by Jane Toombs
Leaving Agnes to see to their luggage, she hurried inside, sweeping past a liveried footman, half-hearing him informing her that the family was in the drawing room. Without stopping, she rushed by an open door through which she glimpsed her father, hurried down a long hall to French doors leading to the side of the house and, her pulses pounding, through those doors onto a stone terrace overlooking a rose garden.
Now she was certain, there could be no doubt, this was the very place she had seen in her dream, the setting where Clive would one day celebrate his marriage, not to her, not to Deirdre Darrington, but to Phoebe Langdon.
With a heavy heart, she re-entered the house and made her way with reluctant steps to the drawing room where she found her father, stepmother, and two sisters impatiently awaiting her appearance. The room was high-ceilinged, an invitingly bright room whose tasteful furnishings and rich carpeting were reflected in the mirrors on the walls.
Deirdre recalled seeing more than the usual number of mirrors in the entry and the hall as well.
"This is my wife, Sybil,” Roger Darrington said proudly as he introduced Deirdre to a rather plump matronly woman whose blond hair owed as much, if not more, to art as it did to nature. Perhaps an unkind observation, Deirdre told herself, but only the simple truth.
What shall I call her? she wondered, upset that she had failed to consider the matter until now. She could never think of her father's new wife as “mother” and “Sybil” seemed much too familiar. “Stepmama?” How awkward that sounded.
In the end, she settled, albeit hesitantly and uncomfortably, on “Mrs. Darrington."
"Dear Roger,” Sybil said, looking fondly up at her new husband, “you led me to expect someone quite different. Your appearance, my dear,” she told Deirdre, “comes as rather a surprise since we expected someone a bit younger. At least I did.” She glanced at her older daughter as though for confirmation.
"Someone considerably younger.” Phoebe's tone seemed to not only express agreement with her mother but to accuse her stepfather of purposefully misleading them.
Deirdre took her first thorough look at the blond, blue-eyed young lady who was destined to be Clive's bride. I must not stare, she reminded herself, and yet she had difficulty forcing herself to look away. Before this moment she had met only one girl, a seamstress from the village of Hartfield, who she could truthfully have called beautiful. Phoebe now became the second. Her new stepsister was like a painting that entices one to sit hour after hour in silent admiration, a work of art capable of providing unending pleasure to the fortunate viewer.
No wonder Clive had been smitten. Any man would have been.
Phoebe's only flaw, Deirdre finally decided, was a most decided lack of animation, a severe case of the dismals undoubtedly occasioned, Deirdre reminded herself, by worry lest harm should befall Clive Chadbourne in Spain.
"How sorry I am, my dear, if I misled you,” Roger Darrington apologized to his wife. “In my defense, let me say I share your surprise since Deirdre has changed considerably since last I saw her."
Her father seemed to hover near his new wife, attentive to her every word, eager to see her every wish fulfilled. Sybil responded by gazing lovingly up at him or every now and then reaching out to touch his sleeve or his hand. Was it possible, Deirdre wondered, that older couples—her father was fifty—had the much same feelings as those considerably younger?
"Our new sister has a decidedly Irish look about her,” Phoebe said.
Deirdre had the uncomfortable feeling of being on display in front of an unsympathetic audience. “I am Irish, at least on my mother's side.” Make of it what you will, Miss Phoebe Langdon, she added to herself.
Phoebe rolled her eyes ever so slightly, but said nothing.
"And this,” Sybil said to Deirdre, “is my other daughter, Alcida, who is two months younger than yourself.” She nodded to a young lady who sat with her face lowered as she stroked a white Angora cat curled on her lap. “If only you would stop playing with Beauty, Alcida, and be courteous enough to greet your new sister."
Alcida, whose brown ringlets partially covered her face, looked up at Deirdre with a shy welcoming smile.
"How many times have I told you to draw your hair back?” her mother asked.
