A Country Cotillion

by Sandra Heath

  At long last the stone gateposts of Rainworth appeared in the arc of pale light from the carriage lamps. The handsome wrought-iron gates stood open, and the drive beyond plunged down into a long valley where snow-laden rhododendrons marked the way. The relieved coachmen negotiated the turn and set the weary horses down the drive, which curved away into the darkness ahead, passing through a gracious park that had been stolen from the surrounding forest.

  There were no lights ahead to show that they were close to the house, and it seemed almost as if the drive had no end, when suddenly it curved away to the left again, and the house swung into view. It was too dark to see the outline of the walls and roof, but the lighted windows showed it to indeed be partly a medieval priory, for they were made of stained glass and were gracefully arched and traceried.

  As the teams were finally halted next to a wide flight of stone steps that led up to the main entrance, the door of the house was flung open and some footmen carrying lighted flambeaux hastened out to attend to their master’s guests. Elizabeth felt the icy touch of snowflakes upon her face as she accepted Alexander’s hand to alight, and the moment Isobel had stepped down from the carriage as well, they were conducted up the steps into the house. Their servants followed, again carrying the overnight valises.

  Rainworth had ceased to be a priory in the sixteenth century, having fallen victim to the harsh attentions of King Henry VIII, and on its dissolution it had been purchased by the Sheridan family, who had turned it into a magnificent Tudor mansion, with a vast baronial hall as the main entrance. It possessed a lofty hammer beam ceiling and the walls were paneled with ancient Sherwood oak. There was a raised dais to one side, with a minstrels’ gallery above it, and directly opposite the doors there rose a grand staircase with carved lion newel posts.

  On the walls were tapestries depicting scenes from the legend of Robin Hood, and there was also an extensive display of weaponry, from medieval battle-axes and pikes, to dueling pistols and sporting guns from a more recent age. A number of suits of armor stood against the walls, several of them highly decorative and obviously made of silver, and there was a full-size figure of a knight mounted on a courser, the horse richly caparisoned in crimson-and-gold, the knight himself splendid in tournament armor with white plumes springing from the lion crest on his helmet. The lion emblem appeared everywhere, on the oak paneling and the staircase, around the immense stone fireplace, and in the stained glass of the line of windows high on the wall above the main entrance, for it had always been the heraldic badge of the Dukes of Arlingham.

  In daytime the windows provided ample light, but now that it was dark outside the mansion was lit by a line of six wheel-rimmed chandeliers suspended from the hammer beams. Each chandelier possessed a score of candles, which cast a rich glow over the hall, their flames reflected in the long polished oak table ranging down the center of the stone floor. Twenty Tudor chairs were in place around the table and there were more such chairs on either side of the fireplace, where tall flames flickered brightly around fresh logs. It seemed that whenever balls or other musical entertainments were held, the orchestra did not play from the minstrels’ gallery, but rather from the dais below it, where there stood a graceful gilded harp and a grand piano inlaid with ebony and mother-of-pearl. Isobel was delighted to see the piano, for she was a very accomplished player, and it seemed a very fine instrument indeed. She resolved to play it before their stay was over.

  A splendidly attired butler was waiting to greet them. He wore a brown velvet coat with gold embroidery on the collar and cuffs, beige silk breeches and stockings, and black shoes with golden buckles. Wisps of sandy hair peeped from beneath his bag-wig. He was about forty-five years old, with a pale freckled face and light-blue eyes. When he spoke it was with a Scottish accent that again brought James to Elizabeth’s mind.

  “Welcome to Rainworth,” he said. “His Grace extends his sincere regrets, but he has been called out very urgently to a barn fire at the Home Farm. He left instructions that the house was to be placed entirely at your disposal, and wishes to assure you that he will return in time to dine at eight.”

  Alexander nodded at him. “It cannot be helped, er—” He waited for the butler to give his name.

  “McPherson, sir.”

  “McPherson. Well, if we could be conducted to our rooms, and perhaps be served some light refreshment, we will gladly await the duke’s return.”

