The Slightest Provocation

by Pam Rosenthal

  The proof was in the pudding: Lord Ayres was gazing into Elizabeth’s blue eyes as Narcissus might at his own reflection, beaming and smiling away as he informed Miss Elizabeth Grandin that she’d simply have to wait and see for herself, when she came out next year and graced all the most splendid parties in Mayfair.

  “But if I’m not invited, sir?”

  “If you’re not invited, no one will be. Next season no one will give a ball worthy of the name without Miss Grandin in attendance.” He raised his eyes for a moment. “And Miss Fannie Grandin, of course.”

  Which might have stung, Fannie thought, rather like the bite of a gnat, if I still cared to receive compliments from just anyone.

  Absurd to lose her equanimity upon finding herself relegated to the category of an afterthought by a young gentleman with a hyacinthine haircut, a lavender waistcoat, and a handkerchief perfumed to match.

  She didn’t care a jot. Or in any event, the woman she’d recently felt herself to have become didn’t care. That woman (a woman, she reminded herself, and not simply a young lady) would care for nothing but keeping watch over the entryway of the Cauthorn assembly hall, for the arrival of…

  She’d spilled what was left of her lemonade. Fred, who’d had the misfortune to tear himself away from Miss Halsey just a few moments before, was being very dear about it, laughing and turning the whole thing into a joke as he blotted up his lap-thank goodness the lemonade had splashed him and not her, at exactly the moment she’d glimpsed the party from Rowen, just entered the foyer, on the other side of the tall double doors.

  He and his sister-in-law seemed to have brought two younger gentlemen along with them. But she hadn’t enough attention for the others, so intently was her gaze trained upon him. He was helping the young marchioness off with an evening wrap of an odd salmon color. Not quite the thing with her ladyship’s rusty hair, but thrilling as a momentary splash of color against the severe black-and-white of his evening clothes.

  Arm in arm, he and his sister-in-law moved to congratulate the members of the assembly committee, who were standing in a self-satisfied little knot, quite close to where Fannie, Elizabeth, Fred, and Lord Ayres had their chairs.

  “But how extremely lovely you young ladies look.”

  And how sweet of the young marchioness to say so, Elizabeth thought, as she and her party rose to greet their estimable neighbors. Her ladyship was looking very well this evening. Less pinched than usual; it was good for her to get a little recreation-Lord Christopher had been quite correct on that score. Odd, how upon first espying him tonight she’d thought him a bit overshadowed by the tall young man with the austere features and interesting aquiline nose. It must be Viscount Sherwynne, finally returned from the continent, while of course the last gentleman of the party could be no one but Lord George.

  “And have you all been dancing?” Her ladyship asked, and then laughed, for of course they evidently all had-even after their lemonade (inside and out) they still rather glowed with the exertion.

  “It’s been wonderful,” Elizabeth said. “I didn’t know it would be so agreeable-well, it’s my first dance party, you know, except among my family.”

  Too bad Mama didn’t come this evening.

  The guilty thought surprised her. I might have suggested it, she told herself, if I’d been more generous. If I’d been willing to share the pleasure of my first assembly with her. Well, if I hadn’t been so terrified of this evening that I couldn’t have borne having her here to see me if I’d been a wallflower.

  But she hadn’t been a wallflower. Parties weren’t dreadful after all. Well, anyway, Mama would enjoy hearing about it later tonight. And even Aunt Mary, if she liked-she hoped they’d still be up, so she could tell them.

  She smiled at her uncle Lord Christopher. Hmmm, now that she was paying better attention, he wasn’t so awfully much taller than she was. Which might be worrisome, if it weren’t that there were quite a lot of tall men in the world once you kept an eye out for them; most of the Stansells were quite tall, actually. She extended her smile to include Lord Christopher’s nephew and younger brother, who were just sauntering up to join their circle and who’d be at Rowen, no doubt, next time she visited there.