As Alcida readjusted her hair ribbon, Deirdre suppressed a sigh of sympathy, for she saw that the girl's otherwise pretty face was marred by the white scars of the pox. As soon as she recaptured her ringlets, Alcida ducked her head once more.
"I hope and trust,” Deirdre said impulsively to Alcida, “that you and I will become the best of friends."
Alcida glanced up at her with mixed surprise and hope, but before she could reply Deirdre's father said, with the easy confidence of ignorance, “Of course you will be friends with Alcida, and with Phoebe as well, since you are now, after all, sisters."
Later, after being shown to her room and following a formal tea, Mrs. Darrington proposed that the three sisters stroll in the rose garden “to further your acquaintance with one another.” They had scarcely walked down the stone steps from the terrace before Phoebe began to quiz Deirdre.
"Prior to his leaving London, dear Clive told me of his intention to stop at Chadbourne House on his way to Portsmouth. Did he happen to visit you while he was there?"
Deirdre's face reddened as she recalled her distress at the news he had brought to East Sussex, the news of his betrothal. “Oh, yes, father wrote saying Clive was coming and he did.” Flustered, she decided that the less said about his humiliating visit, the better.
"You exhibit such a vivid blush at the mention of Clive's name,” Phoebe said sharply.
"You see,” Alcida put in tentatively, “we imagined Clive visiting someone who was considerably younger."
"That is not true at all,” Phoebe corrected her, “since we were made aware of your exact age by your father. In listening to him and to Clive, however, we received an impression of a young miss who was more of an annoyance than anything else."
"Yes,” Alcida said, “a rather childish girl."
"If only you would refrain from constantly echoing my words,” Phoebe told her sister. Glancing at Deirdre, she smiled, but her smile, Deirdre noted, contained not a trace of good humor. “I sometimes refer to Alcida as Miss If Only,” Phoebe said, “because everyone who knows her is constantly saying, ‘If only’ you would do this, Alcida, or ‘If only’ you would do that, Alcida. And quite rightly so."
Deirdre glanced at Alcida who quickly lowered her head, but not before Deirdre detected the glint of tears in the younger girl's eyes. As for herself, Deirdre frowned in uncomfortable embarrassment at Phoebe's unnecessary cruelty. Unobtrusively, she reached for Alcida's hand and squeezed it in silent sympathy.
"I find it rather discomfiting,” Phoebe went on, “to discover that someone other than myself was the last person to see Clive before his departure for the Peninsula. When he left here, he should have journeyed directly to Portsmouth without stopping in East Sussex."
Deirdre could think of no adequate response to Phoebe's novel notion of what constituted fidelity. And she certainly did not intend to protest that she and Clive had been friends for many years.
"However that might be,” Phoebe said, “I, for one, have no intention of dwelling on lapses of the past.” She brightened slightly. “On Saturday week, Deirdre, we are all invited to a ball at Lord Harmon's to welcome his son Edward Fox, Marquess of Lounsbury—a courtesy title, of course—his only son, by the bye, and therefore heir to Harmon Hall, home after a year spent in the Canadian wilderness. Edward is quite handsome."
"And rather wicked,” Alcida added in a low voice edged with both fear and fascination. “He is reputed to be a rake."
"The tittle-tattle in town has it,” Phoebe went on, ignoring her sister's comment, “that Edward returns to England in search of a suitable wife.” She glanced meaningfully at Deirdre. “Though I suggest you refrain from raising your hopes too high since I rather expect he will settle on someone fro
m the ton with impeccable English antecedents and a fitting position in society. And I feel certain he must be well aware that, while my mother had no reason to marry for money, the same cannot be said for your father."
Conquering her rising anger with difficulty, Deirdre vowed not to give Phoebe the satisfaction of nettling her into a scathing reply.
"I fear I shall have a perfectly dreadful time at the Harmon ball,” Phoebe went on. “I shall not be able to venture onto the floor, no matter how many times I happen to be invited, since my affections are committed to one who is honorably serving his country in distant lands.” She sighed. “Although Edward is said to be a wonderful dancer and I love to dance—there is, in fact, nothing I enjoy more—I shall be forced sit and suffer in silence."
