Lovesong
Page 24
She felt—hurt. For Reba’s words had blasted to bits her view of Rye Evistock, whom she had been comparing so favorably to Thomas. To think that she had begun to like him, despite his effrontery at the inn! And now it seemed to her that he was as bad as Reba, edging this way and that for advantage. If some other girl came through that door and Sir Kyle told him she had more money that either Reba or Carolina, would Rye instantly turn coat and pay court to her?
And she had let him kiss her—she who was betrothed to Thomas! It proved, she told herself bleakly, that she was something she had never admired—what they called in Virginia “a hot wench,” else how could such a slight contact with his lean body have sent her blood racing? Resentment flamed up in her and she yearned to strike back at him. If he could be false in this, he could be false in something else as well. For all that she thought she had sensed in him a kind of honor, she could well be wrong. He could protest all he liked, but who could say what he might have done had she been such a fool as to wait for him there, locked in that private dining room at the inn?
Her wild thoughts were interrupted by Rye’s arrival, carrying aloft two glasses of wine.
“Ah, I see I have found not one but two ladies.”
From his great height Rye smiled down upon them. “And fortunately I have a glass for each.” He proffered one to Reba.
“Why, we thank you, sir!” Carolina's silver eyes gleamed and she swept him a mocking curtsy, as befitted the shameless fortune hunter that he was.
But when she rose again her face was angelic as she took the proffered wine.
Oh, she would make Rye Evistock fall in love with her, all right—but not to please Reba! She would do it for the pure joy of first enchanting and then rejecting him—she would do it for revenge!
BROADLEIGH, ESSEX
THE THIRD DAY OF CHRISTMAS
* * *
Chapter 16
They had barely risen from the breakfast table at Broadleigh the next morning when Rye Evistock was announced.
Reba’s mother looked startled, but pleased. It had not occurred to her that perhaps Rye had not come to see Reba. “I don’t care for that dress,” she muttered, surveying Reba’s plainer than usual tawny rose silk. “You must have known he was coming—you should have worn your ruby velvet.”
Reba, whose mind was currently on her marquess and not on her gown, gave both her mother and Carolina a blithe look. In point of fact she had not known Rye Evistock was coming, but she did not want her mother to know that. She went forward to greet her guest and made him a deep curtsy.
But even as he made an elegant leg to Reba, Rye’s gray gaze was searching out Carolina, who was wearing a gown she had carefully chosen from Reba’s wardrobe —a tailored sky blue velvet trimmed in bands of silver braid. Rye Evistock caught his breath at sight of her.
Reba’s mother found she had duties which demanded her elsewhere. At the door she paused and gave Carolina a look that clearly said she too should leave Reba alone with her new suitor. Carolina pretended not to notice. Once her mother had gone, Reba tactfully excused herself and left Carolina alone with Rye.
“You are good friends, I take it?” Rye’s gaze was on the door through which Reba had departed as he seated himself on a plum damask settee.
“The best,” said Carolina staunchly. Not for worlds would she have admitted to this despicable fortune hunter that she found Reba’s mother unacceptable or Reba’s conduct sadly wanting. It occurred to her suddenly that he might merely want to learn more about his second choice—in case he should decide against the first! She found the thought deflating and there was a trace of resentment in her voice as she began to extoll Reba’s virtues, from her sense of style to her sagacity.
“I would judge you to be amply endowed with all those things,” observed her companion easily. “And with loyalty besides,” he added thoughtfully, for he shared the county’s general opinion of these upstarts who had bought Broadleigh.
Carolina flushed for she could not help but wonder what Lord Thomas would be thinking of her loyalty now if he could but see her smiling seductively at Rye Evistock!
“I hope so,” she said in a suffocated voice.
“Tell me, do you miss Virginia?” he asked, studying her keenly.
Now he wants to hear about my wealth, my vast mansion! thought Carolina angrily. She had thought she could bear it, but suddenly she could not. With a recklessness that would have become her mother, she threw back her head and set her jaw.
“Whatever Sir Kyle has told you about me is false and you may as well know it now!” she burst out.
He was gazing at her imperturbably. “And what is it you think he told me?”
“That I am a great heiress, that my father has forty thousand acres!”
“I knew that was false,” he said
“Nor do I have a London dressmaker or—what did you say?”
“I said I knew you were not a great heiress. Sir Kyle told me that Reba is spreading such a story but he knew it to be untrue.”
“How? How did he know?”
“Sir Kyle is well acquainted with a certain Captain Mercer of the Bristol Maid.”
But that was the ship that had carried her across the Atlantic! Captain Mercer was a friend of her father.
“And he had told Sir Kyle about his friends in Virginia. Naturally Sir Kyle told me.”
So Rye had known all along that she was not an heiress!
“He told you—about Bedlam?” she asked uneasily, guessing that Captain Mercer would have regaled Sir Kyle with some good stories about the turbulent Lightfoots.
Rye hesitated. Then, “Yes, he did,” he said. Carolina gave him a bitter look. “My family’s fame follows me to England, I see.”