  “Very well, Sir Alexander. Your rooms are ready and waiting, and I will see that tea is served without delay.”

  The butler turned, beckoning to three maids who had been waiting in the shadows by the staircase. They picked up some lighted candles from a small table concealed in an alcove, and then stepped forward to conduct the guests to their accommodation.

  As Elizabeth, Isobel, and their own maids, followed two of them up the staircase, McPherson delayed Alexander for a moment.

  “Begging your pardon, Sir Alexander, but may I suggest that it might be wise to unload all your luggage from the carriages? With the snow falling as heavily as it is, I do not believe you will be able to leave in the morning, and possibly not for days yet. You and the ladies might be glad of the use of all your clothing and so on…?”

  “I think you may be right, McPherson. Very well, please see that everything is brought in.”

  “Sir.”

  Alexander then followed the third maid, and as he did so the butler instructed footmen to attend to the carriages.

  * * * *

  From the top of the staircase, Elizabeth and Isobel had entered a long gallery lined on one side with tall windows overlooking the original cloisters. The other wall, which was paneled like the hall, bore a collection of portraits, mostly of former members of the Sheridan family, but with a sprinkling of royalty here and there, notably Charles I and Queen Henrietta-Maria. Evidently the Dukes of Arlingham had remained staunchly royalist throughout the civil war.

  A number of doors opened off the gallery, each one draped on either side with heavy dark-green velvet curtains, and at the far end there were two passages, one leading to the right and back into the Tudor portion of the house, the other to the left, into the heart of the old priory. Isobel and her maid were conducted along the former, Elizabeth and Violet along the latter.

  The maid protected the candle flame with her hand as she led Elizabeth along a stone way. There was no oak paneling now, just bare stone, and the doors that opened off on either side were iron-studded and set in arches.

  After entering a farther passage, the maid paused. “Please take care here, Lady Isobel, for there are some very steep steps.”

  “I will take care, but I have to point out that I am not Lady Isobel,” replied Elizabeth.

  The maid stared at her, her glance flickering briefly to the dark-blond curls that were visible around her forehead. “Not Lady Isobel?” she repeated.

  “No. I am Mrs. French.”

  “Oh, but I thought…” The maid fell silent.

  Elizabeth was curious. “Does my identity make any difference?” she inquired.

  “Er—no, of course not, madam. I have made a mistake, that’s all.” Turning, the maid went carefully down the steps, her candle flaring and smoking for a moment in an unseen draft before she remembered to protect the flame with her hand again.

  They followed the passage around what appeared to be the foot of a tower, and then passed a door at the top of three well-worn stone steps. The room beyond was in the tower. The passage continued a short way and ended with another iron-studded door set in an archway.

  The maid paused at the steps of the tower door and pointed toward the other door at the end. “That leads outside, madam. There is a terrace, and then some steps leading down through the gardens to the lake.”

  “There is a lake?”

  “Oh, yes, madam. You drove right past it when you arrived, but it’s been frozen over for several weeks now, and the ice will be covered with snow, so that you could not possibly have seen it in the dark.
Please come this way.” She went up the steps, and opened the door at the top, hurrying swiftly inside to light some candles.

  Elizabeth was agreeably surprised by the sumptuous scene that greeted her. The stone walls could have appeared bare and austere, but they flickered with light from the candles and the fire; they were hung with jewel-bright tapestries depicting scenes from romantic legends. On the floor there was a carpet woven with lions and roses, and through an archway there was another small room, evidently a dressing room, for Elizabeth glimpsed a modern dressing table draped with frilled white muslin.

  The bed was a very large and ancient four-poster, with a lavish canopy of gold-fringed plum velvet, and curtains of the same velvet were drawn across the two arched windows. There was a tall carved armchair beside the fire, its design reminiscent of a medieval throne, and in an alcove there was an old cabinet with doors adorned with the Sheridan coat-of-arms.

  “Do you require anything, madam?” asked the maid.