  Interesting, she thought, how all those years she’d been growing up she’d never really paid much attention to the viscount. In fact, it seemed to her now that she’d been shamefully ignoring most of the male sex, which was awfully silly, since of late each new gentleman she met had something interesting about him. Viscount Sherwynne, poor thing, must have had another riding accident, for he had his arm slung up in a large kerchief of purple silk. She’d never considered it before now, how a wound-well, a modest and temporary one anyway-rather added to a gentleman’s allure. She widened her eyes to indicate compassion for the viscount’s suffering, and then, just to be cordial, extended her glance to his youngest uncle.

  Of course, everyone in the neighborhood knew Lord George Stansell; the difficulty here was ignoring his pronounced resemblance to the Prince of Wales-or willing oneself to believe it didn’t signify anything. She would have warned Fannie if she’d known he’d be here tonight. But surely Fannie was a cool enough presence and had probably already heard the gossip.

  And indeed (now that she’d sneaked a glimpse in her direction), her cousin appeared a regular ice maiden of rectitude and self-possession, dipping into a perfectly calibrated curtsy when Lord Christopher presented her to his brother and nephew, bestowing a calm and very adult smile on all the company (how does she do that? Elizabeth wondered. I shall have to try it at home in front of the mirror), and now murmuring her well-bred delight and astonishment at the welcome surprise of their presence.

  “My grandmama insisted we both were to come home with her,” the viscount replied, “but when she discovered I wasn’t well enough to travel, she decided not to bother Mama with the details of all that, and then”-he seemed to be attempting not to smile, and Yes, Elizabeth thought, he’s glancing at me as he speaks; he wants me to share the joke-“Uncle Georgy had some, ah, business to finish up in Paris.”

  She wanted very much to giggle, the joke being that Lord George resembled the Prince of Wales in more than just his looks. But giggling wouldn’t be the thing at all-and Fannie needn’t be sending her that warning look either. I know my manners perfectly well, she thought, even if it is my first dance party outside the family.

  “In any case”-the marchioness seemed almost beside herself for happiness, and willing, at least this once, to let her son’s innuendo pass without censure-“with the marquess’s condition improving so rapidly, and having the viscount home with us again…”

  Everyone murmured the appropriate felicitations. And Fannie even remembered to ask after the dowager marchioness.

  “And so you’ve arrived only today?” Elizabeth asked the viscount. “You must be terribly exhausted. How extremely good of you and your uncle to come this evening, to our little country dance.”

  It was an entertainment, Kit thought, to watch a beautiful young woman emerge like a butterfly from a cocoon. And, as in nature, Elizabeth was emerging from her girlhood with more than a little awkwardness, her postures and expressions far too obvious in their flirtatiousness. But one could forgive so lovely a creature a great many things, for the simple pleasure of watching her spread her wings, or even of watching her discover she had them.

  A simple, disinterested, even an avuncular sort of pleasure-it was with a certain abashed relief that Kit afforded this to himself. He hadn’t wanted to mention it to Mary this morning when she’d suggested he dance with the girls. But, in fact, he’d been a bit troubled by the suspicion that Elizabeth might have conceived an attachment to himself-not to speak of chagrined, that he found himself rather enjoying it.

  No need to concern himself any longer with that business. At this particular moment, the blazing candlepower from Miss Grandin’s blue eyes was turned directly in Gerry’s direction. As were some inky black scowls from the puppy in the
lavender waistcoat, poor fellow.

  No doubt he’d simply imagined her interest, out of petty vanity or fear of leaving his youth behind. Or perhaps in truth he had flirted, even postured a bit for her benefit, while all in a muddle and confusion about his reconciliation with Mary.

  And then there’d been the fact that the girl had made herself so constantly visible the last week or so-she and the red-haired one as well. It had seemed to him they were always underfoot-rather like Snug, the little dog from Curzon Street, now grown fat and somnolent, living a contented old age at Rowen with Mr. Greenlee seeing to him when he needed it. Kit wondered if Mary ever gave a thought to what had become of Snug.

  In any case, no harm had come of his flirting and posturing, and Mary needn’t know it had ever transpired. Though the muddle and confusion still remained, as to whether he and Mary were, in fact, reconciled.

