by Julia Parks
Mrs. Beauchamp was seated on a gold silk settee. Her gown was a burnished copper, and planted in her elegant coiffure was a bright orange feather, which waved wildly as she talked.
"Gentlemen, how delightful to see you both. Let me introduce my little Snookems. Snookems, this handsome man is Mr. Maxwell Darby, and that is his brother Mr. Tristram Darby. Make your bow."
Max and Tristram shared a quick glance before saying politely, "Good afternoon." It was unclear if they were addressing the little black and silver monkey that was bowing repeatedly to them, but the matron chose to think so, and she chortled happily.
"Now, Philippa, you must make your curtsy, and then we will be on our way." She did not pause to see if her daughter obeyed, but the childishly garbed girl bobbed a curtsy which the gentlemen responded to. She said not a word, keeping her head down all the while.
"The carriage was outside when you arrived, was it not, gentlemen?"
"I believe that it was, madam. Allow me to escort you," said Max, hurrying forward to help Mrs. Beauchamp rise
and offer his arm. Glancing at his brother, he cocked his head toward Miss Beauchamp, and Tristram offered his arm to the shy miss.
On the doorstep, Max was taken aback when the monkey leaped into his arms.
"Oh, little Snookems wants to go with us. You will not mind, will you? He is so well behaved."
At this, the well-behaved monkey hopped onto Max's shoulder, and he said tightly, "Of course not, my dear Mrs. Beauchamp." If this was what it took to win the mother's approval, then he would bite his tongue and do it.
"Now, Philippa, you must sit in the rear-facing seat. You know how Snookems gets when he rides backward. And Mr. Tristram, you sit beside her—that's a good boy."
Tristram grumbled under his breath, but he took the rear-facing seat, leaving Max to sit beside the pushy matron.
"Isn't this delightful," declared Mrs. Beauchamp as they got under way. "Tell me, Mr. Darby, how do you feel about the theater?"
"I enjoy it very much," Max replied while sending a silent signal to his brother that he should pay attention to the younger Beauchamp lady.
"It is splendid weather we are having, is it not?" asked Tristram.
"Yes, sir," she replied, never lifting her face.
"I understand that it is quite unusual for this time of year to have had as many sunny days as we have."
"I... I believe so."
"Your dear brother has offered to escort me to the theater tomorrow night, Mr. Darby," said Mrs. Beauchamp.
"And your charming daughter, too, of course," said Max hurriedly.
"What? Oh, certainly. You will agree to come, too, will you not, Mr. Darby? It would be rather awkward without you. I mean, rather like having uneven numbers at a dinner party."
"Yes, certainly I will come," he replied, glancing at the girl.
"Then it is all settled. Now, do tell me, Mr. Darby," she said, taking Max's arm and leaning against him, "is that not the most atrocious bonnet you have ever seen? Whatever could Lady Murray have been thinking?"
"Lady Murray?" asked Max.
"Yes, there in the landaulet. You remember her. We attended her ball the other night. It is too late. Perhaps when we pass them on the way out of the park."
"My brother is quite a good rider, Miss Beauchamp," said Tristram.
"Is he?"
"Yes, he's rather a Corinthian, you know. Riding, shooting, all sorts of sports, but especially the horses."
"Horses frighten me," said the girl, daring a glance up at him.
"Snookems, sit still, do! Please help me hold onto him, Mr. Darby. Dare I call you Max? It is so confusing having two Mr. Darbys in the carriage."
"Certainly, madam," said Max, grinning at Tristram as he corralled the little beast, holding it rather forcefully in his lap.
"What do you like to do, Mr. Darby? I know you are an artist, but what else do you enjoy?" asked the girl, again glancing up at him with those huge blue eyes.
"Oh, I am a bit of a dull stick. Nothing so exciting as Max. I hate riding, and shooting gives me the headache, not to mention having to pick up dead rabbits and such."
"Oh, dear," she said, her hand to her throat.