“Better a colorful family than a dull one,” he told her evenly. “Bear in mind that they are dull sticks who have never done anything worth remarking!”
She gave him a grateful look. “I once heard Sandy Randolph say something very like that,” she murmured, and forthwith launched into a description of life on the Eastern Shore. “And what of you?” she finished. “Here I am doing all the talking and I know nothing about you.”
“I am a younger son,” he shrugged. “Which in a way speaks for itself. The family estate will come down by primogeniture to my eldest brother and there will be little to divide by inheritance once my father is gone. So I took myself away early and made my way elsewhere. I went out to Barbados and became a planter.”
“So you are a Colonist like myself,” she laughed. “I am afraid I will never be accepted here,” she confided. “All the ladies at last night’s ball seemed to be looking down their noses at me!”
“Accepted? Oh, I should think you could manage it easily.” He gave her an inscrutable look.
Something in that look made her blush and quickly drop her gaze. She wondered suddenly how far she should go with this farce. It was a dishonorable thing she was doing. How had she allowed herself to be dragged into it?
Restless under his scrutiny, she was delighted when he suggested they take a stroll through the grounds. He knelt at her feet to assist her into her tall pattens, and swept the fur-trimmed cloak she had borrowed from Reba around her shoulders with some determination.
“It is good to be outside,” he told her once they had cleared the door and were strolling down the driveway, along the edges of which snow was melting in the morning sunlight. “I remember too well the family who lived here before the Tarbells. Hal was a close friend of mine and I keep expecting him to come through the drawing room door and clap me upon the shoulder.”
“Where did they go, the last people?” she asked him.
“Hal’s father went under,” he told her. “Couldn’t meet his debts and eventually sold the place. Trying to keep it up had broken his health and he took his family down to the Scilly Isles where the climate is milder. All but Hal, who’d left home some time before.” He sounded sad.
“And Hal?”
“He died las
t winter.”
There was something bleak in his voice as he spoke and she guessed that it was hard for him to come back to Broadleigh remembering the friends of his youth and find these new people bringing in new furniture and new draperies but somehow losing the atmosphere that he had known and loved. A sense of gentility had come with Carolina’s people when they settled in Virginia and it stood her in good stead now. She understood what made him want to leave the overfurnished drawing room at Broadleigh to walk about the familiar grounds in the brisk cold air.
“I am sorry,” she said softly. “It is terrible to lose a friend.”
“I have lost many friends,” he said, sighing. “It gets no easier.”
They strolled about, dodging the snow that would fall suddenly from the heavy laden branches, and she felt a rapport with him that surprised her. It was a deeper rapport than she had ever felt with Thomas, who was the very essence of town. Rye could have been a Virginia gentleman, she thought. Like Sandy Randolph. . . .
She felt depressed when he left, promising to return upon the morrow. She felt herself a deceiver.
Reba’s mother regarded her as a deceiver too but for quite another reason. She was just descending the stairs when Carolina bade her caller goodbye at the front door and she stood solidly at the foot after Carolina had shut the door upon her departing guest.
“Where is Reba?” she asked coldly.
“Tm here, Mamma.” Reba popped in from the library. “It was nice of you, Carol, to show Rye about the grounds.”
“And where were you?” demanded her mother. “Why were you not showing him the grounds yourself?”
“Well, I—” Reba gazed about her with a hunted look. “Mamma, Rye really came to see Carol. He told her last night that he would call.” She looked at her friend for confirmation and Carolina nodded.
“But you knew,” burst out her mother. “You knew what your father had planned! Oh, it is a good thing he is not here to see this!”
“Yes, I knew, Mamma,” said Reba swiftly. “But Rye was so taken with Carol last night—I am not to blame for that, really I’m not!”
“But he would not have fancied her had you stayed beside him and got rid of your friend!” stormed her mother and Carolina felt her cheeks flaming with embarrassment.
Reba’s mother gave her a sour look. She was still harping on it at lunch and Carolina would not have been too surprised had she been bundled into the family coach and promptly returned to London. But by now her hostess’s indignation had taken another turn:
“Why, I’ve half a mind to deny Rye Evistock the house!” was her angry comment as she stabbed at her dessert. “After practically settling things with your father, he arrives and ignores you and takes up with your houseguest!”
“Mamma, it doesn’t matter/” protested Reba. “I don’t care at all, and I’m sure Carol doesn’t. And anyway,” she finished, “we have all of the holidays before us and even though he noticed Carol first, I heard Eleanor Wannsdale say last night that although Rye had squired a lot of girls he had never remained long with any one of them, so maybe he’s just following his usual pattern. Ask yourself, would you want a philanderer in the family?”
Carolina thought that very unfair and wondered what Eleanor Wannsdale really knew. For herself she thought that Rye Evistock had a very steady gaze and a face you could trust. It was her opinion that if he once chose a woman he’d stick to her—regardless of Eleanor Wannsdale’s opinion.
Reba’s mother subsided, muttering.
