A Country Cotillion

by Sandra Heath

  But Isobel still lay motionless. Her eyelids did not flutter even slightly, and her hand was limp and almost lifeless. Alarm began to course through Elizabeth, and suddenly all that had happened in recent days ceased to be of any consequence. Isobel was her cousin, and something dreadful had befallen her.

  “Isobel? Please answer me,” she begged, rubbing the still little hand, willing it to show some response.

  Marcus and Alexander had swiftly realized that something was wrong, and now they ran around the foot of the mound. Just the briefest glance was sufficient for Marcus, who immediately turned and ordered the men to reharness the sleigh as quickly as possible.

  Alexander’s steps faltered for a moment as he saw Isobel, and then he came to crouch beside Elizabeth. “What happened?” he asked, reaching out instinctively to touch Isobel’s pale cheek, and then drawing his hand quickly and self-consciously back again.

  “I…I don’t know,” Elizabeth replied truthfully. “I turned to speak to her and she’d vanished. Then I saw her lying here. She has struck her head, that much is clear, but I truly do not know how it occurred.”

  Marcus came toward them, touching Alexander on the shoulder. “Can she be moved?”

  “I think so. It looks as if she has simply been knocked unconscious.” Alexander glanced at the disturbed snow and holly bushes, and his gaze fixed upon a branch that was sturdier than the others. “I believe she struck her forehead on that,” he said, pointing.

  At that moment Isobel stirred a little.

  Alexander looked swiftly down at her. “Isobel?”

  Her eyes opened slowly, and she stared up at him in confusion, not sure where she was. Then her gaze moved to Elizabeth, who still held her hand. “Elizabeth?” she murmured, bewildered.

  “What happened, Sweeting?” Elizabeth found herself automatically reverting to the childhood name that was always used in their family.

  Memory began to return, and Isobel’s eyes cleared just a little. “There were some berries, and I thought how pretty they would be on my muff. But they were out of reach, and I lost my balance. That’s all I remember.”

  “We think you struck your head on a branch.”

  Isobel put a shaky hand to her forehead, and winced with pain as she touched the bruise.

  Elizabeth squeezed her fingers comfortingly. “We’re going to take you back to the house, but first we must know if you think you’ve broken any bones.”

  Isobel moved a little, tentatively testing each limb, then she shook her head. “I don’t think I have. I just feel very dizzy, and my head hurts.”

  “It will, I fear, but you’ll soon be all right again,” Elizabeth said reassuringly.

  The sleigh bells jingled as the stableboy led it through the snow toward them. As it halted, Alexander scooped Isobel effortlessly into his arms, and carried her to lay her gently in the front seat where earlier she had squealed and laughed with such excitement.

  Marcus assisted Elizabeth to her feet. “Are you all right?” he asked briefly.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  He continued to hold her hand for a moment. “For what it’s worth, Elizabeth French, I think Alexander is a great fool, but then my opinion is possibly of no interest to you.” He conducted her toward the sleigh, and when they were all seated inside, the boy urged the team into action, leading them as swiftly as he could back toward the house.

  Chapter 14

  The nearest doctor resided more than two miles away, but the lanes were so blocked with snow that it was decided not to attempt to bring him to Rainworth. Marcus’s cook, Mrs. Harmon, who had some experience of nursing, concluded that Isobel needed only to take to her bed for a day or so after the administering of suitable medicaments, and soon all would be well again.

  Elizabeth knew that this was sound advice, and so Isobel found herself being firmly instructed to do exactly as the cook instructed. Her maid, Annie, assisted her out of her clothes and into a fresh lace-trimmed nightgown, the bedroom shutters and curtains were closed, candles were lit, and the fire was built up to make the air as warm and comfortable as possible. An ointment of oil of marjoram and honey was applied to the bruise, some chamomile tea was infused to calm her and ease the headache, and some dried lavender was tucked into her pillow to assist her to sleep. Then, when the maid and the cook had withdrawn, it was Elizabeth who sat on the edge of the bed, gently brushing Isobel’s hair.