  “No, that will be all, thank you. Oh, yes, one thing…”

  “Madam?”

  “I gather that dinner will be served at eight, but since I have no idea where the dining room is…?”

  “A footman will come to conduct you to the grand chamber, madam. It is the custom for guests to gather there before proceeding to the prior’s parlor, which is the name given to the dining room.”

  Bobbing a curtsy, the maid picked up her candlestick and withdrew from the room.

  Elizabeth glanced around again and then slowly took the pins from her hat before removing it from her head and handing it to Violet. Then she went to the nearest of the windows and drew aside the heavy plum velvet curtains. There was a tapestry-upholstered window seat in the embrasure beyond, and an arched window with diamond-shaped panes of glass, which were opaque with a frosting of ice. Kneeling on the seat, she breathed upon the ice, then quickly wiped the pane in order to look out.

  Countless snowflakes fluttered silently down through the darkness, illuminated briefly by the candlelight in the room behind her. It seemed the weather was relentlessly determined to keep them here at Rainworth for more than just the one night.

  * * * *

  In her room in another part of the house, Isobel was also looking out of the window. She could hear Alexander and his man talking in the next room, for the two chambers had originally been one large one and were now divided only by wooden paneling. A smile played upon her lips as she gazed at the snow. Let them be immured here for days…

  Chapter 10

  The time approached to go down to the grand chamber before dinner, and Elizabeth’s preparations were almost complete as she sat at the dressing table for Violet to carefully tease the final curl into place.

  It had proved a welcome and unexpected diversion to be able to choose from all the clothes she had brought from London, and she had decided upon a gown made of lavender Spanish merino. It had a low square neckline, a silver drawstring at the high waist immediately beneath her breasts, and there was silver embroidery on the hem and little puffed sleeves. With it she intended to carry a warm white grenadine shawl with knotted ends that would swing when she moved.

  Her hair was dressed up into a tumble of little curls on top of her head and was fixed in place with a tall silver comb. She wore silver-and-amethyst earrings, and a matching necklace, and she was pleased with her reflection in the little looking glass on the dressing table. Dabbing a little lavender water behind her ears, she got up and shook out the skirt of her gown.

  “You look lovely, madam,” Violet said admiringly before beginning to put away the unused pins.

  “I hope so,” Elizabeth replied with feeling, for tonight she had to continue making up for her recent failings. “Do you know if the duke has returned yet?”

  “He had not when I came up from the kitchens, madam.”

  “I wonder what he’s like?” Elizabeth mused, for Marcus Sheridan was still something of a mystery.

  “All the maids here think he is the most handsome gentleman in all the world. They’re all sighing over him.”

  “Indeed?”

  Violet nodded. “The maid who showed us here to this room told me all the gossip below stairs, madam.”

  “Gossip? About the duke?”

  “Yes, madam. It seems he was heard telling Mr. McPherson that he intends to sell Rainworth and then return to America. I believe there is a lady he intends to marry.”

  Elizabeth stared at her. “He actually means to sell Rainworth?”

  “That is what they are saying, madam.”

  “But it is his heritage, his family have lived here for hundreds of years!”

  “Yes, madam.”

  Elizabeth did not say anything more, for she could not imagine that anyone would voluntarily sell a house like this, but would only do so if in financial straits.

  The footman came to conduct her to the grand chamber, and after pulling her shawl comfortably around her shoulders, she followed him back the way the maid had brought her earlier. The grand chamber opened off the main entrance hall, and so Elizabeth found herself retracing her steps exactly, walking along the gallery above the cloisters, and then emerging at the top of the staircase. She was about to descend behind the footman when she heard someone hailing the house outside, and she stopped instinctively, her hand resting on the topmost lion newel post.

  The outer door burst open, and a cloaked gentleman strode in, his spurred top boots leaving snowy prints on the stone floor. His face was hidden by his tall-crowned hat, which was pulled low over his forehead, and he brushed snow from the shoulders as he called impatiently for the butler.