"I. . . actually, I write. I also paint, but I have not been trained, so I am afraid my efforts are quite amateurish."
"You write, too? Oh, how lovely. What do you write?"
"Poetry and... and novels. I have written a novel that is ... that is, I should not be saying this to you since it is considered gauche for a gentleman to sell his skills, but I am rather proud of it," said Tristram, looking down at the little puzzled frown creasing her brow. "I have a novel that has been printed and is even now in the booksellers."
"Oh, how extraordinary."
"What is the play tomorrow night, Philippa? I know that I mentioned it to you, but I cannot think now ..."
The girl spared a glance for her mother and said, "Othello, Mama. What is the name of your novel, Mr. Darby? I must purchase it."
"Nonsense, you needn't do that."
"Oh, but I want to!" she breathed.
"Really? Well, then, you shan't buy it. I have a copy at home. I will send it around to you, or bring it myself."
"Bring it yourself," she whispered. "We are not going out this evening."
"Yes, but..."
"I usually stroll in the garden before dinner, around seven o'clock."
Tristram glanced down into those blue orbs and nodded. Glancing up, he found his brother's blue eyes fixed on him, and he smiled nervously. Looking away, he turned his attention to the passing scenery.
Lady Murray was Mrs. O'Connor's older sister. She had centered her life on London Society. Though she had opposed her little sister's marriage to the penniless
Kieran O'Connor, she had not cut the ties. She had visited Ireland several times through the years and had encouraged her sister to visit her in London. Lady Murray's invitations had fallen on deaf ears until Mrs. O'Connor had decided her daughter needed to be settled.
Neither lady guessed that the object of their designs had decided against wedding, at least in England. Kate was not against the concept, and perhaps she would discover some heretofore unknown gentleman to win her heart when she returned to Ireland. Whatever happened, though, she was determined to go back home to Ireland.
On the surface, Kate was quite amenable, wearing one of her new carriage dresses and donning a fetching bonnet. She granted each gentleman a mechanical smile, but there was none of the animation in her expression that drew people to her. Her aunt and mother, however, were well satisfied that she was behaving exactly as she ought.
The carriage ride might have ended without incident, but for a nearby commotion. The snaking line of carriages came to a halt in both directions.
"What in heaven's name could be the matter?" declared Lady Murray, rising from her seat. Her lips were pursed in disapproval, and her bonnet, which boasted a banana and cluster of dangling grapes, loomed in the air for everyone to see.
"Appears t' be some sort of animal, m'lady," said her coachman, craning his head to see around a high-perch phaeton.
"Well, go around them," she commanded.
The coachman pulled out from behind the phaeton, giving the ladies a better view, and Lady Murray screeched, "Halt!"
The animal in question appeared at the door of the open landaulet and let out a piercing screech.
"Here now!" yelled the coachman, turning in his seat and diving for the black and silver monkey. He landed squarely on the laps of Kate's mother and aunt, his legs thrashing in the air.
With a flash of petticoats and ankles, Kate jumped off the carriage seat and into the driver's seat, steadying the horses.
"Get him!" screamed another feminine voice.
Kate whirled around. Mrs. Beauchamp was climbing into their carriage, wielding her parasol to pummel the beleaguered coachman, while tearing at Lady Murray's bonnet, where the offending monkey had taken up residence and was holding on f
or dear life.
"Get off!" yelled Kate's mother, using her own parasol to parry the wild woman's thrusts.
"Give ... me ... my ... Snookems!" screamed Mrs. Beauchamp.
Gaping at the scene, but unable to leave the team, Kate watched the monkey leap into the air and dive onto the seat beside her, all the while clutching the mangled silk grapes from her aunt's bonnet.
"Come here," she said firmly, stifling a laugh when the little beast jumped onto her shoulder.
Oblivious of her pet's escape, Mrs. Beauchamp continued her assault, screeching like a banshee. Kate was dimly aware of other spectators—some laughing, some screaming—but her concern was all for her mother.
