by Candace Camp
“Royce.” She wasn’t about to reveal how much more than kiss she and Sir Royce had done, not after Rose’s shy confession of two stolen kisses. “But you must promise not to breathe a word to Lily or Camellia; they would tease me about it unmercifully. And if they said anything to Sir Royce …”
“No, oh no, I will not say a word; I swear it. But, Mary, do you love him?”
“No, of course not.” Mary shook her head sharply. “There’s no question of any of that between us. He had been drinking, so one can hardly hold a man to anything he does then. Indeed, he apologized mostly politely this afternoon.” Mary’s expression hardened. “He told me he wished it had never happened.”
Rose stared at her. “Really?”
“As good as. He said he would take it back if he could, or something like that. Obviously he regrets it.”
Rose reached out to take Mary’s hand. “Do you?”
“Honestly?” Mary looked over at her sister and shook her head. “No. I don’t. I thoroughly enjoyed it. Well, now I have blackened my soul, haven’t I?”
“Don’t be silly. I just told you that I kissed Sam and wished it hadn’t stopped. If your soul is black, so is mine.”
Mary smiled a little. “At least we shall have company.”
Rose squeezed her hand. “Are you sure you don’t have hopes in that direction?”
“Marrying Sir Royce?” Mary chuckled and shook her head. “No, dear sister, do not worry your head over that. I am not pining away for him. I will admit it wounded my pride a bit to hear how much he regretted what passed between us, but that is easily enough recovered from. Marriage, especially to one of these prickly British gentlemen, does not appeal to me. I have the lowering presentiment that I shall wind up a spinster—and no doubt a trial to all my happily married sisters, who will be too kind not to let me impose myself upon them.”
“Nay, I fear we shall be spinsters together. Lily and Camellia will have to take us both in,” Rose retorted. “Or perhaps we shall just remain a trial to our cousin the earl.”
“Now, that’s an idea.” Glad to see her sister’s spirits lifted, Mary smiled and picked up Rose’s sewing bag. “Let me help you with the mending. I find I have a great desire to jab in a few pins.”
Chapter 18
The Bascombe sisters were in the music room with Miss Dalrymple the next day, struggling over their notes and chords, when the butler ushered in Lady Sabrina.
“Lady Sabrina!” Miss Dalrymple sprang from her seat with surprising nimbleness and hurried forward. “What an unexpected pleasure. Girls, girls, do come and say hello.”
Her words were quite unnecessary, for the sisters were rising to greet the other woman with evident pleasure.
“I hope I have not interrupted anything important,” Lady Sabrina began politely.
“No, indeed.” Miss Dalrymple beamed. “The girls were brushing up on their skills at the piano.”
This enormous understatement earned stares from all four of the girls in question, but Lady Sabrina merely smiled and nodded, apparently accepting Miss Dalrymple’s words. Mary could only think that Lady Sabrina had not heard Camellia’s hesitant plinking on the keys as she walked down the hall.
“Then I hope they will not mind if I steal them away for an hour or two.”
“No,” the girls chorused eagerly, and Lady Sabrina laughed.
“’Tis not very exciting an expedition I’m proposing,” she told them. “You must not get your hopes up.”
“Excitement is a relative matter, my lady,” Mary said. “I feel sure we will enjoy it.”
“I had planned to call on the vicar’s wife today, and it occurred to me, why not take you with me? It will make the duty far more enjoyable for me, and you can meet some of your neighbors. The squire’s wife often calls on Mrs. Martin on Tuesday afternoon, so with any luck, I will be able to introduce you to her as well.”
“What a marvelous idea, my lady.” Miss Dalrymple’s smile broadened, if that was possible, and she nodded for emphasis. “Marvelous indeed. So kind of you to think of them.” She turned, leveling a basilisk gaze on her charges. “I am sure they are very grateful.”
For once, it was easy to agree with their chaperone, especially for Mary, as the trip with Lady Sabrina would take them away from their dancing lesson. Though she had been civil, if a trifle frosty, when she saw Sir Royce at breakfast that morning, Mary had no desire to spend the afternoon close to him again.
