Sharon Sobel
Page 31
For her part, Lark only prayed Hindley Moore would witness the scene for himself and feel well put out and truly jealous. Mr. Queensman, for all his arrogance, might have known something of what she felt when he offered to deflect her anger.
“I am very eager to meet your Mr. Moore,” Mr. Queensman said.
“And why is that, sir?” Lark asked, though she waited to speak until they faced each other along the line of the reel.
Mr. Queensman, in his turn, waited until the first steps of the dance brought them closer before he answered. “Owing to his present negligence, Lord and Lady Southard’s guests have not yet seen you during the course of the festivities. And such continued absence would prove a misfortune, for you are quite the most beautiful woman here.”
Lark did not trust herself to speak at first, for never did her most ardent suitor offer up such hyperbole, not even in pursuit of her father’s fortune. And Hindley Moore, who spoke her praises at every opportunity, never looked as if he entirely meant what he said.
“To what purpose is your compliment, sir?” Lark finally asked, genuinely perplexed and just a little bit flattered.
“Must a compliment have a purpose, my lady? Need it be anything more than observation?”
“I believe so, Mr. Queensman. Otherwise we would all be expending a lot of air with very little direction.”
He seemed to consider this as they continued to dance, and Lark wondered—with just a touch of regret—if her practical view made her somehow less beautiful. If not, then they must present a very splendid spectacle as they danced, for she did not think there was a man who measured up to him.
Of course, Hindley had not yet arrived.
“Then your society is very different from my own, my lady. There is little artifice in the small community of Brighton, and one may freely speak one’s mind without generating undue suspicion.”
“Can such a thing be possible? Has not our king built a great palace there and made the place his home?”
Benedict Queensman laughed and his whole face seemed transformed. He looked approachable, his guard let down.
“What you imply is perhaps treasonous, my lady, but I must admit you are absolutely right. Since the completion of the Pavilion, a continuous caravan of royal followers has entered Brighton, building their own monstrosities along the beach and changing the temperament of the town. The locals have gained much by the sudden influx of wealth and demand for products, but there is growing sentiment that much has also been lost.”
“And are you one of the offenders, Mr. Queensman? Do you travel in the circle of the king?”
“I do not travel with him at all, Lady Larkspur. However, I am often invited to the receptions at the Pavilion when the king is in town. I have also . . . ah . . . advised him concerning certain matters of health.”
“You are not his personal physician, then? I thought Lord Raeborn implied it.”
“I am not. Nor would I wish to be. I am my own man, my lady.”
Lark rather thought so.
“Then what brought you to Brighton, sir? Are you a fishing enthusiast?”
“I prefer swimming with sea creatures to killing them. But that is not what brought me to Brighton, in any case. My estate is there, a modest inheritance from my mother’s family. But I also operate a small hospital in the town, one I established when I returned from the wars. It keeps me very busy.”
“I daresay it must, if we have never seen you before in London.”
“I confess, London is among my least favorite places.”
Lark took this comment as implied criticism against herself, as if she were the Lord Mayor himself. But the music was nearly at an end, and she wished to have the last word on the matter and their little interlude.
“Then we most certainly will never see each other again, Mr. Queensman, for it is one of my most favorite places.”
She smiled as the fiddler played his last, and graced her partner with a curtsey designed to show off the most tantalizing parts of her anatomy.
But as he reached for her hand, Lark felt herself gripped by much smaller fingers than he possessed. Mr. Queensman did not have a chance to protest as she was dragged off the floor.
“Janet! What is the meaning of this? Could you not allow the man to escort me to the tables?” Lark protested as she turned around and then twisted to get out of Janet’s firm grasp. “He will think us very poor-mannered—”
“It should be the very least of your concerns, sister,” admonished Columbine, coming up from behind.
“Why, what is this?” Lark said quietly and let her arms go limp. Janet and Columbine stood before her, and between their shoulders she saw Rose and Del making their way through the crowd. “It is not good news, I fear.”
“Nor is it, Lark,” said Janet. “We would have interrupted your dance but that it would have called too much attention to yourself. And you will already suffer the consequence of more attention than you could wish.”
Delphinium, looking more like the elder sister of their childhood than like the lofty Lady Southard, joined them then and pressed Lark into the corner. Someone else came up behind, and Lark assumed it was Lily, completing the set.
“Does she already know?” Del asked Columbine, as if she spoke in the presence of a child.
“Know what?” Lark asked irritably.
“Brace yourself for the worst, dearest,” Del said, reaching out both hands to hold Lark by the elbows. “We have just heard the most dreadful report from Mr. Calvin, who only just arrived at the party. It is about your Mr. Moore.”
“Hindley?” Lark gasped. “Is he . . . dead?”
Would she be a widow before ever being a wife?
“It is much, much worse than that,” Del said slowly.
“Whatever can be worse?” Lark asked, her voice barely a whisper.
Sound was suspended in the Southard ballroom, and the sisters and their friend seemed quite alone.
“Mr. Moore has eloped with Miss Eleanor Davenport, on the very eve of her wedding to another. They have departed to the north, where a marriage may be performed in haste.”
Lark closed her eyes, unable to believe the indictment her sisters brought before her, the perfidy of the man she had trusted. Her life, her direction, seemed full of chaos and disarray, and she felt herself falling backward into some great dark pit. The candles and bright colors of the room swirled above her, and she reached out to grasp hold of something. Little fingers pressed against her arms and shoulders, but, like tendrils of early spring ivy, they were not strong enough to secure her.
And so she fell, into the darkness. In her last conscious moment, she felt a painful shock of surprise. Instead of dropping against a soft, perfumed, sisterly breast, she felt something hard and unyielding beneath her shoulders and was surrounded by the fresh scent of sea pines.
Her last thought was of Margate, of summers spent walking along the beach.
***
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A writer for most of her life, Sharon Sobel is the author of several romance novels, short stories, and many essays.
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