A Country Cotillion

by Sandra Heath

  “Which clothes do you wish to wear, madam? I will hurry straight back to put them out for you.”

  “You choose, Violet, for I do not mind.”

  “Madam.” Bobbing a curtsy, the maid hurried away again.

  Elizabeth followed slowly in her wake, her thoughts still upon Isobel and Alexander. What should she do about it all? She could hardly say anything to Isobel, for that would not be appropriate. Perhaps she should face Alexander? Yes, that was what she must do. At the first opportunity, she must speak privately with him.

  Chapter 12

  Isobel’s excited squeals of laughter rang out over the frozen lake as she and Alexander endeavored to skate on the area of ice that had been cleared of snow. She wobbled and slithered, her wooden skates threatening all the while to slip away from under her, and to prevent herself from falling she clung very tightly indeed to Alexander’s hand. His other arm was protectively around her tiny waist. Her scarlet cloak was a brilliant splash of warm color against the surrounding hues of winter, and her face was flushed with happiness as she smiled up into his face, and clung more tightly still as her skates wobbled alarmingly again.

  Elizabeth was seated nearby on an upturned rowing boat in the lee of one of the boathouses. She wore her aquamarine cloak, and her cold hands were thrust deep into a muff. Her thoughtful eyes followed Isobel’s noisy progress over the ice, for everything that young lady did now was of immense interest. Just how much truth was there in what Marcus had said? And in what she herself had begun to suspect anyway?

  Behind the boathouses, Rainworth faced grandly over its snow-covered park, several of its churchlike windows shining brightly in the cold January sunlight. The brittle air echoed with the scrape of shovels as several teams of men strove to clear as many paths as possible, and other men were shaking snow from the overladen branches of evergreen trees, some of which were bowed alarmingly low beneath the unaccustomed weight. Horses whinnied and stamped in the stables, and a dog barked constantly somewhere nearby. Pheasants could be heard calling harshly in the trees edging the lake, and a flight of wild ducks skimmed low over the frozen surface, too afraid of the deep snow to attempt to land. A small herd of red deer had ventured from the surrounding woodland, tempted closer to the house by the knowledge that soon their hunger would be satisfied by the provision of hay from one of the barns.

  Elizabeth continued to watch Isobel, whose smiles and clinging manner were a little too obvious for comfort, although it could not with absolute honesty be said that her conduct so far had actually progressed beyond the bounds of propriety. It was nevertheless clear to Elizabeth that Isobel was indeed in love with Alexander, but his feelings were impossible to gauge with any certainty. Perhaps he was simply humoring her; perhaps it was much, much more.

  Elizabeth glanced at Marcus as he stood about six feet away from her on part of the jetty that had been scraped clear of snow. He had not mentioned their breakfast conversation again, and his manner had been all that was correct and courteous from the moment she had rejoined him to come outside. But as he watched the two skaters now, he could only be thinking of what he had said of them.

  There was a natural grace about him as he stood with one boot resting on a wooden mooring post. The cut of his clothes was impeccable, from the clinging lines of his breeches, to the elegant fullness of his gray greatcoat. The brim of his tall-crowned hat cast a shadow over his face, but she could still see the blue of his eyes as they followed Isobel and Alexander upon the ice. His profile was flawless and his blond hair very pale against the black beaver of his hat.

  On the ice, Isobel finally lost her balance completely, and this time she brought Alexander tumbling down with her. They collapsed in a heap on the ice, both of them quite helpless with laughter.

  Marcus turned, his gaze penetrating as he looked directly at Elizabeth. He did not say anything as their eyes met, and it was she who looked away first.

  He straightened then, calling out to the others. “I think it is time we called a halt and went inside, don’t you?”

  Alexander was helping Isobel to her feet. “As you wish,” he called back.

  Isobel was dismayed. “Oh, no, let’s stay a little longer. It’s so much run.”

  “Mrs. French and I are slowly freezing to the ground.”