Then she saw him, like a knight of old, running toward her, sweeping Mrs. Beauchamp into his arms, and backing away. Almost throwing the outraged matron into her carriage, he returned and held up his hands for the mischievous monkey. Kate handed the animal to him as his laughing blue eyes met hers. Smiling, she answered his wink with one of her own. Then he was gone.
The poor coachman, scarlet with embarrassment, managed to right himself and climb back on his seat, relieving Kate of the reins. She hopped to the ground and entered the landaulet more decorously than she had vacated it. Then she set about soothing her mother's lacerated sensibilities while fishing in her aunt's reticule for Lady Murray's smelling salts.
While her mother was occupied in reviving her dear sister, Kate straightened, her gaze immediately drawn to that one figure amongst the crowd. She watched in admiration as Max Darby soothed the monkey and Mrs. Beauchamp while his brother, Tristram, tried to stem the flood of tears from Miss Philippa Beauchamp. She did not envy either gentleman his task. As their carriage passed by, Kate gave him a little wave, which Max answered with a nod.
She rather thought Max Darby was more like Sir Milton than his brother Tristram was. Max was certainly more of a take-charge sort of person. In contrast, his brother looked almost as shaken as the two ladies.
"I think we should go straight home," she said to the coachman.
"Yes, miss," he replied, pulling his hat down firmly on his head. "Right away."
Max hurried into the garden when he returned home. He knew Kate would come, drawn by the same irresistible force to share the afternoon's hilarity with him. It was almost dark, but he felt sure she would be waiting. She was the sort of girl who would not be put off by a bit of gloom. Recalling the way those green eyes had sparkled when he had taken the monkey from her, he could not associate gloom with her in any setting.
"Kate?" he said, forgetting both propriety and their roles as Sir Milton and Iseult. This was no time for charades.
"Sir Milton?" came the reply, her voice already filled with laughter.
"What? No ... dash it! This is intolerable. I want to see you. I'm going to come around to the front door."
"Not now. It is not the proper time, and Mama has had enough excitement for one day. She is still a little delicate."
"Well, this is deuced inconvenient, Kate."
"I know. I. .. sh! Wait. Someone is coming. Hello, Mr. Taggert."
Max strained to hear her voice as she turned away.
"Afternoon, miss. Was you lookin' for somewat?"
"No, I was just out for a stroll."
"Oh. I thought ye might be lookin' for the gate. It's i farther down, ye know."
"Gate?"
"Yes, between this house an' the next. It used t' stay open on account o' th' two families were related. It's shut now, but if you want..."
"Oh, yes, please, Mr. Taggert. Could you unlock it for me?"
"I'd be happy to, miss. It's right 'ere."
"Thank you, Mr. Taggert."
"Yer welcome, miss. I'll see that it stays unlocked."
The gate creaked as it swung open, and then Kate stepped through the opening. Max extended his hands and she took them, letting him draw her close. Her eyes grew wide.
In the fading light, he smiled down at her and said, "I do hope you are not disappointed that I am not Tristram."
"Not at all, though I must admit that I am a bit surprised," she said, returning his smile.
He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and led her along the wall. "Come over here. Here's the bench where I sit."
When they were side by side, he kept her hand in his. Turning slightly so that he faced her, Max said, "I have to confess that I was not the one you spoke to that first night, the one who first called you Iseult."
"I thought you were different after that night. It wasn't just your voice. Your brother is more poetic. What happened to him? Did I frighten him?"
"No, he is just forgetful. When Tris is reading or writing something, he forgets everything, including the prettiest horsewoman I have ever seen."
Without a hint of coyness, she ignored his compliment and said, "So he is Mr. Poorman, the author of the Sir Milton novel I am reading."
"You're reading it?" said Max. "I hadn't thought about people actually reading the thing."
Kate chuckled and said, "You needn't sound so surprised, Mr. Darby. Some people do read novels."
"Certainly, but to think that you would have chosen to read that particular one at this particular time. It is quite astounding."