The girls scurried off to get their hats and gloves, glad that at least these items of their apparel would not be unfashionable, if not perhaps up to the standard of Lady Sabrina’s attire. As they came back down the stairs, Sir Royce stepped into the entry.
He checked for an instant as his eyes landed on Lady Sabrina, then came forward and executed a polite bow. “Lady Sabrina. I had not realized that you had come to call.”
“Hallo, Royce.” Sabrina held out her hand to him. “Are you so formal now? You once called me just Sabrina.”
“That was many years ago, my lady.” Royce’s expression was even more remote than the one he had directed at Mary the day before. “Before you were married.”
“Ah, but I have not changed.” Amusement touched Sabrina’s light blue eyes.
“I fear I have.”
Mary and Rose exchanged glances at Sir Royce’s short response, which bordered on rude, and Lily rushed to fill the awkward silence: “Lady Sabrina has kindly offered to take us with her to call on Mrs. Martin.”
“Has she?” Royce shot an assessing glance at the sisters, lined up in hats and gloves, ready to leave. “But what of your lessons?”
“I am sure you will not mind being relieved of that task, Sir Royce,” Mary told him. “You will have the rest of your afternoon free.”
“Sir Royce is teaching us to dance,” Lily offered in an aside to Lady Sabrina.
“Is he now?” Lady Sabrina’s eyes twinkled. “I am sorry indeed to interfere with that. Perhaps I should stay and help.”
This offer was met with a chorus of protests, and Lady Sabrina agreed, laughing, to stay with her original plan. She turned to Sir Royce. “There, you have escaped. But I must warn you that I am sending you and your cousins an invitation.”
“They are not my cousins.”
“To the ball?” Lily asked, ignoring Royce’s interjection.
“No. That is some time away. Far too long, I decided. I am inviting you to Halstead House for dinner next week. I do hope you will come.”
“We should love to,” Mary assured her.
“I am not sure whether I will be free—” Sir Royce began.
Sabrina cut him off with her silvery laugh. “But I have not told you which day!”
Royce’s jaw tightened. “I am sure the girls will be delighted to attend.”
“But you must come as well. Humphrey will be quite disappointed if you do not. And the girls must have an escort.”
“Of course.” Sir Royce sketched a bow to her and turned to Mary and her sisters. “If you will wait until tomorrow, I will take you to call on Mrs. Martin. Then you need not impose on Lady Sabrina.”
“It is no imposition.” Sabrina looked puzzled. “I welcome the company.”
“I would prefer it.” Royce sent a significant glance at Mary. “It would be safer.”
“Safer!” Lady Sabrina laughed. “Really, Royce, what do you think is going to happen? It isn’t as if there are highwaymen riding the roads here.”
“We will be fine, I’m sure, in Lady Sabrina’s carriage,” Mary told him flatly.
His lips thinned, but Royce said only, “Very well. I shall send one of my grooms along, if you don’t mind.”
He strode off, leaving Sabrina staring after him in astonishment.
“You must not mind Sir Royce,” Lily told her.
“That’s right. He’s been cross as a bear for two days,” Camellia added.
“Oh.” Sabrina waved the matter away with one elegantly gloved hand. “I pay no attention to
Royce. I have known him almost since I was in short skirts and braids.”
When they had settled into the carriage, Royce’s groom sitting on the high seat beside the coachman, Sabrina turned to the sisters with a smile and confided, “I had an ulterior motive in inviting you today. It is often deadly dull calling on Mrs. Martin, and I thought your presence would make it much more enjoyable. I hope you will forgive me.”
The girls assured her that they were happy to relieve her boredom, especially since she was relieving theirs.
“My purposes were not entirely selfish,” Sabrina went on. “It will be easier for you to meet the vicar’s wife with someone else along to ease the way. She is a good woman, of course, and quite intelligent. Her father was also a clergyman, you see, and a well-known scholar, so she is very well educated. She speaks three languages—aside from ancient Latin and Greek, of course, and she is able to converse with the earl and Lord Humphrey on all the philosophers. I vow, sometimes I think I am back in the schoolroom when she and Mr. Martin begin to lecture.”
“My goodness,” Lily said inadequately.
