by Kruger, Mary
Benson bowed as Beth came into the house, so preoccupied that she might as well have been floating. “Have you ever seen a more glorious day, Benson?” she said, smiling radiantly at him.
Benson glanced out at the slate-gray sky and shook his head slightly. “Her Grace has been asking for you, my lady,” he said, with only the slightest hint of reproof in his voice.
“Has she?” Beth quickly untied her bonnet, handing it to her maid. “I shall go to her directly.”
Beth hummed as she bustled up the stairs. Such a day as it was. She wished she could share her good news with someone before she burst with it, but she couldn’t. Not yet. Mama would not be pleased. Mama would likely scold anyway, she thought, tapping lightly on the door to Julia’s sitting room and going in. Oh, well, let her. It was just her way. Nothing was going to disturb Beth’s good mood today.
Inside the room was darkened, to Beth’s surprise. “Mama?” she said, and Julia’s maid, her face pinched in disapproval, came forward, from the door to Julia’s room. “Hannah, whatever is it?”
“Good morning, my lady. She’s been asking for you, ma’am.”
“Oh, dear.” In spite of herself the old, familiar guilt rose within her. She shouldn’t have gone out, not when her mother needed her—but why shouldn’t she? Mama had seemed perfectly fine this morning when she had stopped in after breakfast, and had said nothing about Beth’s staying with her. Of course, she never did. It was simply expected that Beth would. At Tremont, that hadn’t bothered Beth very much. Here, in Brighton, it did. Was she never to have a chance for a life of her own? “Where is she, Hannah?”
“Lying down, ma’am.”
Beth regarded her in surprise. This was unusual. Mama was not well, but rarely did she take to her bed. “Oh, dear,” she said again, and went into the bedroom.
All was dark in this room, too. Beth stood still for a moment, letting her eyes grow accustomed to the dimness. The heavy velvet drapes had been drawn against the day, and no candle burned to alleviate the gloom. “Mama?” she whispered.
“Elizabeth, is that you?” Julia’s voice quavered.
“Yes, Mama.” Guilt rose in her again as she flew across the room to the massive bed, though she knew she had done nothing so very wrong. She was just able to make out the recumbent form of her mother, reclining against a pile of pillows, a lacy cap atop her head. “What is it, Mama?”
“Give me your hand, child.” Julia took her hand in a surprisingly strong grip, and Beth sat on the edge of the bed. “Did you enjoy your trip to the lending library?”
Color rose in Beth’s cheeks; she was glad the room was dark. “Yes, Mama. Mama, whatever is it? Are you not well?”
“I have the most dreadful headache—but there, I shall not refine upon it. It does no good to complain about such things.”
“No, Mama. I’ll just bathe your face with lavender water, shall I?”
“You’re a good girl,” Julia said, as Beth crossed to the dressing table. “If you would just sit with me, Elizabeth.”
“Of course, Mama.” Beth sat by her again and softly began to bathe her face.
“A good girl.” Julia’s hand suddenly reached up to grasp Beth’s. “You won’t leave me, child?”
Beth paused, and then went on with her task. “No, Mama,” she said, her heart heavy. “I won’t leave.”
“I am sure tonight’s entertainment will be an edifying experience,” Julia said, as the Tremont landau, its top up against the dampness of the evening, set off down the Steyne some nights later. “Lady Tyngsboro is a lady of taste and refinement.”
“Dull, you mean,” Giles, sitting next to her, muttered.
Julia ignored him. “I am not fond of musical evenings as a rule,” she went on, “but I am persuaded that Lady Tyngsboro will not provide shabby entertainment.”
“‘Tis been so long since I’ve heard good music,” Anne said. “Do you suppose they’ll play Mozart tonight, or Beethoven?”
“Beethoven? Bah,” Julia said, making the others stare at her. “All noise and thunder. Depend upon it, ma’am, you’ll not hear from him in the future.”
“At least it would keep us awake,” Giles said, his voice gloomy. “Lady Tyngsboro will likely sing hymns again.”
“She has a lovely voice. Now I wish to hear no more of this. I have accompanied you to your rackety affairs all summer, have I not?”