  “Then you go back, or better still, join us on the ice!” suggested Isobel hopefully, still holding on to Alexander because she was unsteady on her skates.

  Marcus shook his head. “I think we should all go back, for we’ve been out in this cold long enough for a first time, and besides, I’ve instructed McPherson to have some good hot bishop prepared. It will be waiting for us by the fire in the grand chamber.”

  Isobel hesitated, for she adored a glass of bishop, with its delicious flavor of roasted oranges, cloves, ginger, and port wine. Tottering to the side of the lake, she leaned on Alexander’s arm as she made her unsteady way to Elizabeth’s boat, where she sat down to take off her skates.

  When they were all ready to walk back to the house, Elizabeth anticipated her cousin by stepping over swiftly to take Alexander’s arm first. A brief spark of irritation flashed in Isobel’s green eyes, but she had no option but to take Marcus’s arm instead.

  Marcus read Elizabeth’s action accurately, and as their glance met briefly, a faint smile played upon his lips. Then he led Isobel toward the path first, leaving Elizabeth free to dawdle with Alexander if she wished, and thus take any opportunity that arose for setting about whatever purpose she had decided upon.

  Elizabeth did indeed dawdle, for she did not know quite what to say. Alexander had not appeared to notice anything amiss when she had so deliberately stepped in before Isobel, and the moment her hand was on his arm, he had placed his own tenderly over it. He smiled into her eyes, and seemed to be as loving and warm as he had been before she herself had begun to spoil everything. Did it mean that Isobel’s was an unrequited love?

  At last she braced herself to say something. “Isobel enjoyed herself a great deal on the skates, didn’t she?”

  “Oh, yes. It is so refreshing to see someone making her pleasure so plain. She is entirely without artifice, and I find her very charming.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  He glanced at her, for she had spoken in an oddly quiet tone. “Is something wrong?”

  “I feel I must talk to you about Isobel, Alexander,” she replied, watching Isobel’s dainty scarlet-clad figure as she and Marcus drew farther and farther ahead.

  Alexander halted. “Talk to me about her? Whatever for?”

  She found it difficult to meet his eyes. “Alexander, I think that Isobel is in love with you, and—

  “In love with me?” he interrupted incredulously. “But that’s nonsense!”

  “Is it? Forgive me, Alexander, but I fear I have to disagree. I cannot help but notice how she is when she is with you, and I have to say that I wish…”

  “Yes?” His hazel eyes were a little cool.

  “I have to say that it would be better if you were a little less encouraging where she is concerned.”

  “Encouraging? I am merely being as agreeable toward her as she is to me. I must say, Elizabeth, I find your comments almost offensive.” He had drawn away from her, and everything about him was suddenly stiff.

  Elizabeth colored a little. “I do not mean to be offensive, but it isn’t a very easy subject to bring up.”

  “It should not have been brought up at all,” he replied in a clipped tone.

  She bridled a little. “It had to be brought up, for I refuse to stand idly by and watch my own cousin endeavoring to usurp me.”

  “You are wrong about her, I assure you.”

  “Am I? Alexander, she has managed to find her way into your company far too frequently for it to be mere coincidence. First there was the night of the ball, then Ackermann’s, then Hyde Park, and now this journey, during which she has positively hogged your attention!”

  He became angry at that. “I am gravely d
isappointed in you, Elizabeth, for your cousin is under a great deal of stress at the moment, and is doing her level best to hide her unhappiness by being cheerful and bright, and all you can do is accuse her of trying to win me!”

  “Doing her best to hide her unhappiness?” Elizabeth was almost speechless. “Is that how you see her conduct? Alexander, I doubt very much if she has given her father a great deal of thought over the past few days, indeed I am beginning to suspect that he is by no means as ill as we have been led to believe.”

  “What a monstrous thing to say,” he breathed. “Elizabeth, I would never have believed you capable of such unkindness, indeed you begin to appear heartless in the extreme!”

  She controlled her fury. “If I am heartless, sir, then you are either very foolish or very sly. At the moment I am not quite sure which it is.”

