by Jane Toombs
"Excellent,” Gerard said, “the young lady has four hits for a total of twenty-two points."
There was a scattering of applause for her performance. When John Willoughby's turn came—he shot last of all the eight archers—Justine's score was still high. John disdained taking any practice shots, releasing his arrows even more rapidly than Justine had. As soon as his sixth arrow struck the target, Gerard announced, “Six hits for twenty-two points. The match is even."
John Willoughby, Justine noted, glowered when he heard the result.
"I suggest that the contestants shoot alternately,” Stewart Ogden said, “with each being given three shots to determine the winner."
"Agreed?” Gerard asked.
John frowned but agreed; Justine nodded, feeling somewhat uncomfortable.
She noticed Prudence looking at her in a speaking way, her stern expression saying, “No matter what happens, Justine, you must not win."
"Miss Riggs will have the choice of whether to shoot first or second,” Gerard said.
Justine hesitated. “Second,” she decided as Prudence nodded her approval. By taking the last shot, she would be certain of John's score and so know how many points she needed to defeat him. Or, more importantly, the score that would fail to defeat him.
John Willoughby walked slowly forward, his complacency gone. He carefully drew his bow, aimed and released. A seven.
Justine notched her arrow, raised and drew her bow, took careful aim. The arrow sped true. A nine! She heard a gasp of surprise from the spectators. John shot. Another seven.
Again Justine aimed, shot, the arrow fluttering slightly, landing low. A three for a total of twelve. John's final arrow landed slightly high for a five, making his total nineteen.
Taking her last arrow, she raised the bow, hesitated, knowing she needed a seven to tie and a nine to win. How easy to miss slightly, how easy to lose honorably. She came to a decision and released her arrow, holding her breath as it whirred through the air on a long arc to the target where it thudded into the straw.
"By Jove!” Gerard cried. “A nine. Miss Riggs is the winner."
John Willoughby walked to her and bowed, offering his congratulations. How chagrined he seemed! She caught a glimpse of Prudence frowning and turning away.
There was a stir among the guests gathered near the path to watch and she turned, gasping when she saw Lord Devon stride from beneath the trees.
"Since I was not present for the beginning of the competition,” he said, “I claim the right to compete against the champion archer. Miss Riggs, do you accept my challenge?"
CHAPTER 7
Gerard, frowning, glanced from Lord Devon to Justine. “Such a challenge is quite irregular,” he said, obviously in a quandary as to how he should proceed.
"Perhaps irregular,” Quentin said, “but surely not unheard of."
"What do you say, Miss Riggs?” Gerard asked. “Do you wish to accept Lord Devon's challenge or shall I declare the archery contest at an end?"
Justine noticed Prudence attempting to catch her eye while at the same time vigorously shaking her head as though she advised refusing the challenge, or if Justine did accept, telling her to be certain to lose.
Quentin, elegantly garbed in pale blue pantaloons, a waistcoat of a darker blue, and an intricately tied golden cravat, strode to Justine's side and murmured in a voice so low only she could hear, “Have no fear, Miss Riggs, I give you every assurance I shall allow you to win the competition."
Justine, who had been ready to agree to matching her skill at archery against Quentin's, tried unsuccessfully to suppress her anger. “Are you always so patronizing to women?” she whispered.
He raised one eyebrow. “My only intent was to behave as a gentleman should by deferring to a member of the weaker sex. You, my dear Miss Riggs, perceive slights where not only none are meant but none are given."
"Evidently your conception of how a gentleman should behave is far removed from mine.” She added, mockingly, “Milord."
"God save us all.” Quentin drew in an exasperated breath. “Then I take it you refuse my challenge?"
"I would accept on only one condition."
"And the condition is?"
"That you, my good lord Devon, agree to offer yourself as my target."
Their gazes met, sparked, then held for a long moment as though the first to look away would be admitting defeat.
Quentin made a sweeping bow. “I readily accept your stipulation,” he told her, a dare in his voice. Turning on his heel, he strode across the glade to the target where he swung about and faced her with his arms outstretched.
