by Jane Toombs
Justine gazed at her, fascinated. “And then?"
Daphne shook her head. “That was the end of my dream. As the ship drew away from shore, I awoke and sat up in bed, my heart pounding."
"A Viking warrior raiding the English coast and carrying me off to sea,” Justine mused. “A very strange dream. What could it possibly mean?"
"Perhaps nothing at all. Or, and I suspect this is the case, it could be a portent. Is a stranger coming into your life from across the sea? A Scandinavian? A warrior chieftain suggests the military. Will he be an officer? All we can do is wait and see."
A Scandinavian? An officer? Recalling Daphne's earlier prediction that John Willoughby was the gentleman destined to win her hand, Justine barely refrained from voicing her doubts about this supposed portent. Such foolishness! Why had she allowed herself to be drawn into Daphne's theatric, though undoubtedly false, vision? No warrior was about to appear from across the sea to make her his captive and carry her off in his arms.
"I understand how skeptical you must be,” Daphne said quietly, leaning forward and covering Justine's hand with her own. “You happen to be a most fetching young lady, and yet you seem to hold yourself in low esteem. At least where men are concerned."
"Men may have never given me reason not to."
"Have you ever stopped to consider how strange it is that so many gentlemen have rather out-sized ears?"
Puzzled by this unexpected turn of their conversation, Justine could only stare at Daphne. A disproportionate number of men with large ears? Pausing to recollect the proportions of the ears of the men of her acquaintance, she was forced to admit that John Willoughby, Ogden Stewart, and Lord Alton all had larger than normal ears.
"There are those that do,” Justine said with a question in her voice.
"Just so. And surely they number more than half. In the grand scheme resulting in the creation of the heavens and the earth, you would expect men to have been given ears of a generous size by their Creator for one purpose and one purpose only. The better to hear, the better to listen. How strange it is that so few of them do. In my experience, they much prefer to talk than to listen, especially in discourse with women."
"Prudence once told me I should never attempt to lecture a man. Or even appear to lecture him."
"She was quite right, you should always give the impression of awaiting a man's every word as though you believed he possessed the wisdom of Solomon spiced by the wit of Sydney Smith and expressed with all of the lyrical gifts of Lord Byron. In other words, as though he were a true paragon."
Justine smiled. “Since such a combination of talents in one person is well nigh impossible, surely any man would recognize the falsity of such flattery."
"Ah, my dear Justine, you give men much too much credit. If you were to follow my advice, instead of suspecting you of deceit a man would credit you with wisdom of the highest order. The only evidence of intelligence a man values in a woman is the intelligence to recognize his merits and to applaud them."
"Do you hold men in such low regard?” Justine asked in surprise.
"Certainly not, I enjoy men, I like being with them and they, or some of them at least, have always seemed to take pleasure in being with me. But to enjoy the company of men does not require one to ignore their faults."
"Surely some gentlemen must appreciate honesty and forthrightness in a woman."
"There may be one somewhere, but in my forty-one years I have yet to meet him. That, my dear Justine, is the way of this world of ours and, whether we happen to approve or disapprove, we must make the best of it."
Daphne admitted to only forty-one years? Justine smiled to herself, aware this was a white lie. Daphne was definitely a woman of a certain age and that age must be at least fifty. Will I, she wondered, do the same as I grow older? Somehow she thought not.
"Gentlemen do appreciate a young lady with talents,” Daphne said. “As long as her talents are feminine ones such as embroidery or the painting of watercolors."
"Or playing the piano."
Daphne gave her an inquiring glance. “Or playing the piano,” she repeated. “I understand from Prudence that you, Justine, do possess a talent, that you have a most pleasant singing voice."
"My father always claimed I did. And I enjoy singing."
"Just so. We shall go then, you and I, to the music room where we shall join the others. If you are given the opportunity to sing tonight, you must take it. A young lady must seize every opportunity to show herself off to her best advantage."
