As he scanned the scene, his attention was riveted by a familiar pair about to make their way inside the church: Lady Selinda Harroweby and that depressing . . . Miss Snipchin, was it? Slyfish? Something quite appropriate, he recalled. Perhaps he would remember later. Suddenly inspired, he pulled himself up, mounted the steps, and stole quietly into the back of the church.
Chapter Five
Although wide-awake, Lucy had lain quite still in bed all the while Selinda and the regrettable Miss Snypish engaged in that morning’s brief verbal sparring. She would not have begrudged Selinda whatever small comfort her own company might have provided; sad experience, however, had taught Lucy well. She knew that her wicked inability to govern her yawns and fidgets during church services had resulted more often than not in odious punishments not only for Lucy, but her sister as well. Under the circumstances, Lucy decided that feigned slumber was by far her wisest course.
Lazing about in bed, however, was by no means a part of Lucy’s plan for the day. A dreadful cacophony of snores (which might well have terrified a less intrepid soul!) issued loudly from the wing occupied by Aunt Prudence and Cousin Rupert: to Lucy’s finely tuned ears, however, their racket sounded as sweet as any symphony, for, with Miss Snypish absent as well, it signaled a rare respite from her guardians’ repressive surveillance. While the noxious pair slept, therefore, the child quickly prepared herself to explore the corridors and nooks of her relatively new surroundings.
A fortnight earlier, Lucy had been engaged in just such a tour when her investigations had been rudely interrupted. Finding herself unwatched for a moment in the bustle of moving into Harroweby House, Lucy had availed herself of this singular occasion to look about her ancestral home. The original section of the house had been constructed several centuries earlier, at that time well outside of the city proper. Over the years, however, London’s population had burgeoned and only a few acres of the original park now surrounded the house. The structure itself had changed with the times as well, as the personality and taste of each ensuing heir resulted in the building of additional wings and new facades until the house had become at length a sprawling conglomeration of architectural history and personal idiosyncrasy.
Lucy had tackled the maze systematically, beginning by visiting each of the rooms in the east wing and poking into each of the countless alcoves and crannies. The halls echoed noisily even in response to her small footsteps, for they were largely empty, Aunt Prudence having not only sent much of the furnishings to storage (or so she said) but also having determined to run the house with less than half of the necessary staff. Lucy had been engaged in her circuitous explorations for some time when she finally came upon the main gallery where she stopped to examine a long series of what appeared to be family portraits. As she gazed into their shadowy depths, she felt her spine suddenly begin to prickle and her heart grow cold. This peculiar psychic phenomenon was followed forthwith by the more tangible iron grip of Miss Snypish digging cruelly into her little shoulder.
“What do you mean by sneaking off in that sly way, you wicked little creature?” the pinch-faced companion had snarled, giving her a shake. “I have been looking about for you this hour!”
“Beg pardon. Miss Snypish,” Lucy had automatically returned, bowing her head in a gallingly submissive manner as Selinda had so often drilled her.
Miss Snypish surveyed her with a speculative frown. “I wonder what impish tricks you are up to, you vile little insect! Do not imagine you can hide anything from me. I can see by the glint in your eyes you are on the verge of some unholy mischief!”
“Indeed, Miss Snypish, I meant no harm. I knew I ought not to be underfoot today, and I have never had the occasion to see these portraits before. Besides,” Lucy could not help adding in an innocent voice, “I know I am not as schooled as you in the ways of sin, but I could see no wickedness in looking about my home.”
At that, Miss Snypish’s visage turned a decidedly unhealthy shade of mauve. “Schooled in the ways of sin!” she sputtered angrily. “We shall see, little lady. We shall see. I collect now that you are of a very delicate turn of health, and I hear reports that some religious boarding schools devote themselves to the soul at the expense of the body’s worldly cares. Their rigors are not said to be at all conducive to longevity. Yes, Lady Lucy, we shall see indeed.”
