The Valentine's Day Ball

by Julia Parks

“Miss Jane,” said Pipkin quietly in her ear.

  “Yes?”

  “A card has arrived for you, and a flower.”

  Jane looked up sharply. It was unusual for Pipkin to act in such a secretive manner. His very correct expression became more blank, and Jane took his cue. Excusing herself to her aunt and their guests, she leaned on Pipkin’s arm as she limped into Heartland’s grand entrance hall.

  On a silver tray in the reception room, just inside the massive front doors, lay a single red rose atop a card trimmed in fine lace. Jane again looked to Pipkin for an explanation.

  “It was delivered moments ago by a rather grubby urchin who gave it to the footman and ran. He, of course, left it to me to decide if it might be worthy of your attention.”

  “And you think it is?” asked Jane, unsure of herself for once.

  “I thought a mere letter and rose could not harm you, Miss Jane, ‘for in the multitude of dreams and many words there are also divers vanities: but fear thou God.’”

  With this cryptic scripture, the butler backed away and closed the great double doors.

  Picking up the card, Jane recognized the hasty scrawl from the She Stoops to Conquer card of the ball. Though the decorations on this card were elaborate, the sentiment was short.

  If you keep me at this distance, how is it possible you and I can be ever acquainted?

  --Yours

  Jane reread it twice, frowning all the while. Really, this was becoming tiresome. While last night’s card had been intriguing, this one was unnecessarily obtuse. How could she become acquainted with a phantom? And why would she want to?

  She had thought it one of Cherry’s ill-advised kindnesses, but Cherry had enough sense not to continue such a charade. And from anyone else, a missive like this was pure nonsense. Not malicious, perhaps, but certainly not worthy of their notice.

  Jane returned to the gold salon, steeling herself for participation in the social niceties for the remainder of the afternoon.

  Finally the steady flow became a trickle, leaving only a few of her aunt’s bosom friends gossiping gleefully. Jane pleaded a headache and escaped to the privacy of her room. Tucker, who had a tendency to fuss any time Jane was indisposed, was soon dismissed, leaving Jane to the latest Gothic novel from Duffield’s.

  The dressing bell rang and Jane toyed with the idea of calling for a tray in her room rather than face more conversation. But again, she knew what was expected of her, so she donned her pale grey evening dress and descended to the dining room.

  Jane participated very little in the conversation swirling around her as Aunt Sophie and Cherry discussed and dissected each guest’s dress, manners, and speech. Their words were not spoken in a malicious manner; rather, it was merely social conversation. But neither her aunt nor her cousin truly wished to shred anyone’s reputation—they were both too kind-hearted.

  Since Sophie Pettigrew and her daughter were hopeless romantics, a great deal of their exchange dealt with speculations on the couples that had called that day when only the night before they had not been couples. But through a valentine card, a verse, or a scrap of lace, two lives had suddenly become intertwined. And, like matching cards in a game of chance, some pairs were discarded while others were formed.

  Finally Cherry hit upon the one name that Jane had managed to dismiss while she had buried herself in that dreadful novel.

  “Where was Lord Devlin? Did he call while I was out driving with Mr. Fitzhugh?”

  “Oh! You mean that dark-haired man your cousin brought? Such a frightful gentleman,” said her mother, fluttering her shawl as she spoke.

  “Frightful? I would say delightful.” Cherry sighed. “And so handsome! Did you know he’s spent the last ten years abroad, Mother? Some barbarous island. Cousin Roland was telling me about the place—flowers blooming everywhere, immense beaches of white sand stretching forever, and deep blue water. How I would love to go there!”

  Her mother smiled indulgently. “And no doubt have a handsome husband to guide you, my dear.”

  Cherry’s giggles intruded on the picture Jane had been building of this wondrous island of warmth and beauty. She looked up from her trifle and delivered a repressive frown at mother and daughter.

  Laying her fork aside, Jane said firmly, “I must go to bed. My ankle is beginning to throb. I hope you’ll not take offence if I bid you goodnight.”