“You must not let her intimidate you. She is not unkind, but she does not always realize that the rest of us have not had the grounding in the classics that she has. That is why I thought it might be easier to meet her with me along to smooth the path, so to speak. I am accustomed enough to her now that she does not frighten me.”
“What about the other lady, the squire’s wife?” Rose asked in a subdued voice.
“Ah, yes, Mrs. Bagnold.” Sabrina’s eyes twinkled. “She feels, perhaps, that she is a bit above the simple country folk. Her grandfather, as she is fond of saying, was an earl, and even though her father was only the youngest of five sons, she is very conscious of her noble bloodlines. She can be … well, a trifle stuffy. Of course, she is always quite agreeable to me, since Lord Humphrey’s brother is a duke, but Mrs. Martin is as low down the social scale as she cares to associate. Since you are the earl’s cousins, that will be no problem.”
Mary cast a look at Rose. It seemed they were going to be faced with another pair like their aunts. “I’m glad that you will be there, my lady.”
“Please, call me Sabrina. We are going to be great friends, I can tell. Don’t worry. I promise we shan’t stay long. Remember, don’t be nervous. They cannot bite, after all—and I shall be there to help you if they do.”
Mary’s enthusiasm for the trip had been dampened considerably, and the girls were uncharacteristically silent when they pulled up in front of the vicarage, a two-story brown brick building next to the square-towered Norman church. The house itself had a gloomy air, Mary thought, dark and overgrown by ivy and shrubbery. She suspected that Lily was probably already making up some scary tale about it.
A maid showed them into the parlor of the vicarage, where two middle-aged women sat. One was as tall and spare as the other was short and plump. Mrs. Martin turned out to be the almost gaunt woman, slightly stoop-shouldered, with sandy hair streaked by gray. Her face was long and thin, and her forehead seemed creased in a perpetual frown. She wore metal-rimmed spectacles, and the light glinting off the glass concealed her eyes, which made it difficult to read her expression. Squire Bagnold’s wife looked to be the older of the two, for her hair was almost entirely iron-gray beneath her matronly cap. Her face was round, with a short nose and large round eyes, giving her an incongruously babyish air.
Both women offered the barest of smiles, and it seemed to Mary that Mrs. Bagnold’s gaze bordered on wary. Lady Sabrina introduced the Bascombes, saying, “They are Lady Flora’s daughters. Perhaps you remember her. She was the present earl’s aunt.”
“Yes, I remember.” Mrs. Bagnold did not appear pleased by the memory. “Pert young thing. Lord Reginald was quite fond of her, as I recall—a fine man, the late earl. Reminded me of my own grandfather, the Earl of Penstone.”
Sabrina cast a laughing glance at Mary, and Mary had to press her lips together not to smile. Obviously, Sabrina knew her neighbors well.
“Not that Lord Oliver isn’t a good man,” Mrs. Bagnold continued. “But not the same as the old earl and my grandfather. Their like will never be seen again.”
“Indeed.” Sabrina put on a pleasant expression.
The conversation continued in a halting manner, for neither Mrs. Martin nor the Bascombe sisters contributed much to it. Most of the time, the discussion was about people and places that Mary and her sisters did not know, though Lady Sabrina gamely pulled it back time and again, saying with an apologetic smile, “But we are forgetting our guests from America. They have never met Lord Kelton… .” Or Mrs. Hargreaves. Or the Countess of Brackstone.
Mrs. Martin sent the maid for tea and cakes. It was a relief, in a way, for it gave Mary something to do with her hands and an excuse not to speak when some chance remark was directed her way. However, she worried that she would commit some ghastly faux pas, such as spilling her tea on the rug or taking too large a bite of one of the little cakes. Ordinarily, she was not constrained by fear of taking a social misstep, but Miss Dalrymple’s training had left her certain of only one thing—that she was woefully ignorant of the social niceties. She did not want to embarrass Lady Sabrina by displaying that ignorance.
After a time, even Sabrina ran out of conversation, and a long silence fell upon the group. Mary could feel Rose growing more and more tense beside her. She also knew from experience that the longer a silence lasted, the more likely Camellia or Lily would feel compelled to break it. Desperately, she cast about for something to say, but her mind was a blank.
Finally, in a rush, Mrs. Martin said, “Are you interested in reading, Miss Bascombe?”