"Not tonight, Daphne.” Justine put her hand to her forehead. “I feel a fit of the dismals coming on and I really should—"
Daphne held up her hand. “Wait, say no more. There are times for a woman to have megrims and there are times for her not to have megrims. This, it happens, is a time not to have them. You have no reason to be afraid. Are you afraid?"
Justine blinked and raised her chin. “Of course not. Afraid? Not in the least."
"Then we shall make our way to the music room.” Daphne rose and started toward the door only to hesitate and return to her dressing table. Picking up a vial, she removed the glass stopper and raised the vial to her nose. “Pure heaven,” she murmured, handing the vial to Justine who, after a nod from Daphne, used the stopper to dab the sweet scent on her inner wrists.
"The scent is French violet,” Daphne told her, “from Yardleys. English gentlemen, I have found, are especially partial to French violet.” When Justine started to return the vial to the dressing table, Daphne said, “You must put scent behind your ears as well."
After Justine did as she was told, Daphne stood back and looked appraisingly at her from head to toe, from the small bow of the blue ribbon holding her curling black hair to her pale blue muslin gown edged with white ruffles on its vee neckline, sleeves and hem to her darker blue slippers.
Daphne frowned, but then gave a nod as if to say, “Near enough, the clothes will have to do."
Entering the music room during a lull in the entertainment, Daphne immediately led her across the room to Gerard. As Daphne and Gerard exchanged the usual courtesies, Justine glanced around her, noting with satisfaction that Quentin was engaged in earnest conversation with a gentleman she failed to recognize, while Phillippa sat on the opposite side of the room amidst a circle of admirers.
Suddenly, to Justine's dismay, she heard Daphne say, “Dear Gerard, Justine would so like to sing for us."
"A capital notion,” Gerard said, “and I shall accompany her on the pianoforte.” Before she could demur, he led Justine to a helter-skelter stack of music resting atop a sideboard, many of the sheets creased and stained with age. “I have none of the more modern ballads, I fear,” he admitted, “but to my mind the old songs have always been the best songs."
Justine leafed through the sheets of music, pausing when she unearthed a collection of sea chanteys. She smiled, recollecting with nostalgic fondness how much her father had loved songs of the forecastle. And, yes, here was one of his favorites.
"You wish to sing ‘High Barbaree?'” Gerard asked, reading the title.
When Justine nodded, he hesitated, then placed the music on the rack, sat at the piano and struck a few attention-attracting chords. Quentin, she saw, stood at the hearth, his hand on the fireplace mantel, his gaze on her. She looked quickly away.
As soon as the room quieted, Gerard said, “Miss Riggs will now favor us with a song,” and began playing.
At first she sang the familiar melody softly, tentatively.
"There were two lofty ships from old England came,
Blow high! Blow low! And so sailed we;
One was the Prince Rupert and the other Prince of Wales..."
By the time she came to the chorus her voice had grown clearer and more confident.
"Cruising down along the coast of the High Barbaree."
She had scarcely begun the second verse when she realized something was amiss. A woman tittered, causing her to look up. Had it been Phillip
pa? Quentin, his hand covering his mouth, stared at her, his expression unreadable. Was he smiling? Daphne was shaking her head as though saying, “Quite inappropriate."
There was nothing improper about this song telling of Jack tars doing battle with the Barbary Coast pirates, Justine assured herself even as she fought to overcome her baffled chagrin, nothing improper at all. Even so, she skipped several verses to sing the final stanza.
"'Oh, quarter! Oh, Quarter!’ these pirates did cry,
Blow high! Blow low! And so sailed we;
But the quarters that we gave them—we sunk them in the sea,
Cruising down along the coast of the High Barbaree."
As she stopped singing, she heard a collective intake of breath and thought it had to do with her, but when she looked around the room she found all eyes directed toward the door. A man had entered, a tall, broad-shouldered, flaxen-haired man, his rugged face tanned by the wind and sun. The women stared at him, fascinated, while the men looked at him with grudging admiration.
There came a murmur as his name was whispered, “Gavin Spencer,” and then repeated, “Gavin, Gavin Spencer."