  “Foolish? Sly? I think you had best explain exactly what you mean, madam!” he snapped.

  “Very well. If you are foolish, it is because you are permitting Isobel many liberties which she can only find inviting and encouraging. If you are sly, it is because you know full well what is going on, and you are enjoying her attentions. Is that the truth of it, Alexander? Is she flattering your vanity, and are you basking in it all?”

  “I will not dignify your base charges with an answer,” he replied coldly.

  “Why? Because an honest response would show you in a shabby light?”

  “So now I am shabby as well, am I?”

  “I have to wonder how you would have conducted yourself if it had been Isobel who accompanied you back to the house now. Would you have smiled into her eyes as you smiled into mine? Would you have placed your hand as tenderly over hers as you placed it over mine? I begin to think that you would.”

  A nerve flickered at the corner of his mouth. “Perhaps you find it possible to think such things of me because your own behavior has been somewhat shabby of late.”

  “My behavior? Oh, I may have been a little quiet and reserved, but it cannot be compared with you—”

  “It is your reason for being quiet and withdrawn that is of concern, Elizabeth,” he interrupted. “You have managed to convey to me that I cannot possibly match up to the ideal that was once your precious James. Oh, he may have become a monster, but in the beginning he was everything to you, everything that I am not and never will be. There is very little pleasure and reward in always being second best, but that is apparently the role you have allotted to me.”

  “That is not true!” she cried, a flood of hot color rushing into her cheeks.

  “No?”

  “No!” But guilt washed through her.

  “Forgive me if I take your reassurance with a pinch of salt, madam, for I do not only have my own observations to judge by.”

  She searched his face. “Then who else’s as well?” she demanded.

  He was on the point of telling her, but then thought better of it, and looked away in silence.

  She continued to search his face, and then realized who this other source must be. “Isobel? Is it Isobel?”

  Still he did not reply, but now his silence was eloquent.

  “So, it is Isobel! How very coincidental. It would suit her purposes very well to sow such a seed of doubt, would it not?”

  “Are you now going to accuse her of telling lies?”

  “I am accusing her of an ulterior motive, sir,” she replied angrily. Oh, this was going from bad to worse. She wished she could turn the clock back and begin again, but it was too late now, and harsh accusations had been made on both sides.

  He removed his hat to run his fingers slowly through his hair, as if to take a moment or so to think clearly. “Perhaps we should postpone the betrothal, Elizabeth, for it is plain that things are very far from right between us.”

  She swallowed, for tears were pricking her eyes and she felt a sob rise in her throat. “Do…do you wish to withdraw entirely from the match?” she asked, unable to prevent her voice from catching.

  “I merely think it would be better to delay until we have sorted all this out. I deny that Isobel is in love with me, and I also deny that I have been guilty of encouraging her. You deny that you compare me with what you lost with James. We are both angry and in no mood to be reasonable, so I suggest we leave the matter for the time being.”

  “As you wish.”

  He offered her his arm again, and hesitantly she accepted. This time he did not put his hand over hers, and she did not move close to him. Their steps crunched on the remnants of the snow on the path, and that was the only sound they made. Not a word was uttered, not a glance exchanged.

  She felt wretched, and more guilty than he could possibly know, for if the truth were known she also had Marcus Sheridan on her conscience. It was no longer over James alone that she should be accused, but over the handsome master of Rainworth as well.

  The others had now vanished into the house to enjoy the drink of bishop that awaited them, and as Elizabeth and Alexander entered the hall, she felt she could not face them just yet. Alexander’s prickly coldness would be evident, Isobel was bound to pick up such strong undercurrents, and Marcus would guess that her conversation with Alexander had become a bitter confrontation. It would be better to avoid any further embarrassment for the time being.

  She turned to Alexander. “I…I think I will forgo the bishop,” she said quietly.

  “Elizabeth, I do not intend to make things difficult.”

