by Julia Parks
"Are you not afraid someone will discover our little assignation?" he asked, settling back on the bench and leaning against the garden wall.
"No, everyone is asleep. Mama is ... still recovering from an indisposition, and Papa prefers rising early to staying out late. That is why Mama will have to be the one to accompany me to the balls and other entertainments."
"Oh, so Iseult is going to the balls."
"Yes, next Monday night."
"Your first ball," he said.
"Yes ... I mean no. That is, it will be my first in London. I have been to many others, but not here."
"So, like all the other young ladies, you have come to London to find a husband," said Max.
"Perhaps, but... never mind. I should be going."
"No, stay," he whispered, turning to face the wall.
"I... I should not," she replied.
He could hear the hesitation in her voice and said, "But you will."
"Yes, a little longer."
"Good. Tell me, little Iseult, where are you from?"
She giggled. "As I told you last night, Sir Milton, you
really must stop calling me little. I am all of five feet nine in my stocking feet."
"Ah, a statuesque beauty," he murmured.
"How... how tall are you?" she asked, her tone almost anxious.
"I am six feet tall—a mountain of a man, so they tell me.
"Oh, that is tall," she said breathlessly.
"Tall enough for a girl as magnificent as you," he added.
She gave a little gasp that made him laugh. He could tell from the height of her voice that, in her confusion, she must have leaped to her feet. He rose also.
"Will you leave me so soon?" he asked.
"I must go back inside. Good night, Sir Milton."
"Good night, fair Iseult."
Then he was alone. Max walked back to the house, a broad smile on his face. He rather thought he would enjoy living in the little house with its enchanting neighbor.
"Tristram, I just met the most interesting person."
"That's good," replied his brother, not bothering to look up. "Another one like you, who thinks horses are better than people?"
"Hm? As to that, I could not say. I shall have to ask her." Max waited to see if this comment would elicit more interest. When it did not, he wandered to his room and flopped down on the bed to while away the time, thinking of the beauty who most certainly belonged to that charming voice.
Almost as tall as he. That would be most interesting, he thought as he drifted off to sleep.
* * *
The remainder of the week, Max spent every morning in the park. He began to lose hope that he would see Thunderlight again, but he went anyway, and he always happened to be at the entrance at eleven o'clock to watch the beauty pass through the gates. She still lowered her eyes, but she smiled each time she saw him. He wished he could find the occasion to stop the carriage and introduce himself, but the dragon beside the girl scowled at him merely for looking. When there was a ball, then he would have the opportunity to meet her, to ask her to dance with him.
Twice he returned to the garden wall to wait in vain for the mysterious Iseult to reappear. If she was a lady, she had probably come to her senses and realized how improper their midnight meeting had been. Max consoled himself with the thought that their neighbor was probably as plain as she was tall.
He much preferred the petite beauty in the park. She was just what he was looking for in a wife—shy, beautiful, and, he hoped, plump in the pocket. If she were only half as sweet as she was beautiful, then he might be willing to wed her.
It never occurred to Maxwell Darby that the girl might have very different ideas.
Saturday brought a cold wind whipping through the streets and warning London's occupants that winter was indeed on its way. It was the first week of October, and the wind brought with it Viscount Tavistoke, up from the country to urge his sons toward their objectives— finding wealthy wives.
When Barton opened the door to his knock, it flew out of his hands, banging forcefully against the wall.
The viscount strode across the threshold, tearing off his gloves and throwing them to the surprised servant.
"Whom may I say ... is ... calling," huffed Barton, trailing after the viscount.
"Calling? I ain't calling. I'm here to see my boys." The viscount peered up at the servant and added, "You must be Barton. Cravenwell told me he had assigned you to the lads. Where are they? Ought to be up to greet their dear papa."
"If we had known you were coming, Papa, we would have been up," said Max, entering the room and fastening the frogs on his silk banyan.
"I will bring coffee, Master Max," said Barton, scurrying from the room.
"And where is Tristram?"
"Should be in bed, covering his head with his pillow if he has any sense at all," said Max. "Have a seat, Papa."
The viscount, who was already seated, glared at his son.
"Did you just arrive in town?"
"No, I got here last night. I'm staying with Craven-well, you know. I don't think we would deal well together, the three of us, in this pokey little house."
"Oh? Do you find it pokey?" said Max, glancing around as if seeing the house for the first time. "I find it quite charming and spacious. Just the thing for me and Tris."
"Demme, boy. Have you no eyes? Hardly bigger than those rooms you had last year. Besides, I've no desire to stay in a house where Cravenwell used to keep his mistresses."
"Ah, that would account for Tristram's pink bedchamber," said Max. "Speak of the devil. Good morning, Tris. Only see who has come to call."
"Not staying with us, are you, Papa?"
"Ungrateful wretch," growled his father. "No, I ain't. I'm with the marquess. You look like the devil."
"Why, thank you, Papa. As it happens, I was working until the wee hours of the morning."
"Were you? Good for you!" exclaimed the viscount. 'Tell me, what is she like? Listen and learn, Maxwell. So what is she like? Rich? And beautiful, too, I'll be bound. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree. You would do well to take a page out of your little brother's book."