  Isobel toyed with the frills on the cuff of her nightgown. “I feel so very silly. All this because I wanted a spray of holly berries.”

  “These things happen, Sweeting,” murmured Elizabeth, drawing the brush slowly through the tangled chestnut curls.

  Isobel smiled at her for a moment. “It’s strange to hear that pet name after all this time. I’d almost forgotten it.”

  “So had I.”

  “We did like each other occasionally when we were children, didn’t we?”

  “Occasionally.”

  Isobel drew a long breath. “I was a horrid brat, wasn’t I?”

  “Mostly.”

  Isobel lowered her eyes, suddenly pricked with conscience. She had behaved very badly, and certainly did not deserve Elizabeth’s kindness now.

  Elizabeth put the hairbrush down on the table by the bed, and then stood. “Try to sleep now. Mrs. Harmon says that the chamomile tea will soon begin to take effect. How does your head feel now that the ointment has been applied?”

  “It still hurts a great deal. Oh, I’m going to look dreadful, aren’t I?

  “Of course not.” Elizabeth held the bedclothes while Isobel snuggled down, then she tucked her in. “I’ll stay with you, so that if you need anything…”

  Isobel took her hand suddenly. “Thank you for being so kind to me.”

  “You’re my cousin,” Elizabeth replied, smiling a little.

  Guilty tears stung Isobel’s eyes.

  Elizabeth became concerned. “Is something wrong?” she asked quickly.

  “No. I…I just wish my head did not hurt so much,” Isobel replied, turning her face away because she felt so full of self-reproach.

  “I won’t leave you,” Elizabeth promised, pausing for a moment, and then going to sit in the chair by the fire. It was a high-backed armchair covered with pink-and-white chintz, and she leaned her head back against it, closing her eyes for a moment.

  The room fell silent, except for the crackling of the fire. It was a large bedroom, very Tudor in style, and was quite obviously half of a much larger chamber that had been divided by handsome wooden paneling. Isobel’s bed was huge and heavy, with ornately draped green brocade curtains and heavily carved posts. The bedhead was very grand indeed, and carved and painted with the Sheridan family’s coat-of-arms and lion badge. Firelight flickered warmly over the room, and outside the temperature plummeted as the afternoon drew to a close and darkness began to steal over the countryside.

  The fire made Elizabeth feel drowsy, and she closed her eyes again. How strange it was that in spite of Isobel’s disgraceful conduct, especially today, it was family feeling that had immediately leaped to the fore when the accident had happened. Would it still have been like that if she, Elizabeth, had really loved Alexander?

  She drifted into sleep, and in her dreams she was at the Devonshire House ball again. L’Echange was playing, only she wasn’t dancing. She stood at the side of the floor, watching everyone else. Isobel was dancing with Marcus, and Alexander was dancing with a lady whose face she could not see. The cotillion proceeded through its figures, drawing closer and closer to its conclusion. The final steps were imminent now, and still she could not make out the face of the second lady. The orchestra struck the last chords, and the dancers exchanged partners. Isobel whirled into Alexander’s arms, and he kissed her passionately on the lips, crushing her so close it was as if he would hold her forever. The other lady twisted into Marcus’s embrace, and he kissed her. His fingers curled luxuriously in her honey-colored hair, and as she drew away at last, her eyes dark with desire
and her cheeks flushed with feeling, Elizabeth saw her face. It was Constance Bannerman.

  * * * *

  Marcus and Alexander were in the grand chamber. It was now quite dark outside, and the cold air drew the fire so that it glowed and sparks fled up the chimney into the night. Alexander was in the chair usually occupied by Isobel, and he gratefully accepted the large glass of cognac Marcus poured for him.

  Marcus watched him as he swirled the rich amber liquid. “I fear that your stay here at Rainworth has been plagued by misfortune,” he said after a moment. “First there was the snow, and now this.”

  Alexander nodded. “And my dealings with Elizabeth have not been all they should,” he murmured.

  “In what way?” Marcus studied him carefully.

  “Things have not gone well between us recently.”

  “I am sure that all will be resolved.”