"Bravo,” Gavin Spencer cried, his gaze on her. “Bravo!” Striding across the room to a startled Justine, he took her hand and raised it to his lips. “You were magnificent,” he told her.
CHAPTER 11
They met the next morning—the four members of the Matrimonial Recruitment Society and Rodgers, their secretary and majordomo—gathered in the circular, cupola-roofed gazebo situated behind a screen of shrubbery at the bottom of the sloping side lawn of the Manor. Their mood was one of quiet, self-satisfied jubilation.
"Mr. Gavin Spencer,” Prudence exulted, “was all I hoped he might be; he even exceeding my fondest expectations. From the moment he entered the music room until he bade us all good night he was the cynosure of all eyes."
"He proved to be more handsome and more impeccably garbed than I remembered him,” said Daphne.
"And not in the least vain about his appearance,” said Gerard, “although he has every reason to be."
"A gentleman of aristocratic bearing from head to toe,” said Prudence.
"And,” put in Daphne, “without the least evidence of pomposity or braggadocio. As ready to listen as he is to speak."
"I admit,” said Ogden, “that Mr. Spencer has done more in his thirty-odd years than most men accomplish in a lifetime. The man has uncommon bottom."
"And yet,” said Daphne, “he never puts his knowledge, however fascinating, on parade, never marches his vast achievements back and forth before our eyes in order to garner our applause."
"When you spoke to Lord Devon,” Prudence said to Gerard, “did he offer any objection whatsoever to Mr. Spencer?"
Ogden looked up as though roused from sleep. “Lord Devon,” he said. “A marquess. Do maidens ever visit Birmingham?"
"I beg your pardon?” said Gerard.
"A bit of nonsense I learned as a child to help me remember the five degrees of the nobility in descending order. Duke, marquess, earl, viscount, baron. Do maidens ever visit Birmingham."
Gerard glowered at him, then shook his head and turned to Prudence. “As to Lord Devon objecting to Mr. Spencer ... he did not. His only remark that might possibly be construed as less than enthusiastic came when he said he thought Mr. Gavin Spencer appeared to be too much of a good thing."
"Admittedly,” said Prudence, “all gentlemen have their faults, but I believe those of Mr. Spencer must be feather-light when compared to his weighty virtues. And,” she added with the rising lilt of enthusiasm, “he appeared quite taken with Justine."
"I watched them,” said Ogden. He paused as though to collect his thoughts. “He practically doted on the girl."
"And she,” Prudence said hopefully, “seemed to be quite taken with him. Do you agree?"
Daphne raised her eyes to heaven. “At least she had the good sense not to challenge Gavin Spencer to a sporting contest of some sort. I did give her a few words of womanly advice earlier in the evening regarding the proper attitude for a young lady to adopt when in the company of a male of our species. If she takes my words to heart they will, I expect, do her a world of good."
"Does Mr. Spencer leave the Manor to return to Prospect Hall today?” asked Ogden.
Gerard nodded. “He may have already departed. Mr. Spencer expects to be in residence at the Hall for several months, but he confided to me that he intends to spend much of that time in seclusion while writing an account of his adventures in Africa searching for the headwaters of the Nile."
"It behooves us, then,” said Prudence, “to act swiftly and decisively, the better to enhance Justine's prospects."
Daphne smiled rather smugly. “I have already accomplished more along that line than any of you might imagine. Last evening, before Justine and I came to the music room, I told her of my dream."
"Your dream?” the others asked almost in unison.
"In my dream I saw Gavin Spencer as a Viking warlord sailing from the mists of the eastern sea to lead his plundering hordes on a raid along the English coast. Finding Justine alone and unprotected, he swept her into his arms and carried her off in his long boat."
"Mr. Spencer's ancestry does happen to be Danish,” said Gerard.
Ogden frowned, started to speak, stopped, began again. “You actually dreamed this, Daphne?” he asked with a thread of skepticism running through his voice.
