by Julia Parks
"But, Papa, Thunderlight has to have exercise."
"And what do you think I pay Bobby O'Hara for, if not to ride the horses? And not like some sort of banshee."
"Papa, I do not ride like a banshee, though how you could know how they ride, I'm certain I don't know. Have you ever seen a banshee?" She calculated that this last question was enough to make her father forget everything else, and she smiled inwardly when he took the bait.
"A man doesn't have to have seen something, to know that it exists. And don't think they don't exist, because they do. Your mother..."
"Kieran, dearest, what is all this clamor about?"
"Mama," said Kate, hurrying to the doorway where her invalid mother was swaying delicately. She led her into the room and saw her seated in front of the fire before ringing for tea.
"Anne, you shouldn't be up and about yet," said her husband, kneeling by her side and patting her hand.
"Nonsense. I am fine, Kieran, and so the doctor told you this morning. Now, what is all this noise about?"
"Nothing, my love, nothing at all."
"You know me and Papa, Mama. We love to squabble, but we did not mean to disturb you," said Kate, bringing a shawl and placing it around her mother's narrow shoulders. She then sat down on the footstool, folding her long legs beneath her. Her mother smiled at her and patted her daughter's red curls.
"What have you been doing this morning, my love, that has your father in such a state?"
"Nothing." Kate blushed and grimaced. "Well, not much. I just went for a ride in the park."
"On that black devil," muttered her father.
"He is not a devil," said Kate, her green eyes sparking with defiance and indignation.
"Kieran, can Kate handle him?"
"You know she can," said Kieran O'Connor, his chest swelling with pride. "Our Kate can handle anything on four legs, but that is not the point. She should not be racing through the park, no matter how early in the morning she rides."
"Your father is right, Kate, and you know it, don't you?"
"Yes, Mama," she replied.
"Good. Then it shan't happen again?"
"No, Mama."
"Good. You know, Kate, I do believe I am feeling
strong enough to accompany you to the shops this afternoon. You have your first fitting with the seamstress, do you not?"
"That would be wonderful," said Kate, her green eyes meeting her father's. "Are you sure you are well enough?"
"Yes, dear. It's only right that your mother should go with you on such a momentous occasion. Besides, I may run into some old acquaintances, and that will mean more invitations, more balls, and more suitors for you to choose from."
"I... yes, Mama."
Anne O'Connor rose with the help of her daughter and husband. Leaning heavily on his arm, she allowed him to lead her to the door where she paused.
"Can you be ready in an hour, my Kate?"
"Yes, Mama. I'll be ready."
The door closed on her parents, and Kate rushed to the bed, flinging herself down on it, her face buried in the pillow while the sobs racked her body.
It was unspoken, the knowledge that her mother would never fully recover her health. It was always there, looming over everyone in the household, that Mrs. O'Connor might not recover this time, from this miscarriage.
When she had discovered that her mother was once more with child, she had raged at her father, calling him a beast and worse. Her mother's quiet reprimand had taken the wind out of her sails. Love, she insisted softly, had a mind of its own, and the baby was simply a result of their love—for each other and for her. How, her mother had whispered, could she not hope for another child like her beloved Kate?
It had ended like the others. Her mother had lost the baby just before coming to London for her daughter's
first Season. The experience had weakened her further, and she had yet to recover. The London physician had confided to Kate and her father that Mrs. O'Connor would likely never be the same, that the weakness might never leave her. Her mother, however, had called the physician a quack and assured them that she would be fine in time.
Kate sat up and dried her tears. After bathing her face in the cool water on the nightstand, she began removing her riding habit. Her mother wanted her to have a Season in London, just as she had done before meeting her Irish rogue of a husband. She was certain her long-legged, full-figured Kate would be a great success.
Gazing candidly at her wild red curls and freckled nose, Kate doubted she would take London by storm. To her own critical eyes, she looked too much like her father, and she was more accustomed to the stable than the drawing room. But for her Mama, she would endure anything.
Making a moue at her image, she turned away and donned her dark red gown with its matching spencer trimmed in gold braid. She loved the gown, which fitted her well and suited her coloring. With a final glance in the glass, she left the room, walking down the short corridor to her mother's room to help her down the stairs.
"Your papa ordered the carriage, did he not, Miss Kate?" asked Dolly, her mother's faithful maid.
"Yes, it is waiting at the front door. Is that cloak warm enough, Mama? We do not want you to get a chill."
"Certainly not," said the maid.
"I am fine," insisted Mrs. O'Connor, smiling at them and shaking her head. "Each of you give me an arm on the stairs, and we will manage admirably."
"Yes, Mama," said Kate.
"Yes, madam," said Dolly.
When they were finally settled in the small landaulet, Kate breathed a sigh of relief. The coachman sent the horses down the street, traveling at a sedate pace.
"Papa says you are to have everything I deem necessary," said Mrs. O'Connor.
"Surely we have already ordered everything that is necessary," said Kate.
"No, we have only begun, my dear. A lady must have a different gown for every major ball."
"How silly!" said Kate.