  “McPherson? Where are you, dammit? I need someone to attend my horse!”

  “I’m here, Your Grace, and someone is already going to see to your horse,” the butler answered, hurrying from somewhere behind the staircase, almost directly below where Elizabeth stood.

  She stared down at the cloaked gentleman. So this was Marcus Sheridan, eighth Duke of Arlingham. She waited for him to remove his hat so that she could see his face, but he did not do so immediately.

  McPherson assisted him with his cloak first. “Is all well at the Home Farm now, Your Grace?”

  “Yes, it wasn’t as great a fire as seemed at first. Are they here yet?”

  “Yes, Your Grace, they arrived just after nightfall.”

  “And all is well?” Marcus turned for the butler to remove his cloak. Beneath it he wore a very stylish gray-blue riding coat and close-fitting beige breeches. A full neckcloth frothed at his throat, and the frills of his shirt pushed through his partially buttoned rose marcella waistcoat. He was every inch a gentleman of taste and fashion.

  At last he removed his hat, and as he did so Elizabeth gave a sharp intake of breath, drawing swiftly back out of sight at the top of the staircase. Marcus Sheridan, Duke of Arlingham, was none other than her mysterious rescuer, the man she had seen leaving the house in Hanover Square, and the man with whom she had dreamed of making such passionate and abandoned love!

  Her pulse quickened with shock, and she felt embarrassed color flooding into her cheeks, for in those few brief moments she felt almost as if he would know what she had dreamed simply by looking into her eyes. She pressed her trembling hands to her face, willing the telltale blush to fade away again. She closed her eyes, struggling to compose herself. Oh, this was the end in foolishness! Her dreams were private, and she had not confided in anyone, so how could he possibly know?

  She swallowed, trying to steady the almost panic-stricken emotion that rushed through her, and then she emerged from the shadows to peep down into the hall again.

  The footman who had been conducting her to the grand chamber had halted halfway down the staircase, and was looking back at her in puzzlement. He did not know why she had drawn back out of sight, and so he could only wait for her to decide what to do.

  She hardly noticed the footman, for her gaze was solely on Marcus as he teased off his gloves and dropped them into hi
s upturned hat. He was speaking to McPherson about the extent of the fire damage at the Home Farm, and as he smiled suddenly she was struck anew by how exceedingly handsome he was.

  His golden hair was ruffled and the raw cold outside had brought a healthy glow to his cheeks. The deep blue of his eyes was discernible even from where she stood, and there was something so compelling about him that she could only stare. He reminded her keenly of James, of the first James, the one she had loved so very much, and yet at the same time he was very different. His mannerisms were not the same, for where James had been quick and almost nervous, Marcus Sheridan was confident and self-assured.

  Suddenly, almost as if he sensed she was there, he looked directly up at her. Their eyes met. For a long moment he did not move, but then he strode toward the foot of the staircase.

  Her senses were in turmoil as she went down to meet him, and she trusted that she appeared to be more calm and composed than she felt. Please do not let her emotion show on her face… Seeing him again so unexpectedly had shaken her so much that she did not know what to say. A subtle and dangerous air of excitement now pervaded her, and memories of her sensuous dream had begun to coil around her again.

  As she reached him at the bottom of the staircase, he took her hand, drawing it gently to his lips. Frissons of pleasure shivered secretly over her as she strove to seem collected and at ease. She could smell the winter night on his clothes, and feel it in his touch, but there was nothing cold in his glance or smile as he greeted her.

  “We meet again,” he said softly.

  “I…I don’t quite know what to say, for I did not expect to find that you are my host.”

  “I confess to having been taken equally by surprise when I saw you alight from Alexander’s carriage in Grantham, and I am sorry that I did not feel able to speak to you properly then, but I had fresh horses in harness and waiting—”

  “There is no need to apologize, Your Grace.”

  “But there is, for I realize that I have more or less forced my hospitality upon you.” He smiled a little contritely. “I am glad that you are here, however, for I now have the opportunity to return your property.”