  “Would that I could feel as certain, but I fear that there is a positive gulf between us at the moment.” Alexander smiled a little wryly. “Sometimes it almost feels as if she is as distant from me as your Miss Bannerman is from you, except that Elizabeth and I are in the same house, but you are on the other side of the world from Miss Bannerman.”

  “Do you love her?” Marcus asked bluntly.

  “Yes, of course I do. What on earth prompts you to question it?”

  Marcus pursed his lips for a moment. “Forgive me if I trespass by what I am about to say, but I feel I must say it. I wonder about your feelings for Mrs. French when it is clear to me that you are rather too drawn toward Lady Isobel.”

  “Lady Isobel is without reproach,” Alexander declared defensively, draining his glass and getting to his feet.

  Marcus did not comment upon this patently untrue statement, for Isobel was most definitely not beyond reproach, but Alexander’s reaction was that of a man whose conscience was not entirely clear, and he had not denied being attracted to Isobel.

  Alexander went to pour himself another glass of cognac. “What of you and Miss Bannerman? When do you mean to return to American to marry her?”

  Marcus did not reply.

  Alexander looked quickly at him. “There are problems?”

  “There are always problems,” murmured Marcus, turning to lean a hand on the stone fireplace and gaze into the heart of the fire. The flames flickered over his face, and burnished his blond hair to copper.

  “But you do love her?”

  “I loved her from the moment I saw her.”

  Alexander was curious. “Would it help to talk about it?”

  Marcus smiled. “Thank you for the offer, my friend, but no, it would not help at all,” he replied dryly. Then he straightened. “I think I will go to see how Lady Isobel is.” Without waiting for Alexander to comment, he turned on his heel and walked from the room.

  * * * *

  Elizabeth awoke when she heard his quiet knock at the door. She sat up with a start, her glance moving swiftly toward the bed, but she saw immediately that Isobel was fast asleep. Getting up, she shook out the folds of her shell-pink gown, then she went quickly to the door to admit him.

  “Please come in,” she said, hoping that she did not appear quite as disheveled as she felt. She had managed to put some pins back in her hair when they had returned to the house with Isobel, but there had not been any fresh combing, and so she knew she was not as well-groomed as she would have wished.

  He smiled a little as he saw the self-conscious way she touched her unruly curls. “You look very well, Mrs. French, please believe me,” he murmured, entering the room and looking toward the bed. “How is Lady Isobel?”

  “Sleeping, as you can see. I think that Mrs. Harmon’s chamomile tea was the very thing that was needed.”

  “No doubt she will still have a headache when she awakens, but I’m sure she will have recovered somewhat.” He looked at Elizabeth. “Should you not think of retiring yourself? Lady Isobel’s maid could sit with her.”

  “I promised Isobel I would stay.”

  “She doesn’t deserve it,” he replied frankly.

  She colored a little. “She is still my cousin, sir.”

  “And blood is thicker than water?” he asked.

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  “Is there anything you require?”

  “I’m quite all right, thank you.”

  He nodded. “Then I will leave you, but please do not hesitate to ask for whatever you wish. Good night, Mrs. French.”

  “Goodnight, sir.”

  He took her hand, and raised it to his lips, but as he did so he hesitated, turning it palm uppermost.

  She snatched her hand away. “No! Please, don’t!” she whispered.

  “It is hardly meant as an insult,” he said.

  “But it is taken as an insult, sir, an insult to me and to Miss Bannerman,” she replied angrily, for there was now no mistaking his purpose. Seduction was on his mind, nothing more and nothing less.

  His blue eyes became a little cool in the candlelight. “You know nothing about Miss Bannerman, nothing at all.”

  “I do not need to, sir. Please leave now.”

  “As you wish.” With a stiff bow, he turned and left.

  She closed the door behind him, and then leaned back against it, fighting the tears away. She loathed herself suddenly, for she had wanted him to kiss her palm, she had wanted him to then sweep her into his arms and kiss her on the lips. She had wanted her dream to come true, and to surrender completely to him, but such abandon would be all that was wrong. No matter how precarious her betrothal to Alexander had become, it still had not been called off, and Marcus had now shown himself to be as false-hearted a womanizer as James French.