"Not really. When I spoke to the clerk at Hatchard's— who was reading it also, by the way—he mentioned that the hero was Sir Milton. That caught my interest immediately. When I discovered that the heroine was Iseult, I put two and two together."
"So what do you think of my little brother's writing?"
"It is most entertaining. I feel as if I am on the crusade alongside Sir Milton. Your brother is quite talented."
"Yes, he is the talented brother. My twin is the sensible one."
"And you?"
"Me? I am the hotheaded, impulsive, daredevil brother."
"Rather like Sir Milton," she said, smiling up at him.
"I couldn't say. I'm afraid I haven't read Tristram's stories."
"You should do so. After seeing you in action this afternoon, I rather think you must be the inspiration for Sir Milton. I suppose when you took over his role at the garden wall, perhaps it was not such a great deception."
"Perhaps," said Max, inching closer to her.
Suddenly she shivered, and he noticed for the first time that she was not wearing a cloak. Making a move to shed his own coat, she stilled him by rising.
"I should be going. My father would not approve of this."
"Why? Surely there is nothing wrong with neighbors . . ."
"Paying a call through the front door," she said with a chuckle.
Max rose and bowed over her hand. "Then we will treat this as a formal call, Miss O'Connor."
Kate gave a gurgle of laughter and a small curtsy before turning away. At the garden gate, she looked back at him through the gloom.
"Tomorrow at noon we will be expecting you, Sir Milton."
"I will not fail, fair Iseult," he replied, still smiling, even after she had gone.
Max sat down on the stone bench again, leaning his head against the garden wall. He felt sure of himself with Miss O'Connor. She was not some missish chit
of a girl. She was fully grown and knew what a man wanted of a woman. He felt confident that, given his expertise and her willingness, they could enjoy a cozy relationship while each one of them pursued his objectives. At the end of the Little Season, he would have secured a wealthy bride in Miss Beauchamp and Kate . . . Kate would be going home to Ireland or to the home of some insipid fellow with more money than horse sense.
Why did he suddenly feel like punching a hole in the stone wall?
Four
Miss Philippa Beauchamp glanced left and then right. No one was coming from the front of the house. The kitchen servants were busy preparing dinner. So far, so good. Taking a deep breath, she gathered her skirts in her hand and scurried out the back door, praying no one would look out the windows and discover her flight.
Her breath coming in tiny rasps, she paused
to get her bearings. She had seen the gate that led to the lane behind the house, though she had never ventured to open it. What if it were locked? The impossible thought made her tremble, but she forged ahead, determined to attain her goal.
"Miss Beauchamp?"
The voice made her gasp, but she stumbled through the gloom toward the sound. Then strong hands held her steady, and she exhaled a deep sigh of relief.
"Mr. Darby, I am glad you found your way," she breathed.
His profile was in silhouette against the darkening skies.
"So am I," he said, smiling down at her. "I ... I have your book."
"Good. Perhaps you would care to sit down?" Philippa
grimaced She was acting a complete ninnyhammer, and she was not usually one. Well, she corrected, not usually a complete one.
"I would love to. I think I saw a bench over here."
They came upon the small arbor, and Philippa said, "There is only the one seat, I'm afraid."
"Then you must take it," said Tristram gallantly.
"No, for you are so tall, I would not be able to see your face. You sit down, and ... I... I shall..."
"Perch on my knee," he said, his voice full of honesty and kindness, and she knew he could not be wanting the same things from her those other men, her mother's friends, had wanted.
Blushing, Philippa did as he said. She was steadied on her perch by a gentle pressure from his hand on her waist. With the other, he placed the book in her lap.
"I do hope you will like it."
"I know I shall since you wrote it," she replied, turning to face him.
In the somber shadows, their faces were so close, she could feel his gentle breaths. Leaning toward him was the most natural thing. Their lips touched. His hand moved up her back and cradled her against him as she leaned her head against his broad chest.
"I hope you will not think me too forward," she said finally, lifting her head to gaze into his eyes. The moon was rising, and she could see indecision written there.