How arrogant he was, how sure of himself! She would not back down. Neither now, nor ever. As she raised her bow, Justine heard murmurs of surprise and bewilderment from the guests. When she notched an arrow, the murmurs became gasps of alarm.
Slowly, Justine drew back the arrow and felt the bowstring grow taut. “Step aside, Lord Devon, you stand in harm's way."
Quentin merely smiled at her, a crooked smile that mocked her, challenged her, dared her to carry out her threat. Could she hit the edge of the target, she wondered, without striking Quentin? Taking great care, she held her breath as she aimed.
A man's hand grasped her bow and jerked it upward. The arrow flew from her fingers to wing into the air, soaring higher and higher before slowing and, in a graceful arc, descending to bury itself in the ground half way to the target.
"By God,” Lord Alton told her, “I do admire your spirit.” Keeping his grip on the bow, he eased it from her hand and tossed it to one side. “At times,” he said with a meaningful glance at Quentin, “I must admit to having been sorely tempted to put a spoke in Quentin's wheel myself."
Realizing the eyes of all the guests were upon her, Justine made a valiant effort to convince them that she and Quentin had been play-acting. “I would never have harmed him, or anyone else."
"Most certainly not,” Lord Alton agreed, “at least not intentionally.” His gaze lingered on her. “I must say I rather envy Devon for he has succeeded in attracting the attention of one of the most ravishing—” He broke off as Prudence Baldwin, her cane forgotten, hurried toward them.
"I hope, Miss Riggs,” he said, “that we will be able to continue this conversation at a more propitious time."
Justine nodded though she had scarcely heard him, much less understood what he was telling her. She started to glance toward Quentin when Prudence swept her away. “The carriages have arrived to take us to the Manor.” Prudence lowered her voice. “You had no intention of actually shooting your arrow at Lord Devon, I trust."
This time Justine did look behind her and saw Quentin, surrounded by his friends, laughing as his pointing finger followed the course of an imaginary arrow that narrowly missed his left ear. She had expected him to be watching her, waiting to scornfully acknowledge her failure to carry out her threat, perhaps with a sardonic bow, perhaps with a mocking smile, but instead, she realized with a pang of disappointment, he was hurting her in the worst possible way—he was ignoring her.
Justine turned to Prudence. “Would I shoot Lord Devon?” she repeated. “Impale him with an arrow?” A glance at Quentin found him walking away from her. “I may have done so, and I may yet do so since he deserves no less!"
"Oh, my dear Justine.” Prudence gave a mournful shake of her head. “Whatever shall I do with you?"
"I must be a terrible trial for you, dear Mrs. B. I do believe I should return to Gravesend where I belong."
Prudence gasped and then vigorously shook her head. The white-haired woman pressed a hand to her bosom, seeming to shrink into herself; a tear rolled down her cheek. “Whatever would I do without you?"
Justine, recalling that she had agreed to come to London to help Prudence, impulsively embraced the older woman. “I shall stay with you for as long as you can put up with my indiscreet ways."
"Then you shall stay forever.” Prudence paused as if to reconsider. “Or if not forev
er, at least until you are properly wooed and wed."
* * * *
On their return to the Manor, Prudence retired to her sitting room and, as she was wont to do when faced with a disturbing and delicate situation, summoned Rodgers. She seldom directly asked him for suggestions, rather she offered a comment that was no more than a statement of fact, waited patiently, and sooner instead of later, he invariably offered his advice.
"The picnic,” she began, “thanks to your efforts, proved an enormous success."
Rodgers accepted the compliment with a slight bow.
"In spite of the unfortunate incident during the archery contest,” Prudence went on.
"Miss Riggs proved to be an excellent marksman. Or should I say markswoman?"
"I was referring to her contretemps with Lord Devon."
Rodgers smiled. “If only I had thought to provide apples as part of the picnic fare, Miss Riggs might have played the role of young William Tell. Or was it the father who shot the apple from his son's head?"
