and handed to Quintilla. “Thought you’d want it after the other night.”

  “Your wife’s recipe,” Quintilla repeated to confirm her suspicions, “for artichoke tarts?”

  Mr. Blumpton nodded. “Next wife must know cooking as well as the first.”

  “Oh, Quintilla is already a fine cook!” Kitty ringingly proclaimed in support of her cousin’s candidacy.

  Quintilla hastened to reassure. “New and delicious recipes, Mr. Blumpton, are the best part of overseeing a kitchen. I am pleased you would favour us with one of your late wife’s.”

  The pretender to classic scholarship sat straighter in his chair, and turned to Lady Guthrie to award her the benefit of his culinary prowess. “Noticed fish pie the other evening lacked proper proportion, celery and mushrooms.”

  Lady Guthrie responded sweetly, “I noticed you took two servings.”

  Quintilla had a problem with coughing, which required her to hide the lower third of her face behind her hand.

  Chiswell Blumpton proceeded to pontificate, with a minimum of mumbling and throat-clearing, on those aspects of home management learned while directing his now-deceased wife in the performance of her duties. Vanished were any traces of the punished schoolboy. This was a master instructor defining his position. At the completion of his lecture, he waited expectantly for the praise surely due such detailed elucidation.

 

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