"Well, that is an exaggeration, perhaps. But if you wear the same gown, you must do something different. A different shawl, new ribbons, perhaps another flounce."
"Mama, I know you and Papa ..."
"Sh, Kate. We have been through it all before. If you had chosen one of the young gentlemen at home, that would have been fine. You know I would have loved having you close by. But none of them would do, as anyone with two thoughts to rub together could see. I mean, can you imagine, in your wildest dreams, being Mrs. Peter Abernathy?"
The three of them giggled, as they always did when Mrs. O'Connor said this. Peter Abernathy was a handsome young man, but he could barely count to ten.
"To give the boy credit, madam," said the maid, with the easy familiarity of an old family retainer, "he was smart enough to recognize what a gem our girl is."
"Quite right, Dolly. I should not malign the boy so," said Mrs. O'Connor.
Kate smiled as her mother and the maid laughed again. It was so good to hear her mother's laughter—it
was pure and bright, like the water in a crystal clear brook. She studied her mother's face, watching for signs of fatigue. Her mother turned to gaze at her, giving her a reassuring wink.
"Here we are, Mrs. River's shop. When we have finished with our fitting, dear, let's go to Gunter's for an ice."
"That would be wonderful," said Kate, hopping down and reaching back to help the maid descend. Together, they steadied her mother as she climbed down.
Two hours later, they had no thoughts of ices from Gunter's. There was that familiar tightness around her mother's eyes and mouth, and Kate insisted that she was too exhausted to go another step. The coachman turned the carriage toward their small house just off Berkley Square.
It was a modest residence, rented for the autumn Season. It suited their needs, having just enough room for the family and their few servants. Kate and Dolly helped Mrs. O'Connor to her room and saw her settled in the big bed. Her cheeks were the color of the white sheets, and Dolly declared that she would fetch
a restorative.
"No, Dolly. That is not necessary. I only need to rest. I will be fine by dinner. Wake me when it is time to dress again."
"Very good, madam," said the maid, putting a finger to her lips as she led the way out of the room.
In the corridor, Kate motioned for the maid to follow her, and they went into her bedroom.
"She looks so very tired," said Kate, pitching her bonnet on the bed and peeling off her gloves. Dolly picked up the discarded items, checked them for loose ribbons or buttons, and then put them away.
"She'll be fine, miss. Your mother will come about.
Just you wait and see. And when you start going to all those balls, she'll be right there with you." The maid returned to her young mistress's side and patted her head.
Kate managed a slight smile and said, "Sit down, Dolly, and tell me again about Mama's Season."
"Oh, miss, I've got a thousand things to do .. . oh, very well. Your mother was the prettiest belle of the Season, she was. She was tall and slender, like a reed. All the men were writing poems to her and making up the most dreadful songs."
"Did she receive flowers every day?"
"At least four or five bouquets every single day. And then there was that one day when among the bouquets there was a single daisy tied with a bright blue ribbon."
"From Papa," said Kate, who knew the story as well as the maid, but never tired of hearing about her mother and father's fairy-tale romance.
"Yes, and when your papa saw her wearing that ribbon that night, he knew she had chosen him. He was grinning from ear to ear, and your grandmama—rest her soul—she was fit to be tied. She tried to reason with your mama, but she would hear not a word against your papa. Your grandmama vowed she would not receive a penny of her dowry, but they refused to be swayed."
Kate sighed, marveling that her wealthy mother had chosen her penniless father over all her other suitors. That was how love was supposed to be, but she doubted that she would ever find such love. Perhaps she was too practical.
"I wonder what Papa will do if my choice displeases him," said Kate.
Dolly rose and grinned down at her mistress. "He will probably take the whip to him—and to you, too. Now stand up and let me help you out of that gown. I do
not want to come back in here later and find it all wadded up on the bed."
It was midnight, much too late to be strolling outside in the tiny garden behind their rented house. Still, Kate was restless and needed to walk. Pulling her cloak around her nightrail, she shoved her feet into the half boots she had carried down to the kitchen and slipped outside.
It was quite dark, with only a sliver of moon peeking out from behind the clouds. Keeping to the wall of the house in case anyone should be looking out the windows, Kate made her way to the back of the walled garden and sat down on the cold stone bench. She gazed up at the stars that stubbornly shone through the thin clouds. Closing her eyes, she made her fervent wish: "I wish Mama would decide to let me go home again."
"What a deal of yearning to put in one short sentence," said a deep voice.
Kate leaped to her feet and whirled around.
"Who is there?" she demanded, more angry than afraid.
"Don't worry, little kitten, I mean you no harm. I'm your new neighbor, and I, too, was drawn outside by the stillness of the night."
Kate chuckled, relaxing at the cultured accents of the kindly voice.
"What is so funny?" he asked from behind the wall that separated his property from hers.
"It is obvious to me that you have yet to see me if you call me little," she said.
"Oh? How intriguing. Perhaps I should climb ..."
"No!" she said, pulling her cloak more tightly around her.
"What is wrong? I thought we had established that I do not mean you any harm," said the deep, velvety voice.
Kate grinned again. "Perhaps you do not, but I am not properly dressed underneath my cloak."