Max shouted with laughter, and Tristram twisted uncomfortably in his chair.
"Papa!" said Tristram.
"Papa, you have hit the nail on the head. The book you spoke of is just that. Our Tristram was up all night working on a book, a novel of epic proportions."
"Reading a book? All night? You're no son of mine," said the viscount, his nose scrunched up in distaste.
"Not reading, Papa," said his youngest son. "I am writing a book. My second book, if you must know. The first one will be out by the end of the week, or so my publisher tells me. He was merely waiting on the last few pages before printing and binding it."
"Your publisher? Bah! What sort of occupation is that for a gentleman? A gentleman is supposed to be a farmer, a gambler, a ..."
"A fortune hunter?" added Max, the grin on his face making his brother and father scowl at him.
"There is nothing wrong with looking to your future when you are looking for a wife," said the viscount.
Barton entered with a tray and handed out coffee all around. Then he discreetly slipped out of the room.
"So how much are you being paid?" the viscount demanded.
"I would prefer to keep such information confidential," said Tristram.
"Humph! Then it ain't enough to amount to anything. You would do better to forget that silly book and concentrate on finding you a wife. I daresay Max already has someone in mind. Right, my boy?"
"I have met a couple of girls."
"There, you see? That is more like it. What are then-names? I'll find out how deep their family pockets are."
"I'm afraid I don't know their names yet. Except for one. I know her first name. It is Iseult."
Tris swiveled to stare at his older brother.
"Iseult." The viscount drained his cup and rose. "Can't be too many
fillies about with a name like that. I'll make inquiries. In the meanwhile, get busy ... both of you!"
With this, he passed into the hall, and they heard the door slam against the wall again. Barton, who had been lingering close by, rushed to shut it against the terrible wind.
"Whew! Next time the wind is blowing like this, Barton, bolt the door and don't open it for anybody!" declared Max, rising and heading for his room.
"Max, where did you meet this Iseult?" asked Tristram.
"As if you don't know, Sir Milton. You are a sly one," he added.
"Not really. I had forgotten all about her."
"Tris, I hate to side with our father on this, but you really should get out of the house more. You're too wrapped up in those books of yours."
Tristram's brow rose in disdain. "You are a strange one to be giving me advice. You have been out almost constantly, but you have nothing more to show for your efforts than I do. Rather less, since I received a tidy little
sum for my first book, the one I left with the publisher last spring."
"I didn't even realize you had written one. Congratulations, little brother. I am proud of you, but it still can't be as much as a hefty dowry."
"I know. And I will get out of the house," said Tristram, rising and going to the mantel where a small pile of invitations waited. Picking up the first one, he said, "Lady Murray's ball this Monday. We'll begin our campaigns in earnest then."
"Very good," said Max, wondering if this was the ball the mysterious Iseult was going to attend. Very likely. There could not be that many, not during the Little Season. "Tell me again, Tris, what is the name of the hero in your books?"
"Sir Milton."
"Is there a heroine?"
Tristram blushed and said, "Iseult."
Max grinned and nodded. "Monday it is!"
"I think it very badly done of Papa to deny me the right to visit the stables anymore," grumbled Kate. "I have been cooped up in this house for days on end!"
"Nonsense, my dear. We went to service just yesterday morning. And we have paid calls every afternoon."
"Yes, but that does not count. I want to go riding in the park by myself."
Her mother and their maid murmured sympathetically, but they were too busy studying her in the mirror to really pay attention to her words.
"I cannot like it," said Mrs. O'Connor. "To cut off all that glorious hair..."
"I promise you, madam, zee hair will be as beautiful
as your daughter," said the tall, fussy man with scissors in his hands.
"Couldn't you just, oh, I don't know, tame it a little?"
The hairdresser sighed. "I do not see 'ow, madam. It is no more than a mop as it is. Where do I start?"
"I tell you where you start, Mr. Popinjay ..."
"Now, Dolly, I'm sure Monsieur Poupin meant no insult," said Mrs. O'Connor. "What do you think, Kate? It is your hair, after all."
"I am surprised anyone even noticed that little fact," she snapped.
"Miss Kate!"
"Oh, very well. I apologize, Mama, but I am so very aggravated. I really do not wish to cut my hair, but if it is the fashion, then I suppose if must be done."
The hairdresser held his scissors in readiness. Mrs. O'Connor stroked the long red curls and shuddered before giving a nod. The hairdresser set to his work with uncommon glee, whacking off long tresses before beginning to snip more judiciously, here and there.
Finally, he stood back, waving his scissors with a flourish.
"I give you, Miss O'Connor!"
Mrs. O'Connor and Dolly stepped forward, looking at Kate's face in the glass, framed by clusters of red curls.
"Oh, you do look a treat, Miss Kate," breathed the maid.
Mrs. O'Connor smiled at her daughter and nodded in approval. Kate returned the smile.
"Do you like it, dear?"
"It is quite different, but yes, I do like it."