  “No. I do not for a moment think you do, it is just that I would prefer to go to my room for a while. Please make my excuses to the others. Tell them I have a headache.”

  “Very well.”

  He watched as she went quickly up the staircase, and then he turned, for McPherson had appeared to relieve him of his outdoor garments.

  “His Grace and Lady Isobel are already in the grand chamber, Sir Alexander,” the butler said.

  “Thank you, McPherson.” Toying with his cuff for a moment, Alexander glanced again at the staircase where Elizabeth had gone, then he walked toward the door of the grand chamber.

  Isobel was seated by the fire, where she had sat the night before, and she lowered her glass of bishop as he entered. “Ah, there you are… Where is Elizabeth?”

  “She—er—has a slight headache, and has gone to rest for a while,” he replied, avoiding her eyes as he went to take a seat.

  Marcus bent to ladle some of the bishop out of the bowl on the hearth into another glass, which he gave to Alexander. “I trust she is not too indisposed?” he inquired lightly.

  “Er—no—I don’t think so.”

  Marcus said no more, but his eyes were pensive.

  * * * *

  Elizabeth did not go directly to her room, but paused once more at her place in the gallery in order to be certain of being fully composed when she saw Violet. The cloister garden was deserted, except for a magpie perched on top of the stone fountain. As she watched, the bird flew away in alarm, startled by the ever-watchful cat. In a moment the peaceful scene below had been shattered, just as the peace and tranquility of her own life had been shattered.

  With a heavy heart she turned to walk on, but as she did so she noticed that one of the doors off the gallery stood ajar, and she could see that the room beyond was a magnificent galleried library. On impulse she went inside.

  It was a truly beautiful room, with glass-fronted cabinets stretching from the floor up to the wooden gallery, and then encircling the gallery as well. The doors of these cabinets were shaped like church windows, with trefoils and tracery, and the volumes on the shelves were gilded and leather-bound. A low fire glowed in the hearth, indicating that it was a room that Marcus intended to use, and in the center of the floor there was an immense writing desk with a comfortable chair. Everything required for writing letters stood upon the desk’s green leather surface, from an elegant silver-gilt pen stand with a crystal bottle for the ink, to a handsome ivory-handled blotter and a candlestick that was solely for the purpose of melting sealing
wax.

  She glanced appreciatively around, for she had seldom seen such a well-stocked and agreeable library. Then her attention was drawn back to the writing desk, for there was another item upon it which she had not noticed at first. It was an oval miniature of a beautiful young woman, and was set in a golden frame. The young woman had tumbling honey-colored curls and laughing brown eyes, and she wore a magnolia silk gown that revealed her slender but curvaceous figure. There were roses in her hair, and in the graceful wicker basket she held, and behind her there was a white-pillared house set in a fine but vaguely foreign-looking park.

  Curious, Elizabeth went to pick up the little portrait. At first there did not seem to be any indication as to who the lady might be, but as she turned the frame over she saw an engraved nameplate on the back. Miss Constance Bannerman. Boston. 1812.

  So this was the lady Marcus was returning to America to marry. Elizabeth gazed at the lovely painted face. Constance Bannerman was radiantly beautiful, and it was easy to see why she had captured the heart of a man like Marcus.

  Slowly she replaced the miniature, and then turned to leave. Her footsteps echoed along the quiet gallery, a sound as empty and lonely as her heart.

  Chapter 13

  It was early afternoon, and Elizabeth was seated in the window of her room trying to summon the courage to rejoin the others. She felt low and dispirited, and would have liked to have taken further refuge in her invented headache in order to hide away where she was, but she knew that that would only be to postpone the inevitable. Some time or other she had to face her companions, and the longer she tried to put it off, the worse it would be.

  She was just steeling herself to rejoin them when there was a knock at her door, and Violet went to see who it was. Marcus stood there, and Elizabeth heard him ask if he could see her.

  The maid turned inquiringly, not sure whether her mistress wished to receive him or not, but Elizabeth nodded. “That’s all right, Violet, please show His Grace in.”