“Lily is,” Camellia piped up.
“Indeed?” It was hard to tell behind the spectacles, but it seemed to Mary that Mrs. Martin’s expression warmed a trifle as she turned toward Lily. “Then you must be enjoying the library at Willowmere. It is quite extensive.”
“Yes, it is,” Lily agreed, looking unaccustomedly nervous.
“What sorts of things do you like to read?”
Mary’s fingers curled into her palm until the nails were cutting into the skin. Lily would reveal her reading tastes, and this highly educated woman would make a slighting remark or give her one of those frozen-in-horror glances of which Aunt Euphronia was a master. Then Camellia—and Mary herself—would feel compelled to come to Lily’s defense, and the visit would turn into one of their usual disasters. Only this time Lady Sabrina would be dragged into it as well, after all her kindnesses to them.
“Um, novels,” Lily replied softly.
“Indeed?” Mrs. Martin’s eyebrows lifted. “How interesting. I am fond of them myself.”
“Really?” Lily perked up. “Cousin Charlotte took us to Hatchard’s—”
“Such a lovely place.” There was now definitely warmth in the older woman’s voice, and Mary felt the clutch of tension in her stomach begin to ease.
Then Lily went on, “I bought The Mask of the Corsairs by Mrs. Preston.”
As soon as she uttered the words, Lily went pink and closed her mouth. She cast an apologetic glance at Mary and quickly turned her eyes back down to her lap. Mary felt a pang at seeing Lily abashed, and a warming anger began to rise in her.
“I have not read The Mask of the Corsairs,” Mrs. Martin said, breaking the silence. “But I cannot imagine that it could be any more exciting than The Lady of Mirabella, Mrs. Preston’s second book and, in my opinion, her best.”
Lily’s head snapped up, and a brilliant smile spread across her face. “Oh, yes, I agree. It is my very favorite book. Do you like Mrs. Radcliffe, too?”
“Of course.” Mrs. Martin was smiling now, her cheeks tinged pink with excitement. “Perhaps you would care to see my library. It is not nearly so fine as that at Willowmere, but I have several books I think you would like.”
“Yes, thank you! I would love to see it.” Lily bounced to her feet, barely remembering her teacup in time to set it aside on
a low table.
Mrs. Martin stood up, taking Lily’s arm and leading her out of the room, talking animatedly. Mary cast a surreptitious glance at Rose and Camellia, then at Lady Sabrina, all of whom wore the same expression of amazement. It was all Mary could do not to laugh.
“Well, I’m glad Miriam has found someone who likes to read those books,” Mrs. Bagnold commented. “I haven’t the faintest liking for them myself. Not much of a reader, really, but when I do read, I like something practical. The squire, of course, doesn’t hold with reading at all.”
“How is the squire?” Sabrina asked sweetly, recovering from her shock. “I haven’t seen him out riding lately.”
“His back’s been bothering him again, poor thing.” For the first time, Mrs. Bagnold’s voice softened, and she shook her head. “Pain shooting down his back. He can hardly walk, but he can hardly sit still either. Can’t bear to get up on a horse.”
“I’m so sorry. Has Dr. Berry been to see him?” Sabrina asked.
“The man’s useless. All he ever wants to do is cup him or purge him.” Mrs. Bagnold’s mouth was set in grim lines. “That’s what killed my grandfather, I’m convinced.”
Emboldened, perhaps, by Lily’s success with Mrs. Martin, Camellia said, “Maybe you could help, Mary.” She turned to the squire’s wife. “My sister is quite good with herbs and such.”
“Indeed?” Mrs. Bagnold rested her rather imperious gaze on Mary. “Is that true, young lady?”
“I—well, yes, I’ve always nursed my sisters in their illnesses. I know some folk remedies.”
To her surprise, Mrs. Bagnold nodded. “My nurse was a healer, I remember. There were those who whispered she was a witch, but that was nonsense, of course. She could always make a tea to help with your headache or stomachache.” She paused, then asked, “What would you suggest?”
“Does the pain run low in his back like this, and down into his leg? Or is it all up and down his back?”
“Exactly like you said. Low in his back and down his leg.”