"Of course she likes it!" declared the hairdresser. "It is perfect for her face, perfect for her hair. No one else
would dare to cut her hair so short, but me, I know what is best. You see how it makes her neck look swan-like. Yes this, this is my masterpiece! Other girls will beg me to do the same for them, but I will say no! This," he said, taking Kate's chin and turning her head from side to side, "this is only for Miss O'Connor, because only she can handle such an extraordinary masterpiece!"
"Thank you, Mr. Poupin," said Kate, who felt like giggling. Looking at her image, for the first time in her life she felt beautiful. As far as she was concerned, Mr. Poupin's work was more miracle than masterpiece.
"Yes, thank you, Monsieur Poupin. Now, Kate, do rest for an hour. I will send Dolly to you to help you dress for the ball," said her mother, kissing her on top of the head before shooing everyone from the room.
After running the comb through her hair and twice scratching her swan-like neck, Kate rose and went to the bed, stretching out across it and closing her eyes. Turning this way and that, she found sleep was impossible. She was about to go to her first London ball, and she was ridiculously nervous.
She couldn't imagine why. She was five and twenty and had attended countless balls and danced with all sorts of men. Why she should suddenly be nervous, she could not understand. She had met many people since arriving in London, and she had felt no shyness with them. What was more, it was her aunt's ball, so she should certainly feel at home.
Kate gazed at the Pomona green gown hanging on the front of the wardrobe. The color was as fresh as spring, and the cut was simple. It had long, fitted sleeves and a deep decolletage to show off her ample charms. Her aunt, Lady Murray, had sent over an emerald pendant on a short ribbon. When she had held it up to her throat, her
father had said proudly that it matched her sparkling green eyes perfectly.
Everything was ideal, so why had butterflies taken up permanent residence in her stomach? Surely it could not be because she was to meet Sir Milton. She had waited for the household to grow quiet each night, but her father had taken to inviting his cronies over to play cards every night, which meant the servants, too, were keeping late hours. Kate had not judged it safe to venture outside again.
She had begged the cook and their footman to find out more about their neighbor, but they knew nothing. When all was said and done, it was all a hum, anyway. The man next door was probably most unsuitable and nothing out of the ordinary when seen in the daylight. He was probably five inches shorter than she was and as wide as he was tall. Even if he had managed to secure an invitation to her aunt's ball, she would probably not look twice at him.
If, on the other hand, he were as tall and charming as his voice and words . . . there went those butterflies again.
The key to being all the kick in London Society was to be unique, but not too unique. With Monsieur Poupin's newly styled hair, Kate O'Connor managed to walk that fine line. She was worldly enough to realize, of course, that by the next ball, her looks might be considered passe. But for this night, it amused and pleased her that her short red curls were the talk of her aunt's ballroom.
Upon entering the ballroom, Kate stopped to gaze down at the bright colors of the ladies' gowns as the
couples went through the motions of the dance. The butterflies took flight again. One of those men might be Sir Milton. 'Twas not his real name, she felt sure, but she would use it to help identify him—if she were lucky enough to hear his voice and if he was in attendance. She told herself once again not to set her hopes too high.
"Come along, my dear. There is Lady Nance with her handsome grandson. Her son was one of my suitors all those years ago. He was just as handsome as this young man. I will introduce you." Obediently, Kate followed her mother.
"I will meet up with you two later," called her father, turning and heading toward his brother-in-law's study, where he knew Lord Murray would be hiding with a few old friends, playing at whist or hazard.
As she and her mother neared the young man and elderly matron, Kate
whispered, "He is not very tall."
"No, but he is quite suitable in every other way. We talked about that. The perfect man is not always as tall as you are," said her sensible mother.
"No, but Sir Milton is," muttered Kate before pasting on her smile for the introduction. Before Kate could spare another thought for the shadowy Sir Milton, she was swept into the forming set by Lord Nance.
"How do you find London, Miss O'Connor?" he asked politely before they were separated by the steps of the dance.
"It is charming, my lord."
"So have you seen all the sights, visited all the exhibits? Or perhaps you are like most young ladies, and the shops have taken all your time."
They were separated by the movements, and Kate was able to compose herself before responding. She
wondered what his reaction would be if she told him she preferred mucking out a stall to shopping for ribbons and such.
"So have you managed to empty the shops like my sister has? I can tell that you have found a talented modiste, because the gown you are wearing is both fashionable and very becoming," said Lord Nance, dragging his eyes away from her decolletage and smiling at her.
"I have purchased one or two things, my lord, though I am not allowed inside the one place where I truly wish to go."
They separated again, and Kate wanted to laugh at his expression while he tried to imagine which forbidden spot she was talking about.
"What place is that?" he asked quickly when they again met and began a promenade in the circle.
"Tattersall's, my lord. I simply adore Tattersall's, but my father refuses to let me go there. Do you not think that is cruel of him?"
"No. That is, I am sure he ... well, Tattersall's is not the proper place for a young lady. I cannot fathom why you wish to go there."
"Horses are my passion, Mr. Nance, and I often help my father select his horses. We were fortunate enough to secure an excellent stallion recently, but we could use some more brood mares for him. New blood is essential in the horse breeding game, you know."