  Her aunt and cousin got to their feet as Pipkin stepped forward, helping her rise. Her awkward and hasty retreat was accompanied by their sincere expressions of concern.

  Jane knew she was behaving strangely, and she felt guilty for worrying them needlessly. Her ankle was not bothering her in the least, just as Lord Devlin had predicted, but she thought she would have gone mad had she been forced to endure one more story about one more guest, especially that particular guest.

  Later, as she readied for sleep in the huge feather bed, Jane recalled her aunt’s description of Lord Devlin.

  “Frightful,” she had called him. Jane, too, had considered his darkly handsome appearance a bit too forceful at first. But frightful?

  As she fell asleep, her only remembrances of Lord Devlin were the sensations caused by the touch of his lips on hers.

  b

  As soon as Jane got out of bed the next morning, she tested her ankle and was relieved to find it strong as she took a turn about the room.

  Tucker entered with her morning tea. “Oh, Miss Jane, do be careful. Why I remember my cousin—you remember my cousin Jim—he got a catch in his neck, refused to go to bed, and now he has to walk with his head layin’ on his shoulder.”

  Jane smothered her laughter. “I hardly think an ankle and a neck the same case, Tucker.”

  “Not exactly, but you can never be too careful.”

  “I shall be very careful,” promised Jane, sinking onto the green chaise longue.

  Tucker placed the tray she carried on the table at Jane’s side. Pouring steaming tea into the fine Sevres cup, Tucker asked, “You’ll be riding today, Miss Jane?”

  “Yes, I think I’ll have Mrs. Brown pack a light nuncheon, and I will ride to the abbey.”

  “Alone, Miss Jane? Ain’t right, you ridin’ all that way without so much as a groom.”

  “Now, Tucker, it is not as though I am a child.”

  “Ye’re a gently bred, unmarried lady and shouldn’t be out alone like that.”

  “On my own estate?”

  Ignoring her, Tucker continued. “Besides, the abbey’s dangerous. Who knows when a good wind will tumble down another wall. Ye might be hurt.”

  Jane drained her cup and stood up, towering over the rotund little maid. Patting Tucker’s arm, Jane said, “You may be right, but it is the one place I can escape where no one will follow me. And after yesterday, dear Tucker, I must get away before I give full rein to my tongue and tell my sweet aunt or cousin to go to the devil.”

  This absurdity brought a reluctant grin to her servant’s face. Shaking her head, Tucker moved to the wardrobe and began removing Jane’s black riding habit.

  “As if you ever would,” she said over her shoulder. “Ye’d best wear your woollen cloak. The sun’s out, but there’s a frightful winter wind.”

  Later, galloping across the home wood, Jane felt the cobwebs blow away. Leaning closer to the sleek sorrel’s neck, she urged him on and over the first wooden fence then slowed her mount.

  This was what she had needed all along. The worries and stress of the ball were forgotten in the exhilaration of the wind blowing her hair free of the confining chignon at the nape of her neck.

  As for the disturbing Lord Devlin? He was naught but an annoying fly swept from her mind by the freedom enveloping her. His lordship had no strange hold on her; she had merely been suffering from a fit of the dismals.

  She stroked Sinbad’s glossy neck and pulled him up at the top of the hill that overlooked the stately old mansion with its green lawns and surrounding woods.

  “Now, isn’t this better, my be
auty? I wager you’ve been feeling miserable, too, confined to the pasture this past week?” The horse’s ears flicked backwards as he listened. “This is where we both belong,” said Jane. A gentle touch of the reins sent the horse down the far side of the hill.

  It took almost an hour for Jane to reach her destination, the old ruin of an abbey from the eighth or ninth century. The setting had been a favourite of her father, who had fancied himself an amateur antiquarian. He had often taken his small daughter with him when he researched the site, and Jane felt closest to his memory when she visited the abbey.

  Tying Sinbad inside the wall of what had once been a large stone chapel, she made her way to the altar. This area still boasted four walls, but the roof had burned and fallen in several hundred years before. Indeed, her father had estimated the abbey had been abandoned in the fourteenth or fifteenth century.