"Rodgers, I was not amused, I was decidedly not amused. Fearing the worst, I fully expected Justine to use Lord Devon as her target. My poor heart is still palpitating in a most irregular manner."
Rodgers inclined his head, but said nothing.
"Tell me what thoughts went through your mind when Justine threatened to let fly an arrow at Lord Devon?"
"You desire me to be completely truthful, madam?"
"Most certainly. You know how highly I value your candor."
"And you, madam, will treat my reply as confidential?"
"Rodgers, now you have me all aquiver with curiosity. You must tell me at once. I assure you whatever you may have thought at the time will go no further."
"When Miss Riggs raised her bow and took aim, I had a quite surprising and unexpected wish,” Rodgers said. “No, not one wish, but two. I first wished myself younger by thirty or more years."
"I expect we all wish that at one time or another,” Prudence said wistfully. “I often do."
"Not only did I wish to be younger but I also—” He hesitated. “But I also wished I occupied a higher station in life."
Prudence frowned as though the notion of a servant wishing to rise above himself was an alien concept. “I fail to see how your station in life pertains to Justine threatening Lord Devon."
"Miss Riggs displayed such panache, such spirit, such verve, that for a moment or two—no longer than that, I assure you—I wanted to be so situated in life, by both age and station, to be in a position that would allow me to offer for her hand."
Prudence stared at him, open-mouthed. “Rodgers,” she said after a long pause, “you have no idea how shocked I am. You quite forget yourself."
"Quite right, madam. I deserve the severest of rebukes, but in my defense I must remind you I spoke only at your urging."
"Even so, you should have chosen to remain silent.” Prudence shook her head. “Still, you have raised a possibility in my mind. Is it possible,” she mused, “there might be gentlemen of the ton who would find her strange behavior appealing?"
"Indeed there might.” When Prudence looked a question at him, he smiled slightly and said, “Lord Alton, for one, seemed rather taken with her."
"Lord Alton is a target quite out of our reach. Besides, I find him much too supercilious. More to the point is whether John Willoughby would find such unfeminine behavior appealing. I think not."
"I agree, madam. If I may be permitted to offer my personal observation, Mr. Willoughby has always seemed to be a most conventional young gentleman."
"And yet Daphne Gauthier, believes him to be the most likely suitor for Miss Riggs."
"Can it be, in this one instance at least, that Mademoiselle Gauthier is mistaken and Mr. Willoughby is not the best choice? Even the most perceptive and knowledgeable seers experience failure now and then. The signs and portents may be wonderfully precise, but they must always be interpreted by mere mortals."
Prudence nodded. “Daphne has admitted being fallible and yet Mr. Willoughby is such an agreeable young man that I hate giving him up. I intend to consult with Daphne before we return to town so we can decide how to proceed. Ah, this is all so difficult, Rodgers. If only dear Eustace were here to help me."
"May I offer a suggestion, madam?” Although Rodgers spoke as though struck by a sudden inspiration, he covered his mouth with his hand to hide a small smile, a smile indicating, perhaps, that he had been waiting for this very opportunity. “Our host, Mr. Kinsdale,” he said when Prudence nodded, “may be of some assistance to you as well since, in matters of this sort, a man's point of view is often of value."
"Gerard?” Prudence brightened. “The very thing. Thank you, Rodgers. I shall consult both Mademoiselle Gauthier and Gerard and the three of us will, I fervently hope, be able to set Justine's steps on the path leading to a suitable marriage."
* * * *
The next evening, the evening of the eclipse of the moon, Gerard Kinsdale and his guests left the Manor shortly before nine for the short drive to Round Hill. As they jounced along a dirt track, Justine looked up from their open rig at the full moon rising above a haze on the horizon and at the stars just beginning to appear between clouds scudding eastward across the sky. She murmured a prayer that the clouds would disperse before the eclipse began.