Forced thus to abandon her exciting expedition, Lucy had ignored the thinly veiled threat with characteristic fortitude; however, withdrawing from the gallery, she had wistfully taken one last glance at a particular portrait that had riveted her attention. How she had longed to show it to Selinda!
Thus it was when she finally heard the front door close behind Miss Snypish and her sister, Lucy sprang from the bed and swiftly replaited her straight black hair before donning her simple lavender frock and gray pinafore. Glancing in the mirror, she grimaced automatically at her odd little reflection. Selinda might kindly describe her features as elfin, but Lucy knew quite well that her hazel eyes were far too large for her angular little face, her complexion too colorless, and her smile too crooked. No, she was all too aware that she would never be the great beauty her sister was, but at least she had her precious gift of second sight which was growing increasingly clear with each passing day—more clear than she had as yet admitted to Selinda.
Silently quitting the chamber she shared with her sister, Lucy tiptoed down the long corridor, then flew down the staircase and made a swift pass through the dining room where she selected a few pieces of fruit and some biscuits. Then she quietly found her way to the back staircase and up again to the gallery where her last expedition had been so suddenly curtailed. She was a methodical child, for all her ten years, and in no time at all, she had located the exact painting she had been admiring when the interfering Miss Snypish had so irksomely pounced on her.
Lucy inhaled deeply as she drank in the sight before her. It was a remarkable portrait indeed, for the woman depicted therein was the very image of her sister Selinda. The resemblance was not at first pronounced, however, for the subject was costumed in a decidedly antiquated manner. The uncanny duplicate of her sister’s familiar face was haloed by a froth of careless ringlets hung with pearls; a patch in the shape of a crescent moon accented the upturned corners of the lady’s mouth. A filigreed pomander in the shape of a pear studded with pearls rested snugly between her breasts, and yards of rose velvet caught up with elaborate clusters of pearls cascaded elegantly into a graceful train. One hand grasped a small white rose; the other was delicately uplifted, forming a perch for an exquisitely feathered cockatiel.
Although Lucy had admired the portrait excessively from the first and had been impatient to look upon it again, she was now captured by it for quite another reason than its resemblance to Selinda: the subject of the portrait, now that she was able to inspect it for several minutes, was the very woman who had figured so importantly in her dream of several nights earlier. She sat herself down on the floor and stared contentedly into the painting’s depths, munching slowly on a biscuit she had pulled from her pocket. This is the lady who looks after us, Lucy affirmed happily to herself.
Lady Sybil had floated along after Lucy since the child’s arising, and stood some time now lost in poignant thought as she regarded her portrait. taken more than a century ago. The artist, an Italian of devastatingly good looks (which had very nearly equaled his artistic prowess) had been quite abandoned in his admiration for her. Now she contemplated with a good deal of pleasant recollection (and not the least whisper of shame) the source of the glowing rosiness which embellished her complexion in his masterpiece. Indeed, the artist had taken extraordinary pains to examine at breathtakingly close proximity the intricate pearl pomander, which nestled so cozily in her bosom before he rendered it in painstaking detail. This artistic conscientiousness had added a good three months to Umberto’s already lengthy stay at Harroweby House. She smiled nostalgically at the memory of their time together and heaved a deep sigh.
As she di
d so, Lucy turned around and stared, her eyes and mouth opened wide. Lady Sybil automatically looked over her shoulder. No one was there. Turning back to Lucy once more, she saw that the child’s expression of shock had turned to one of sheer felicity.
“It’s you!” Lucy whispered, awestruck.
* * * *
The air inside the church was heavy with the scent of beeswax and incense: the odor of sanctity, Lord Waverly thought whimsically. Making his way quietly up the aisle and slipping surreptitiously into the pew immediately behind her, he settled himself comfortably and set about contemplating the exquisite Lady Selinda Harroweby at his leisure. He was quite confident it would be a religious experience.