“I’d hardly call dining with the Prince of Wales rackety,” Anne observed.
“The Prince is above reproach, of course, even if I cannot approve of the people who surround him. Tonight, however, should be worthwhile.”
Across the carriage, Anne and Giles exchanged glances of wry amusement. Friends they were, as she had suggested on the beach the other day. Friends who could share a laugh, and who thought remarkably alike on some things. Really, Anne thought, it was the perfect basis for companionship. Why, then, weren’t they happy? Friends should be comfortable in each other’s company, but they weren’t. Once they had talked about everything; now, if by chance they were alone, there seemed to be nothing to discuss. Nothing that was not potentially dangerous. Before, the past had been between them, keeping them apart, but also keeping them safe. Now that was gone. Their discovery of what had actually happened should have cleared the air. Instead, it had generated a new tension between them, something Anne wasn’t certain she wished to ease. If only summer would end. Then she could return to Jamaica, and peace.
In the dim light, Giles studied Anne’s averted face, noting the purity of its lines, the classic bone structure, the delicately-molded features. Friends. Bah. Only a woman would think such a baffle-headed arrangement would work. How could they possibly be merely friends, with all that had happened between them? They had gone long beyond that point, long ago, and there was no going back. The devil of it was, what did they do now? Now that he knew what had driven her to leave him, there should have been no more constraint between them, but there was. She was holding back from him, and the tension between them was growing so thick that he knew other people noticed it. He’d seen that in the glint in his mother’s eyes, and in Beth’s quick, darting glances. Something would have to be done, and soon, because, damn it! He couldn’t take much more of this. He had already waited seven years for Anne. He didn’t want to wait much longer.
Lady Tyngsboro’s house was ablaze with light, and the line of carriages waiting to discharge their passengers there was long. In spite of her tendency to sing at her musical evenings, Lady Tyngsboro was tolerated, if not liked, by the ton. High-minded though she appeared to be, she also had a great interest in gossip, and a sharp tongue to go along with it. Over the last weeks Anne had learned to present a serene facade to those who showed unseemly curiosity about her or her past, and she was determined to do so now. Lady Tyngsboro had been one of those who had clucked over Anne’s high spirits in the past. However, as the Tremont party approached their hostess, Anne was dismayed to see a glint of malice in her eyes. Quickly she looked about for Giles, but he was proceeding far more slowly up the stairs to the drawing room, his arm supporting Julia. Anne would have to face this alone.
“Good evening, ma’am.” Anne dropped a curtsy that was of necessity brief, because of the crowded hallway. “Thank you for inviting me tonight. I am sure it will be an entertaining evening.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Templeton.” Lady Tyngsboro’s face was pleasant, in contrast to the sharpness of her eyes. “And Lady Elizabeth. How charming you look.”
Beth, standing beside Anne, blushed. “Thank you, ma’am.”
“What a pity Lieutenant Bancroft could not be here tonight. I am persuaded he would be entranced by you.”
“I—I thank you,” Beth stammered.
“Beth doesn’t lack for admirers.” Anne’s smile was pleasant, but she met the other woman’s eyes with cool steadiness. “But, come, we mustn’t keep you, ma’am, there are so many others wishing to speak to you. Will we have the pleasure of hearing you sing tonight?”
“Oh, and I’m sure it will be most humble indeed.” Anne smiled and took Beth’s arm. “Good evening, ma’am.”
Anne!” Beth hissed as they strolled away. “She knows about Thomas!”
Anne, still basking in the satisfaction of that last Parthian shot, gave her a quick look. “Thomas?”
Beth colored. “Lieutenant Bancroft. She knows about him.”
“Why, of course she does. Doubtless others have noticed you with him, as well. But, Beth.” Anne stopped, and glanced around to make certain no one was attending to them. “You do yourself no good by reacting as you did. If Lady Tyngsboro suspected something before, now she knows.”
“But what was I to do, Anne? I never expected her to say such a thing.”
“Smile and say something perfectly above reproach. Never, ever let anyone like her know what you really think or feel.”
“Oh. I see.” Beth appeared much struck by this. “If she had asked you about Giles, what would you have said?”