"All the more reason," he teased, but he made no move. "Shall I introduce myself?"
"If you like, though there can be nothing proper about such an introduction."
"No, I don't think I shall. I rather like speaking to a beautiful stranger in the night. It adds a certain piquancy to our conversation. One day we will meet properly. You will curtsy, and I will make a leg. Then you shall know my name. Until then, we will meet here, with the stars and the moon our candlelight."
"But how will we meet? We will not know each other in the daylight," said Kate.
"I would know you anywhere with that lovely lilting voice," claimed the gallant.
"Now you are being foolish," she chided.
"Dreams can make a man very foolish. Perhaps it is the lateness of the hour, or the stars twinkling above."
"What shall I call you?"
"You may call me Sir Milton, and you shall be my Iseult."
"Then you should be Tristram."
"Real life is seldom like the legends, Iseult."
"Which you must admit is a very good thing in some cases, Sir Milton."
"I suppose you are right."
"I should go in before someone discovers us. I hope to hear from you again, Sir Milton. Good night."
"Bonne nuit, ma petite,''' he said, and Kate hurried back to the house, her heart racing at the audacity of flirting with a man she neither knew nor could see.
When she was safe in her room again, she drew back the curtains, hoping to be able to see into the neighboring garden. She was out of luck. Several small trees obstructed her view, and she let the curtain fall.
"Stoopid," she murmured.
How foolish she was being, her heart fluttering over a man's silliness. She had always prided herself on her directness and had laughed at the other young ladies when they batted their eyes and sighed over some man. Now, she was doing the same—and all for a deep masculine voice that cascaded over the ears like velvet on the skin.
"Stoopid," she whispered again, climbing into bed and pulling up the counterpane.
Raising up on one elbow to blow out the lone candle on her nightstand, Kate smiled into the darkness. The first ball was on Sunday night. She had almost a week of midnights to hear that voice and his honeyed words.
Kate frowned. What if he did not return? But he had said he would, that they would meet again under the stars. If he did not return, she would have the measure of the man and count it as a small loss. But if he did return to the garden wall...
Kate rolled over and hugged her pillow. With a sweet smile, she fell asleep.
Two
Max rose early the next day in his pursuit of Thun-derlight. While he knew he could not afford to buy the stallion, perhaps if he discovered who was riding him, he might figure something out. Surely that slip of a girl was not the owner! If only he had not lost her in the crowd the day before.
He was mounted on a big gray gelding, another of the Marquess of Cravenwell's horses. While Max was thankful that he had access to such excellent horseflesh while in London, he would have felt much better if only he could strangle the marquess for losing Thunderlight.
He rode through the park twice, but there was no sign of Thunderlight. Frustrated, he tried once more, but still had no luck. Dejected, he turned the big gelding back toward the stable.
As he neared the gates, the same black carriage that had almost hit him the day before entered the park. Max pulled back on the reins, his eyes widening in appreciation at the beauty on the seat gazing back at him, her hands clasped in her lap, her pretty straw bonnet tilted at a jaunty angle over blond curls. He tipped his hat and smiled. The girl lowered her eyes, but turned her head to look at him as the carriage passed by.
"Whew, that one is a rare beauty," he said, patting his
horse's glossy mare. "Come on, let's go home. We're not going to find Thunderlight today."
Max spent the remainder of the day at Tattersall's, meeting friends and advising them on which horses they should select. His queries about an Irish horse br
eeder turned up a name, but no address, so he was no closer to finding Thunderlight.
From Tattersall's, he went to his club to meet more friends for dinner. It was a modest place with the august name of Regent's, which catered to the younger men with little money. It was little more than a coffee house, but it was a place where Max could be certain of enjoying a decent meal with a congenial group of friends. They urged him to join them for a night of revelry at one of Pall Mall's gaming hells, but Max had no interest in losing the small purse he was carrying.
The clock was striking midnight when he arrived home. Tristram, who was busily writing on his tome, merely waved a distracted hand to his greeting. Bored, Max accepted the glass of port Barton poured for him and wandered outside.
It was turning cooler, and he hunched his shoulders against the stiff breeze. Taking a pull on the drink, Max sat down on a stone bench, gasping as the cold penetrated his pantaloons. He swallowed wrong and began to cough.
"Sir Milton, are you all right?" asked a feminine voice.
Max jumped up and spun around. "Who's there?"
"It is I, Iseult. I heard you coughing. Are you all right?"
"Yes, I'm fine." He cleared his throat.
"You sound very different. Are you sure you're all right?"
"Yes, I'm sure. I ... I beg your pardon, but what are you doing out here in the middle of the night?" Max
grinned at the sound of her giggle. "I mean, I am delighted to find such an intriguing tenant in the garden next door, but surely you should be inside, away from the cold."
"I am not at all cold, Sir Milton, and I was hoping you would return tonight."
"Return ... oh, I see," said Max, glancing at the house where his little brother was working so diligently. Tristram was so wrapped up in his work, he must have started something and then forgotten all about the girl. Well, Max was more than willing to carry on an anonymous flirtation with such a captivating voice.