It had been Waverly’s studied opinion for at least eight hours now that Lady Selinda’s sylph-like beauty was without question unparalleled; however, the inescapable comparison occasioned by the proximity of Miss Snypish’s frightful profile forcibly brought to mind every myth his Lordship had ever heard of goddesses made mortal. Did Lady Selinda’s dainty feet touch the ground when she walked? Would not her kiss transform mere mortal men to enchanted thralls? And would not such bondage be worth the ecstasy that delicious moment, however fleeting, might bring?
Waverly shook himself reproachfully. Clearly, the combination of a sleepless night, more brandy than was absolutely wise, and, yes, the delicate effect which sunlight filtered through stained glass had on a perfect, dewy complexion were leading him to flights of fancy. Such whimsical notions were not unknown to him, of course, but he had learned long since to be wary of them, particularly where the fair sex was concerned.
Waverly wrenched himself from these highly entertaining musings, therefore, and instead forced himself to concentrate on one detail which he had heretofore studiously disregarded: Lady Selinda’s conspicuous religious fervor. As the service progressed, she gazed fixedly into the depths of her prayer book with admirable (and daunting) diligence. Two bright spots of pink burned eloquently in her cheeks. Yes, the girl was lovely beyond all measure, Waverly sighed inwardly, but he was sinkingly sure that the unusual degree of solemn spirituality she displayed here would be altogether incompatible with the frivolous romantic images he had just abandoned.
Selinda’s concentration on her prayer book, however much it dampened Lord Waverly’s interest, now drew the curiosity of the entire congregation, for she was entirely oblivious when the last strains of the hymn issuing from the choir loft faded away into silence. Although the rest of the congregation had obediently taken their seats, Selinda remained rapt and upright, turning the pages of her prayer book with slow deliberation. A low chorus of whispers began to rise.
... and as fair Rosamonde rested her golden tresses on Lord Ravenstock’s broad shoulders, Selinda was reading, she inadvertently raised her ruby lips to his. Lord Ravenstock murmured an oath and crushed her to him in an embrace both powerful and —
“Lady Selinda!” Miss Snypish interrupted suddenly in a hateful hiss. “You are making a spectacle of yourself! Sit down at once!”
Still, Selinda remained apparently engrossed by her religious meditations. Realizing with growing irritation that her communication had fallen on deaf ears. Miss Snypish grimaced, leaned forward, and, unwisely, delivered a deliberately cruel pinch to Selinda’s arm. If Miss Snypish had expected that her action would in any way divert the crowd’s growing interest in Selinda’s odd behavior, she could not have been more mistaken.
Although Miss Snypish had fully intended her pinch to be as painful as she could contrive, she had not counted on the dramatic nature of its immediate consequences. The moment her scrawny fingers had closed with such brutal precision on the soft flesh of her charge’s forearm, Selinda had instinctively cried out in a most resonant and singular manner, forcibly reminding several members of the fascinated congregation of their terrifying encounters with savages in the colonies.
And if this piercing cry were not sufficient, the attack had so surprised Selinda that she simultaneously let fly her little prayer book. Its swift trajectory made an abrupt arc as it sailed up over her head and came almost immediately fluttering down into the pew directly behind, landing with a resounding thud at the feet of an exceedingly astonished Lord Waverly.
The chapel was now absolutely silent, the congregation’s eyes trained as one on this remarkable exhibition. Selinda, suddenly aware of the spectacle she had created, slowly looked about at her entranced audience and turned a impressive shade of magenta. If only she had remembered to remove her little novel from the prayer book’s cover, she berated herself inwardly, this catastrophe would never have taken place! Just then, Miss Snypish bent down as if to retrieve the wayward article, and Selinda’s heightened color faded just as quickly as it had arisen, her cheeks whitening with horror at the prospect of discovery. Without stopping a moment to think, she made a precipitate (and thoroughly unladylike) lunge under the pew just as Lord Waverly did the same. Thus it was that the pair found themselves suddenly face to face, underneath the pew, their lips separated by a mere inch.
Afterward Lord Waverly could never quite explain what had come over him, except that the sudden sight and proximity of so lovely a face quite overset him. He had, after all, just spent the greater part of a long night engaged in conjuring up its lovely features. Regardless of logical explanations (or lack thereof) Lord Waverly simply leaned forward just the least bit further and kissed Selinda full on the lips.