That afternoon brought several more callers—young bucks with smiling faces who asked for Mistress Light-foot. But they were fashionable and of the gentry and Reba’s mother welcomed them all. Indeed she suddenly looked on Carolina with more favor—this bright star with the silver blonde hair was bringing the social life of Essex to her: Such a girl could not be all bad! She concentrated her ire on Rye Evistock.
The next day the three of them had just walked into the great hall after breakfast when Rye was again announced. Mistress Tarbell surged forward with a frown to meet him.
“Oh, dear, Mamma’s on the warpath,” muttered Reba.
Rye Evistock must have caught the warlike gleam in his hostess’s eye for he was instantly equal to the occasion. He swept Mistress Tarbell a low bow and before she could voice the cutting comment that had come to her lips, he was speaking suavely.
“My apologies for arriving so early to call upon Mistress Carolina,” he told his hostess gravely. “But I come not only as a caller but as a messenger. On my way here I happened to meet Lord Hollistead, who asked me to convey his felicitations and hoped that you and your daughter, and of course your houseguest”— his smiling gaze played over Carolina, waiting uneasily in the background—“will honor him by your presence at the castle tomorrow night. He is giving a small dinner party and has invited a few friends you might enjoy meeting.”
Mistress Tarbell’s frown washed away so quickly it left her face ludicrously blank. This was good news indeed! She had been hoping for an invitation from Lady Hollistead ever since they had bought Broadleigh but so far she had been ignored by the people in the castle. And to be invited to a small dinner party! She beamed graciously upon Rye.
“You knew ,” Carolina told him delightedly when they were alone. “You knew exactly what would mollify her!”
“That was not precisely my intention,” he admitted. “I happened to meet Lord Hollistead upon the road. I’d not seen him for years and we stopped to talk. When I told him a young lady in whom I had an interest was visiting at Broadleigh, he clapped me upon the shoulder and said, ‘Bring her over to dinner tonight— bring the whole crew over!’ I took him at his word.”
Carolina’s smile twinkled; they shared a perfect understanding. They both knew Reba’s mother for what she was—a social climber. And Rye was but exploiting her hostess’s weakness.
Carolina had seen the Tower of London, she had seen Greenwich and St. James—but always from the exterior. That evening at Lord Hollistead’s ancestral home would always be counted as her “first castle.” She approached the battlements with excitement, stared up with awe from the coach at the tall crenellated towers that had withstood siege in the Middle Ages, and thrilled as she crossed the moat on an ancient drawbridge that she was later to learn was never raised.
As they went inside, Mistress Tarbell was muttering instructions to Reba to “Be nice to Lord Hollistead’s younger sons—I’m told neither of them is married,” but Carolina hardly heard. She gazed enraptured at the ancient standards that hung from the lofty beams of the castle’s great hall, larger by far than Broadleigh’s, at the battle shields and other weaponry that lined the walls. An enormous Yule Log crackled in a massive stone fireplace taller than a man’s head, and Lady Hollistead, a frail ethereal beauty from Kent now gone gray and fragile with age, met them like a faded swaying rose and bade them welcome.
But if the Tarbells were welcomed by reason of Lord Hollistead’s longstanding friendship with Rye Evistock, Carolina of the Colonies was not so warmly received by the ladies of the party, most of whom had been at the ball at Williston House and had watched her sweep all before her. And that faint dislike of the interloper was nowhere so apparant as at dinner which was elegantly served in the echoing Great Hall.
“What a wild coast you must live upon, Mistress Lightfoot.” From across the table Dolly de Lacey, a pretty brunette of about Carolina’s age, fixed Carolina with her innocent blue gaze.
“It is none so wild,” said Carolina, conscious that Dolly’s comment had been rather loud and that conversation at the table had died down as everyone sought to hear her reply—and the party was none so small after all; some twenty-four people sat around Lord Hollistead’s long board, facing each other over a magnificent display of gleaming silver.
“Really?” Dolly’s laugh tinkled. “Curtis Webber visited Philadelphia and he described the entire coast to the south as infested with red Indians, freebooters, adventurers and pirates!”
“Ah, but I do not mean the sea dogs of Queen Elizabeth’s time,” laughed Dolly. “For I am told that pirates from the Caribbean boldly sail their ships right up to the American coast. Tell us, Mistress Lightfoot, have you met any?”
Carolina flushed with annoyance, for Dolly had used a bantering tone, and there was a subtle inference in her challenging gaze that Carolina might somehow have entered English society by the back door and might have a father who trafficked with pirates. She was about to return a stiff answer when Rye, seated beside her, suddenly interrupted.
“I think you do not mean pirates when you speak of the sea rovers of the Caribbean, Mistress Dolly, for those men are buccaneers—and many carry privateers’ commissions.”
“Yes,” interrupted their host with a frown. “And did ye know as much about history, Mistress Dolly, as ye do about curling your pretty locks, ye would know that Commissions of Reprisal have been granted to English merchantmen since the thirteenth century to redress what is stolen from them on the high seas!”
“Do you not realize,” Rye added, looking at Dolly de Lacey, “that the Spanish would have taken Jamaica and broken the power of England in the Caribbean had it not been for the buccaneer Henry Morgan, who discouraged them by sacking Panama?”