“Mrs. Templeton, Lady Elizabeth,” a deep voice said, saving Anne from answering. “How lovely you both look.”
Anne smiled. “Mr. Campbell. How delightful to see you again.”
“And may I say the same.” Ian Campbell took Anne’s kid-gloved hand in his and lingered over it, while his eyes passed over her, pausing for just a moment at her bosom. “You look like the midnight sky in that gown.”
“Thank you, sir.” Smiling, Anne withdrew her hand. Her evening gown of deep blue sarcenet was simplicity itself, with its unadorned bodice, but, scattered on the skirt were silver spangles. A charming compliment. If only it had come from Giles.
“Good evening, Campbell.” A strong hand gripped Anne’s arm, and she looked up to see Giles. He wasn’t smiling. “A surprise to see you here tonight, sir.”
“Oh, Lady T. is bosom bows with my mother,” Ian said. “Be sure to get back to her if I didn’t show my face here.”
“Yes, you do require edifying experiences, do you not? Come, Beth, Anne. Let us find seats.”
“Sorry, old man.” Ian’s smile was as pleasant, and as cold, as Giles’s. “Mrs. Templeton is sitting with me.”
“Is she? I had not heard of it. If you’ll excuse us—”
“Giles!” Julia’s voice cut through the hubbub, sounding more animated than it had in many a day. “Do look who is here.”
The small group of people turned, distracted. Julia was making her stately progress toward them, a young woman on her arm. She was slender, passably pretty, with brown hair scraped back into a bun, wearing a gown of dull brown stuff, several years out of fashion. Anne started. Jennifer Stafford, of all people.
“You knew she would be here,” she hissed to Giles.
“Anne, for God’s sake.” Giles frowned at her. “Be sensible about this.”
“You do remember Mrs. Priestly, do you not, Giles?” Julia said, smiling, with just a hint of malice. “Of course, she was Miss Stafford when you knew her. Anne, I am sure you remember her, too.”
“Charming to see you again.” Ian sounded bored. “Come, Anne. Shall we take our seats?”
“Thank you, Mr. Campbell.” Anne slipped her hand through his arm. “I would be happy to.”
“Anne,” Giles said behind her, but she ignored him. Jennifer Stafford! And just when she’d thought that that matter was settled.
“Mrs. Priestly has worn well,” Ian observed, as he led Anne to a spindly chair of gilt ant crimson velvet, one of many set out in rows. “A little too brown, perhaps, but rather pretty. I wonder where Reverend Priestly is.”
“If you are trying to provoke me, Ian, I assure you it will not work.” Anne’s smile was tight.
“Tremont has already done so, then?”
“Oh, no. Not Tremont.” No. She was annoyed at Giles, even though she knew he had nothing to do with the former Miss Stafford’s presence here, but it was Julia that she was most angry with. When would the woman cease to cause trouble?
Oddly enough, she had been able to find it in herself to forgive Julia for her actions of seven years ago. True it was that Julia had meddled; equally true, however, was the fact that she wouldn’t have been successful had Anne not allowed her to be. Had she held fast to what she knew was true, had she trusted in Giles and in her own feelings, then Julia’s meddling would have come to naught. She was, Anne realized, as much to blame for the past as Julia was. This business of diverting Giles’s attention by the presence of a former amour, though, was different. It was deliberate and malicious, and certainly not in anyone’s best interests. All it had been designed to do was to anger Anne. In that, the duchess had succeeded admirably. Score another point for her, Anne conceded ruefully. She’d fallen into the trap again.
Across the room, Giles made certain his mother was seated comfortably and then sat down himself, Mrs. Priestly on his other side. Now that he saw her again he did remember her, and his mother’s arch attempts at making a match between them. What she had done seven years ago angered him; he had just learned of it, and so hadn’t yet acquired the perspective of time. Still, he remembered a particular argument he had had with Anne, just before she had married Freddie. If he had pressed her then, if he had bothered to find out what was wrong, instead of retreating behind his own hurt, perhaps the whole matter could have been settled. Instead, they had wasted seven years, and now any chance that they might make up for the past seemed remote. For here he sat with Mrs. Priestly, listening to her prattle on about her work as a missionary and how wonderful her husband was, while across the room Anne was with that damnable Campbell, smiling and flirting. Damn, damn, damn. He would have something to say to her when this evening was over, and his mother, too.