  Isobel stirred in the bed, and Elizabeth put Marcus from her mind as she went quickly to her. “Isobel?”

  “Have I slept long?”

  “Only a few hours. How do you feel?”

  “My head isn’t aching quite so much.”

  “Can I get you anything?”

  Isobel shook her head a little. “No, I’ll go back to sleep if I can.” She took Elizabeth’s hand. “You don’t have to sit with me anymore, I’ll be all right now.”

  “Are you quite sure?”

  “Yes. Elizabeth, you’ll never know how grateful I am for the way you’ve taken care of me. I…I think you’ve been quite wonderful.”

  “Nonsense, I’ve only done what I’m sure you would have done in my place.”

  “I’d like to think I would, but I don’t think I’m as nice a person as you,” Isobel replied.

  “You make me sound like an angel, which I assure you I am not,” Elizabeth said a little wryly. “Are you sure you’ll be all right now?”

  “Quite sure. Good night, Elizabeth.”

  “Good night.” Elizabeth bent to kiss her on the cheek, and as she did so Isobel suddenly put her arms around her and hugged her.

  When Elizabeth had gone, Isobel lay remorsefully in the bed. Her conscience had become a torment, and she could hardly believe she had behaved as she had. But it wasn’t too late to put everything right…

  * * * *

  Before going to her own room, Elizabeth decided to walk a little in the gallery. She had brought a candle with her from Isobel’s room, and shielded its flame with her hand as she went. As she reached the gallery, she saw immediately that someone was in the library, for the door was open and light flooded out. Her little shoes had soft soles and thus made no sound as she walked, so that she reached the library door without the occupant realizing she was there.

  Looking inside, she saw that Marcus was seated at the writing desk. His back was toward her, and he did not sense her presence. He was writing a letter, but evidently it was proving difficult, for suddenly he tossed his pen aside and crumpled the sheet of paper, tossing it almost angrily across the room, where it rolled against the curtain that hung against another door. Then he picked up the miniature of his bride-to-be, and sat back in his chair studying it.

  From where Elizabeth
stood, she could see how his thumb moved gently over the little painted face, and then he seemed to find inspiration from somewhere, for he replaced the miniature on the desk, took another sheet of paper, and began to write again. This time the words flowed from his pen.

  Elizabeth drew back, and retraced her steps along the gallery. If she had ever needed proof that Constance Bannerman was part of his life, she had seen it in the tender way he had caressed the miniature. But even though it was plain that he loved Constance, he had still embarked upon seduction here at Rainworth. He was worthless, as worthless as James had proved to be.

  Chapter 15

  It was still fine, clear, and cold the next morning. The overnight temperature had been arctic, and when the sun rose its rays had barely touched the chill that lay over the frozen landscape. The snow still lay as deep and impassable as before, and the whole of England was caught in its icy trap.

  Elizabeth rose early, and was relieved to hear from Violet that Isobel was very much better. She still had a headache, but that was only to be expected, and she intended to get up a little later.

  Putting on a warm gown of peach-colored fustian, Elizabeth then sat at the dressing table for Violet to comb and pin her hair. The maid’s fingers were deft, easily twisting the heavy dark-blond curls up into a dainty knot, and then combing out a number of thin ringlets. When the final pin was in place, Elizabeth went to the window seat, intending to try to read for a while before going down to the breakfast room, but as she glanced out of the window at the terrace, she suddenly felt the urge to go out into the fresh air. It was an idle impulse, but one she did not resist, and so a minute or so later she stepped outside, holding her aquamarine cloak closely around her as the chill morning air breathed over Rainworth.

  She shivered as she walked across the terrace to the stone balustrade. The snow had mostly been cleared away now, and a layer of ice crunched beneath her overshoes. She paused by one of the stone Grecian urns at the top of the steps that led down into the topiary garden. Not all of the snow had been cleared from the foot of the steps, and she could see the marks where Alexander and Isobel had thrown snowballs the day before.