"Heavens yes, dear Ogden, though this did happen to be a waking dream, a vision if you will. I have them now and again and, more often than not, they serve to lift the veil that conceals the future from our all-too-fallible human eyes."
"And Justine?” Gerard wanted to know. “What did she have to say to this dream of yours?"
"Though she said little or nothing, I could perceive how fascinated she was, how intrigued by my handsome Viking adventurer. I do believe I succeeded in sewing seeds on fertile soil, last evening the fledgling plant began to send forth tendrils of growth and now only requires our devoted nourishment to finally blossom into the full flower of love."
Ogden rumbled, opened his mouth to speak, paused, then said gruffly, “I was led to believe our object was matrimony, not love."
Daphne leaned to him and briefly rested the tips of her fingers on his knee. “Dear Ogden, to me, love is the most important thing in the world; matrimony, on the other hand, is a mere formality, a token nod to the parsons and the lawyers. Given time, I fully intend to make a true believer of you."
"While acknowledging the importance of both love and matrimony,” Prudence said, “we must direct our attention to Justine and Mr. Gavin Spencer. Do you, Rodgers, have any suggestions?"
"The poet claims that ‘Music has charms to soothe a savage breast,'” Rodgers quoted with a deferential smile. “'To soften rocks or bend a knotted oak.’ If the musical evening truly kindled the first spark of love, perhaps combining the intimacy of dancing with the charms of music will encourage the spark to flame into a veritable conflagration."
"Just so,” said Gerard. “As it happens, I have reason to believe something of the sort may very well occur since last night, during my brief conversation with Mr. Spencer, I made two important, nay, to us two momentous discoveries. The first was that Mr. Spencer has journeyed home to England and to Prospect Hall with one pre-eminent purpose in mind, namely to search for a suitable wife. I have every reason to believe he will act swiftly and decisively in this matter as he always has in other matters."
"Ahhh,” Prudence and Daphne murmured.
"And, secondly,” Gerard went on, “I learned that Mr. Spencer and his mother will host a costume ball at Prospect Hall on Saturday week. And they intend to invite all of our house party to attend."
"How delightful,” said Prudence. She closed her eyes. “Justine Riggs Spencer,” she said tentatively. “Justine Spencer,” she said with emphasis. “Yes, I do like the sound of it."
* * * *
Quentin Fletcher mounted La
ncelot, a black stallion, and left the stable yard well before eight for an early morning ride across the countryside. When he neared Round Hill, he circled to approach the summit from the south. Nearing the summit, he dismounted and tethered Lancelot, removed a spy glass from his saddlebag and walked to the top of the treeless dome of rock on the crest of the hill.
As he started to raise the spy glass, he paused, recalling the night of the eclipse, reliving once more the moment when he took Justine in his arms and kissed her, remembering, with a self-satisfied smile, the sudden and unexpected fervor with which she had returned that kiss. Quentin shook his head in an attempt to banish his reverie.
A single stolen kiss. How trivial an event, how completely insignificant. Why then, he wondered, did he find it impossible to erase that kiss from his thoughts? Why then, had he ridden here to Round Hill at the ungodly hour of eight in the morning?
Pushing aside questions for which he had no logical answers, he again raised the spy glass to scan the countryside below him, searching in vain for a lone rider as he shifted the glass from the Manor across the fields cut into tidy rectangles by their hedgerows to another country house some two miles from his vantage point. Prospect Hall. The residence of Mr. Gavin Spencer, damn him. The devil take Gavin Spencer—the man should have stayed in Africa.
Placing his spy glass in a cleft on the rock, Quentin walked the circumference of the Round Hill summit, stopping now and again to look below him. Each time he shook his head in disappointment. Where was she? Rodgers had said she rode this way every morning and Rodgers was seldom wrong. But today there was no sign of her.
Why am I here? Quentin asked himself. He had no reasonable answer. He had been compelled to come to Round Hill by the fever raging in his blood. Like any normal fever, he assured himself, this one would burn itself out in time, but for now there was nothing on earth he could do about it. Not that he was at all certain he wanted to.