“Good evening,” Lady Tyngsboro said from the front of the room, and Giles reluctantly gave her his attention. As the daughter of the house began to play a Mozart sonata, badly, on the pianoforte, Giles leaned back, his arms crossed on his chest. It was going to be a very long evening.
Jamie couldn’t sleep. He’d been tucked into bed hours ago, and his mother had come in to kiss him good-night, smelling so sweet and looking so pretty. He’d pretended he didn’t like the kiss, of course, but in reality, he did. In reality he’d wanted her to stay and tell him a story, like she used to when they were home. Mama didn’t seem to have time for that anymore. She was always going to parties, or fighting with Uncle Giles, and Jamie didn’t like that one bit.
Arguments were part of Jamie’s life. It was what he supposed you did when you grew up. You quarreled. He didn’t like it when Mama and Uncle Giles quarreled, though. It made him feel all funny inside, scared and nervous and wanting to cry, even if he was a big boy now. Still, it was different from the fights Mama used to have with Papa. Uncle Giles never raised his voice, and he never looked at you in that cold way that made you feel all small and shriveled up inside. Jamie didn’t really remember Papa that much, and he wasn’t really sorry he was gone, though he knew he was supposed to be. It was silly. Why should he miss Papa, when he had Uncle Giles and Obadiah and Terence?
At the thought of Terence, Jamie brightened. He hadn’t talked to Terence in ever so long, not since that night he had appeared at the drawing room window. Jamie wished he could have seen that; he’d never seen a ghost, for all Obadiah talked of haunts. He liked Terence. When Mama and Uncle Giles had gone out, when Aunt Julia was feeling too sick to be with him and Nurse was asleep, Terence would talk to him.
Throwing back the covers, Jamie scrambled out of bed and knelt by the grate in the floor, his hair tousled, his nightshirt twisted around him. “Terence,” he whispered. When no reply came, he spoke louder, not at all concerned that he would disturb Nurse’s snoring. “Terence!”
Silence. Jamie put his ear to the grate and listened very hard, but heard no answer. There was only a faint, hollow sound, l
ike the sea, far, far away. Maybe if he waited awhile Terence would come and talk to him, and teach him more songs. “What do you do with a drunken sailor, what do you do with a drunken sailor,” Jamie chanted softly, sitting back with his arms around his knees. Surely Terence would hear, and would come sing with him.
After a time, though, Jamie began to grow impatient. It was cold, and the floor was hard. “Terence,” he called out, not bothering to keep his voice down as he pressed his face against the grate. The dim light of the candle that was always kept burning in the nursery was not enough to reveal the mysteries that hid in the depths beyond the grate, though Jamie had looked and looked. It was like a tunnel, just the place for a ghost to live, and it fascinated him. Mama had told him something about it when they’d first come to this house, and then he’d heard Cook talking—
Jamie suddenly shot to his feet and ran from the room, on tiptoe. The answer to the puzzle had been there all along. He knew where the tunnel ended. He knew where to find Terence.
The pianoforte had been played, a soprano had sung, and an amateur, but enthusiastic, group of violinists had scraped their way through a Bach quartet. At last, though, the interval arrived. Lady Tyngsboro’s hymns were yet to come, making the exodus to the supper room for refreshment that much more frantic and noisy. The respite would not last very long.
After procuring glasses of champagne and a plate of dainties, Ian rejoined Anne in the supper room. “An interesting evening,” he observed. “The things I do for my mama.”
“You don’t strike me as the sort of man who would be so concerned with his mother’s feelings, Mr. Campbell.”
“Nevertheless, I am.”
“Oh, I meant no harm,” she said, quickly. “I think it does you credit, sir. ‘Tis a side of you no one ever sees.”
“Pray do me a favor and tell no one.” He smiled at her. “‘Twould ruin my reputation.”
“Your secret is safe with me. Oh, Giles. Are you enjoying the evening?”