Selinda’s recent meditations had, of course, been no less worldly than his Lordship’s; moreover, his handsome features had impressed themselves on her more deeply than she had allowed herself to admit the night before. Even though the sardonic hero of her novel was described therein as having hair and eyes as black as midnight, it was Lord Waverly’s dark blue eyes and carefree gold locks (as well as his good-humored expression) that had inadvertently supplanted this image. Automatically, therefore, Selinda found herself returning his kiss with an unreserved passion, which astonished them both. Lord Waverly blinked in some surprise.
Quite undaunted, however, he reached forward to cradle her face in his hands and made as if to repeat that thoroughly satisfying gesture.
Had she not just then heard the telltale creakings of Miss Snypish’s rusty stays, Selinda might well have continued in her pursuit of this altogether novel behavior. However, she pulled herself quickly away, grabbed the wayward prayer book, and pushed it to Waverly. “Put it in your pocket quickly, my lord,” she whispered to him with urgent desperation, “and pray don’t let that old cat Snypish get a look at it.”
Snypish! Waverly thought to himself. Of course! That was the shrew’s name. He quickly took the book from Selinda and deposited it within the recesses of his coat. He had no sooner complied with this odd request than their relative seclusion beneath the pew was at last interrupted by the distressing appearance of Miss Snypish’s pointy features. Simultaneously, a look of such abject terror appeared on Selinda’s face that Waverly was moved to automatic chivalry.
“How very good to see you again, my dear Miss Snypish,” Waverly whispered companionably, reaching forward to shake her hand in the most affable manner possible. “We have a bit of a problem here, you see. It seems that Lady Selinda’s bonnet has caught itself on a splinter. Beastly old benches on the underside, are they not? I shall have to speak to the Bishop about it. Ah, I believe I have got it now. There we go, Lady Selinda,” he murmured after several moments of counterfeit attention to her bonnet. “Er... Do you need some assistance in rising, Miss Snypish?”
‘Indeed I do not,” she hissed at him. “Lady Selinda, do not imagine that your aunt shall not be told of this episode. Of all the hoydenish spectacles!”
“I do beg your pardon, indeed, Miss Snypish,” Waverly continued in an undertone, “but I imagine we must be drawing far more of the congregation’s speculation from under this bench than we might if we were to arise one by one and continue quietly through the remainder of the service. Shall we go up in reverse order? Lady Selinda first. There yo
u go. Now I shall follow and then you, Miss Snypish. By the bye,” he lied gallantly, “you’ve become flushed from stooping; indeed you look quite pretty.”
Waverly generally did not like resorting to falsehoods and only did so when necessary. He was pleased, therefore, to see that when she finally did emerge, Miss Snypish encountered his eye with a good deal more charity than he had thought her capable of. Perhaps, he mused, some well-placed attention in her quarter (ideally not from him) would serve to draw her venom from Selinda’s direction. Again the victim of his own charitable nature, Waverly steeled himself to the distasteful notion of making himself agreeable to the disagreeable.
Chapter Six
A long moment passed as Lucy continued to stare at the ghost. In truth, it had been an age since Lady Sybil had felt the need to retreat behind a fluttering fan, but she did so now with some vigor. Lucy, with admirable fortitude, all things considered, now walked right up to the ghost and delightedly looked her up and down.
“Who are you?” the child finally asked with her characteristic directness.
Lady Sybil looked down in some consternation. There was now no doubt that this little girl could see her, but would the creature actually be able to communicate with a ghost? The notion of at last being able to carry on a conversation with someone other than the odd poltergeist roaming through from time to time (Cousin Henry’s dreary spirit having at last quitted the house some fifty years previously) was an exciting prospect indeed.
“I am,” she ventured at last, “Lady Sybil Harroweby . . . Er, could you actually hear that, child?”
High Spirits at Harroweby Page 4