  How do we manage to get ourselves into these scrapes? And moreover, to intertwine their own future with that of the English nation? And if they really did make the journey to Wakefield tomorrow, they’d be dragging Morrice into it as well.

  And whom, he wondered, did he suppose he was deceiving? If they made the journey… he and Mary would be setting off for Wakefield as surely as the night follows the day, if for no other reason than for the prospect of the day’s drive up there, just the two of them in the carriage. Make no mistake: he and she would be in one of the formidable Rowen traveling coaches tomorrow morning even if it meant he’d have to face ten Morrices at the end of their journey.

  Good to get that settled anyway. He hoped he hadn’t been too rude to those around him, letting his thoughts drift off like that. No, they all seemed quite cordial: no impatient stares at him or scowls at his lapse of manners. He smiled apologetically at the person directly across from him-the red-haired young lady, and very pretty as well in her bright gown. Nice to see a young lady wearing something so simple, so little fuss and frill about her. Though one was supposed to say auburn-haired, wasn’t one? She’d returned his smile; so far as he could see she wasn’t at all put out by his woolgathering. Very sweet-looking, actually.

  The musicians were striking up a quadrille. Damn, he’d forgotten. For there was Colonel Halsey, making his way over to this corner of the room, armored, if you liked, with that unmistakable look and bearing a certain sort of gentleman always wore at an occasion like this one-of wanting to be anywhere but in the midst of a knot of dancing ninnies, and couldn’t one speak of something sensible, like troops, weapons, or munitions?

  Kit’s original plan in this eventuality was to dance with Susanna. But he’d been slow to move, abstracted by his thoughts; Georgy had already led her out to the dance floor. And although Gerry wouldn’t be able to dance, he’d evidently claimed blond Miss Grandin’s company for a promenade about the room’s perimeter, while the lavender fellow-Ayres, was it?-appeared about to turn to Miss Fannie Grandin.

  Sorry, Ayres, Kit thought. It’s a military matter. I need to dance. For England’s sake.

  And indeed, she rather reminded him of Mary at her age-that gleam of good sense in her eye anyway. If he had to dance-if he couldn’t just drift homeward to meditate upon his situation (or rather dream about the two of them being jolted about, with Mary in his lap, all the long day’s drive up to Wakefield)…

  Colonel Halsey was advancing like a crack cavalry regiment.

  “Should you like to dance, Miss Fannie?”

  She’d been quite absolutely correct. There was nothing so romantic as a country assembly. He danced very well indeed; he was charming, circumspect, graceful, and polite.

  And it did seem as though he liked her a little.

  While she found herself entirely captivated by the dreamy, almost magical look in his eye. It seemed to promise something; she was fascinated by the secret knowledge she felt he must be carrying about with him. It was this… well, this aura one might say, that she liked about him, besides the fact that he clearly wouldn’t be hers for the taking. Fannie always liked a challenge, and here was one entirely worth the attempt.

  And he was intelligent; he knew things. He’d been at the Congress of Vienna; he understood how Europe was being disposed of and what might happen in the next decade. She’d picked up a bit of understanding from Papa’s newspapers-not a great deal, of course, but she tried to follow the careers of Lord Castlereagh and the brilliant Prince Metternich.

  He’d been happy to answer her questions at supper, before the Stansell party made their early farewells. The young marchioness wanted to get back to her husband. And then, of course, there was the dowager, Lady Rowen, who wouldn’t leave her oldest son’s bedside until they returned.

  And being as intelligent as he was, and so adult-well, surely he must have noticed that she found him appealing. Not that she’d flirted in such an obvious way as Elizabeth had. But sometimes she’d gotten the sense that he knew something. And certainly wouldn’t object to speaking to her once again.

  Fannie sank into a chair, as though any physical exertion at all might disturb the fervid motion of her imagination. For now that she understood Mr. Brown’s design of the confusing footpaths at Rowen…

  Of course, she, Elizabeth, and the young men-and Miss Kimball as well-would be going to the Halseys’ tomorrow for a few days. But they wouldn’t be leaving so early as all that.