  Out of habit, Jane brushed off the stone slab where she imagined a smooth wooden altar had once stood. Sitting down, she remembered how as a child she had pretended the raised stone platform was her oven and had baked all sorts of exotic dishes. She smiled and leaned back on her elbows, staring up at the chilly, blue February skies.

  Once, when her father had wandered into the alcove and found her reclining on the stone slab pretending to be a sleeping princess, he had rebuked her for defiling a holy place. She had turned to her father and said, “I don’t think the monks will mind, Papa. I shan’t get it dirty.”

  He had tousled her long, straight hair. “Then I suppose it will be all right with them.”

  Jane smiled at the memory.

  Later, as a romantic young miss on holiday from school, she had been wont to escape the annoying attentions of her young cousin Cherry, who had by that time come to live at Heartland. This had required slipping the supervision of the groom assigned to her also, because the crumbling abbey had been responsible for her father’s death.

  One of the outer walls had collapsed on him, trapping his legs beneath a small mountain of stone. Jane had been away at school when it occurred, but in her young mind, she had blamed herself—if only she had been with him, he would not have been pinned underneath. She would have released him in time or at least ridden for help. As it was, it was the next day before they had found him. The circulation in his legs had been cut off too long, and the bones in one thigh were crushed. He lived almost two years, but being an invalid took the heart out of him, and he was never the same.

  Only his daughter had been able to bring a smile to his face. It was he who had insisted she not blame the abbey, saying that he could not bear it if his clumsiness destroyed all the wonderful memories they had shared.

  So Jane continued to visit the abbey whenever she could. Her visits brought comfort rather than grief, for she never failed to visualize her father stepping through the grassy, stone-strewn cloisters.

  On this day, the familiar deep peace settled on her troubled spirit. When she closed her eyes to the clouds floating across the sky, she could almost hear her father say, “Well, my sleeping princess, can I wake you with a kiss or will that turn me into a toad?”

  After an hour of solitude, she said goodbye to her special retreat and remounted, her equilibrium once more restored.

  Jane pulled back on the reins as she and Sinbad reached the top of the hill overlooking Heartland. She surveyed the valley and the road leading to the house. The drive was lined with trees, and she could not decide if that was actually a carriage she had glimpsed moving toward the house.

  She shrugged. It didn’t matter now; she felt quite capable of playing the gracious hostess again. She sent the horse down the hillside at a gentle trot.

  Where the trees reached the vast lawn, the drive of crushed seashells turned to the left before dividing, one path leading toward the front door and the other to the stables behind the house.

  There was a carriage approaching the house, a rider at its side. Who could it be? Surely all of Bath had been to Heartland the day before. There could be no one else left to call.

  Even as this thought crossed her mind, Jane realized there was one guest who had not visited the previous day. She studied the rider and horse carefully. It was a huge horse, possibly seventeen hands, yet the giant steed did not dwarf the rider.

  Yes, it had to be him. He sat so casually in the saddle, seemingly relaxed though the horse crab-stepped back and forth, trying its best to run away with the bit. Jane was too far away to see his face, but she felt certain it was Lord Devlin.

  Jane slowed her restive mount to a walk. Perhaps if she dawdled, she wouldn’t be forced to endure this particular visit. It was cowardly of her, but she felt unwilling to surrender her peace of mind, and another encounter with Lord Devlin just might produce that effect.

  She watched as the rider leaned over, as if speaking to an occupant of the carriage, before turning his horse in her direction.

  Jane also turned her horse—nonchalantly, she hoped—and headed back into the line of trees on the top of the hill. Moments later, she heard the rapid approach of a horse. “Drat the man!”

  “Why, Miss Lindsay, are you avoiding me?” said Devlin in a deep voice.

  “Not precisely,” she lied.

  “Ah, then you mistook me for someone else.”

  The self-satisfaction in his tone made Jane want to grind her teeth. Instead, she shook her head, determined to be civil.

  “Not at all, Lord Devlin. As a matter of fact, l did not see you. I merely decided to extend my ride.”