Descending from the carriage at the foot of the hill with the ground mist eddying about her, Justine waved good-bye to Prudence who, with Daphne Gauthier, drove on along a circuitous road that would eventually take them to the summit of Round Hill. Justine and the other guests had elected to walk up the slope to the top.
Gerard Kinsdale joined her and together they followed Rodgers, a lantern held aloft as he led the party along the path. Above them an irregular path of lights flared on the side of the hill where servants stood with torches to mark their way. At the summit a crown of torches ringed the massive domed rock that gave Round Hill its name.
They entered a woods, crossed a rushing stream on a log bridge, climbed slowly along a path zigzagging its way upward past an abandoned stone spring house and the rotting remains of a fence. When the trees thinned and the stars reappeared overhead, Rodgers stepped aside to wave them on toward the black dome of the summit.
Justine walked ahead of the others past baskets of food and wine, stepped between two torches embedded in the ground, and then climbed the sloping rock to the very top of the hill where she stood breathing deeply of the balmy summer air as she looked below her where the light from the rising moon silvered the trees and glowed from the wraiths of white mist hovering above the fields. In the distance the lighted windows of the manor blinked out one by one as the mist swirled higher.
She imagined herself alone, suspended between earth and high heaven, on an island surrounded by a sea of white, an enchanted isle bathed in the soft glow of the moon, that lovely goddess of the night. The earth, presently concealed by the mist, had always been a place of strife and discord, of wars and revolutions, of impoverished multitudes crowded into the dirty warrens of great cities. The heavens above her, on the other hand, were perfectly ordered. They were serene and chaste, pristine and beautiful. No wonder mankind had always sought answers to the mysteries of life on earth by trying to solve the riddles of the stars and planets, of the sun and moon.
As she gazed up at the full moon, she imagined the great pale orb slowly approaching the shadow of the earth. She shivered. Soon the moon would be darkened. This, she realized, was not a portent of doom, was not a sign of the disfavor of the gods as the ancients had believed, and yet some primitive intimation of danger made Justine hug herself and look away from the heavens.
Seeing Prudence approaching on the arm of John Willoughby, Justine peered beyond them, past the circle of torches to where the figures of the arriving guests were silhouetted against the pale glow of the sky. Quentin was nowhere to be seen. How like him to frustrate her by shunning her after she had made up her mind to ignore him.
"What a terrible,
terrible road,” Prudence said as she and John came to stand beside her. “Being jolted unmercifully all the way up the hill made me come over queer. I do hope the eclipse will be worth the risk of the journey."
"How fortunate we are,” John said, “to be granted a full moon on the night of the eclipse."
Justine started to speak, but then glancing at Prudence, held her tongue.
"The last time I saw an eclipse of the moon,” Prudence said, “the moon was also full."
Justine bit her lip, but found it impossible to remain silent any longer. “The moon is always full during an eclipse since it must be on the opposite side of the earth from the sun. Just as the moon is always new when it comes between the sun and earth to make possible an eclipse of the sun."
"My word, you do have an impressive knowledge of the heavens.” Shaking his head, John raised his spyglass for a better look at the panoply of stars. “I daresay I must have learned the names of the constellations years ago, but I forgot them almost at once. How people are able to picture hunters and crabs and bears among the stars is quite beyond me."
"Someone once said,” Justine told him, “that the creatures in the sky are characters in the oldest storybook in the world."
John gazed toward the north. “I can recognize the Little Dipper."
"Ursa Minor."
"And the Big Dipper pointing to the North Star. I suppose it follows that the Big Dipper must be Ursa Major, the Great Bear."
Justine nodded and was about to name the major stars in the constellation when Prudence coughed and then cleared her throat. “I have such a scratchy throat after that interminable drive, and I do believe Rodgers brought some punch from the Manor. If you would be so kind, John...?"
"Of course,” he said, “how thoughtless of me not to suggest it."
"Forgive me,” Justine said after John hurried away. “At times I seem unable to hold my tongue when I realize I should. I know full well Mr. Willoughby has no desire to learn the proper names of the constellations or the phase of the moon during an eclipse."