  Some faceless gentleman seemed to have materialized in front of her. Bowing now, putting out a neatly gloved hand, asking for the pleasure of the next dance.

  Pray excuse me, sir, she murmured. Ah yes. Bit overwrought. Lovely party. To attempt the next cotillion.

  Nice simply to watch Elizabeth instead. Dear Elizabeth, how young, how charming she was. And so very much cleverer than of late-more like the old Betts, who wouldn’t have paid the slightest attention to a gentleman who everyone could see was very much too old for her, and her uncle besides.

  Fannie smiled to watch her cousin curtsy to Lord Ayres and then turn to bestow a mirror-image curtsy upon Mr. Smith (who remained, to be quite honest, the handsomest man in the room despite his yellow cravat).

  She stifled a yawn. Best to rest a while, and then to get a good night’s sleep. And to wake up early, for a bracing early morning walk upon the fascinating footpaths at Rowen.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  But he’d phrased it so absurdly, Mary thought.

  If I go to Wakefield, will you go with me? As though she could turn around all her plans on a whim-and a whim, moreover, entirely his.

  As though it would be a small matter for Peggy to pack her things for the journey-without even knowing how long they’d be gone-and yes, as usual, the day before laundry day.

  Not to speak of having to drop everything she was doing, party and cistern committee-just on the slender possibility that he might decide to go down to Wakefield.

  Absurd. Inconsiderate. Thoughtless and really rather childish.

  And yet, when he’d asked her, she hadn’t hesitated an instant. “Yes, of course I’ll go with you. You know I will, Kit. You can tell me on Tuesday morning, and I’ll be ready.”

  He’d tell her his decision when they met at the large oak tree, at the beginning of the woods, past the broken stile.

  At least Jessie wouldn’t be alone for too many days, for the MacNeills would be arriving on Friday.

  The important question was whether Kit would be willing to face Richard Morrice after all these years. Well, in truth the important questions concerned the incipient rebellion and the Home Office’s perplexing response to it. But the personal aspect of a situation always trumped the more general, didn’t it? And if that made her a silly, trivial person… and she expected it did make her exactly that… well, then so be it.

  Ah yes, and then there would be the little matter of the long coach ride to Wakefield.

  The newspaper didn’t mention rain coming from the north. The weather would be mild-perfectly fine for a maid to ride outside, with Kit’s valet.

  “I think you should pack enough
for three days, Peggy, and then, of course, there’s a day of travel on either side of it. I’m not sure how long we’ll be staying.” Or even where-she knew very little about the inns in Wakefield. “I think I’ll wear the green chambray to travel.” (It’s very pretty on you.) “But you can pack the white muslin with the black dots… Yes, and the pink is very lovely too, and that one too… What excellent choices you’re making for me…” Peggy had a far better eye for clothing than she herself did. Though the girl seemed a bit down-but that was probably due to the condition that she didn’t feel ready to own.

  “You’re not feeling… ill, are you, Peggy? Ah, good, I’m happy to hear it. But remember that if you do take bad, with a… a cold or with anything at all, well, you needn’t be a martyr. I and my family will help.”

  But Peggy was quite well, thank you, Lady Christopher, for your consideration. And what time did her ladyship think they’d be leaving tomorrow?

  “I’m… not quite sure yet, dear, but best to be ready early. I’ll have a little walk in the forest right after breakfast, and then we’ll see.”

  Explaining it to Jessica was a bit more complicated.

  “So you’re going to be seen in public with him? But won’t that appear as though you two are back together… And interfere with things when it comes to Matthew Bakewell?”

  “It would indeed, if I hadn’t already broken off my connection with Matthew.”

  Jessica’s silence was as eloquent as her raised eyebrows.

  “Since yesterday,” Mary said. “Well, in a letter I posted yesterday. It… I decided, given the state of my affections, that it wouldn’t be fair to Matthew.”

  “Hmmm. It took you long enough.”

  Mary returned her sister’s gaze. “Yes, I expect it did.”

  “And as for Kit?”

  “You’d have to ask Kit. I don’t know how any of this will end. Not necessarily well, I should think. But at least I’m not deceiving myself any longer.”