  “Then how fortunate for me, Miss Lindsay.” He smiled, but the expression failed to reach his eyes. He turned his attention to the view of the house and its grounds below.

  Jane grimaced then stole a glance at his profile. He seemed almost forbidding. Perhaps this is the side of Lord Devlin her aunt had witnessed, which would account for Aunt Sophie’s strange opinion of the man.

  But why should she care one way or another? And why did he have to show up now? Why did he always surface just when she had said something or had done something that was not quite the thing? He obviously did not believe her story about extending her ride.

  Truly, he was a vexing man with extremely poor timing. He had witnessed her disastrous leap over the balcony, he had overheard her tirade against Lord Pierce and Cherry, and—most of all, and certainly worst of all—Lord Devlin had been the cause of that most improper kiss.

  Of course, he had not experienced that kiss alone.

  All these thoughts flashed through Jane’s mind as she carefully smiled. In light tones reminiscent of her cousin, she said, “La, Lord Devlin, it was just that I was enjoying this beautiful day, so rare for February.”

  His handsome face became set in an odd expression, his nostrils slightly flared, his eyes hooded, and his sensual mouth drooped at the corners. “I quite know how you feel, Miss Lindsay,” he drawled. “But as it happens, I was not on a solitary ride. I was calling to see how your ankle fares. I see, however, that my concern was quite unnecessary. You have obviously recovered from your indisposition.”

  “Yes, I am much better.” Jane deemed it time to change the subject. “Who was with you in the carriage, Lord Devlin?”

  “Your cousin, Mr. Havelock. I happened upon him as I was strolling in Bath, and he insisted I accompany him in his phaeton.” Jane arched one brow at the implication that he had not planned on coming to call at all. “Unfortunately, there was not room enough for the two of us to be comfortable.”

  Unbidden, a small bubble of laughter came to Jane’s lips, and this time, when she looked at Lord Devlin, his smile lighted his dark eyes with warmth.

  “Just so,” he said, his tone adding to her amusement.

  “You are too bad, sir.” She tried to sound severe, but she fooled no one.

  “Not at all. And to be quite truthful, I thought a ride by myself infinitely preferable to being cooped up in a carriage on such a beautiful day. I invited your cousin to return to his lodgings and get his own hack, but he informed me that he doesn�
�t ride.”

  “No, I’m afraid Cousin Roland does not favour this mode of transportation. He never has. I believe it is due to the fact he had an unfortunate accident as a child.”

  “Took a nasty spill?”

  “So to speak; he mounted his pony one day, and the poor beast just lay down and died.”

  She was rewarded for this revelation by Lord Devlin’s rich laugh, and Jane decided it would be rude not to join in.

  Finally wiping tears from her eyes, she admitted, “It was a very old pony.”

  Lord Devlin dissolved into laughter again. When he could speak, he turned merry brown eyes on her and said, “You are roasting me, Miss Lindsay.”

  “On my honour, I promise you it did happen. Poor Roly never recovered from the embarrassment.”

  Suddenly, she eyed him uneasily. “I should not have told you, sir. I can’t fathom why I did. I do hope you will not repeat—”

  “Let me assure you, Miss Lindsay, the story will go no further,” said Devlin, very much on his dignity. They continued to ride along the rim of the small valley, the silence lengthening awkwardly.

  Jane searched in vain for another topic of conversation. Though she did not flirt and sparkle, like some young ladies, she had never been known to struggle to keep a conversation flowing.

  Finally, though she had no real interest in his response, Jane asked, “What brings you to Bath, Lord Devlin?”

  He hesitated. “I am looking for a home for my mother.”

  “Does she live in London now?”

  “No, York.”

  “Goodness, that is quite a distance from here. Wouldn’t a house in London be better?” Now why did I ask such a personal question?

  “No, my mother does not like London society. I think Bath will suit her admirably.”

  “Yes, I suppose many older people prefer the milder climate here.”

  “Mother is hardly old; I daresay she’s not even turned fifty yet.”

  “Don’t you know for certain?”

  He waved an impatient hand. “I have only seen her for a week in the past ten years. And before that, I was too young to think of such things.”