From the little she had learned of Phoebe, Deirdre considered that while her new stepsister might suffer she was unlikely to do so in silence. Again, however, she said nothing.
"I suppose,” Phoebe went on, “I will have to become a second Alcida, a wallflower who spends her time at balls chatting with her mother and the other older ladies while hiding her face behind her fan."
Alcida drew in a sharp breath, seemed to be attempting to gather enough courage to enable her to lash back at her sister. Instead of answering, she whirled around and ran up the stone steps to the terrace and on into the house. Deirdre's simmering anger finally boiled over. “You should be ashamed to speak to Alcida in such a humbling way."
"What right have you to dictate what I say to my own sister?” Phoebe demanded. “Is it possible everyone in this house except myself is reluctant to hear the truth? Are you all afraid? And I thought the Irish were fearless in their primitive way."
Deirdre eyed her steadily. “You might like to think all of us are afraid,” she said, her voice low and intense, “and you might succeed in flustering Alcida, but you will never intimidate me. Never."
Phoebe sniffed and turned away, folding her arms and staring off into the distance. Deirdre, her hands clenched at her sides in anger, swung about and followed Alcida into the house.
As she hurried past the library, she glanced in at the open door and saw the younger girl's image reflected in the looking glass over the fireplace. Alcida, who had been sitting on a couch playing listlessly with a kitten, looked up and saw Deirdre at almost the same time. She immediately lowered her head into her hands.
When Deirdre came to sit beside her, Alcida, without raising her head, said, “This house has so many looking glasses. I counted them once and found there were forty-three. I hate them, every last one of them, all forty-three of them. Wherever I look, I see myself."
Deirdre took Alcida's hands and drew them away from her face. “You have such pretty eyes and such lustrous hair."
Alcida shook her head hopelessly. “I know what I look like and you know what I look like and so does Phoebe and everyone else who meets me.” She nestled the kitten in her arms. “Thank you for taking my part with my sister, but you must not let Phoebe distress you. That is the way she is."
"Phoebe has a very sharp tongue."
"I came down with the smallpox when I was nine,” Alcida said. “For a long time afterward, Phoebe could hardly bear to look at me because of my scars, they distressed her so. Not only that, I think she was angry with me for getting sick. All of us were quarantined and Phoebe had to postpone her birthday party."
"No one falls ill on purpose."
"No, and Phoebe's not the way she is on purpose, either. Sometimes, I admit, she speaks without giving thought to the harm her words might do. I often wonder if being unhappy makes her say all those hurtful things."
"Unhappy? Phoebe?"
The notion startled Deirdre into speechlessness. With her surpassing beauty, how could Phoebe possibly be unhappy? Besides, and more importantly, she had the most felicitous of futures to look forward to since she would soon become Clive's wife. Alcida's explanation, though demonstrating her kindness in seeking an excuse for her sister, was nothing less than preposterous.
"She is unhappy, you know,” Alcida insisted as she placed the kitten on the carpet and then touched Deirdre's arm with tentative fingers. “When Phoebe failed to receive a voucher for Almack's, she cried for two days. As for myself...” She sighed. “If only you could help us, Deirdre, if only you would try."
Deirdre put her hand over Alcida's, reassuringly she hoped, all the while wondering if she could even help herself.
* * * *
Deirdre rode horseback across a dark and silent plain. Death stalked her and she was afraid, more afraid than she had ever been. Without warning, a great light flashed near her, followed by a roar louder than the loudest thunder. Another, closer flash of light almost blinded her, another roar, and another flash, this time threateningly close.
The air around her became acrid, the taste of fear sour in her mouth. A flash brighter than all the rest stunned her, hurling her backwards. She fell down and down and down into oblivion. She opened her eyes and reached out, her fingers scrabbling on loose earth.
Where was her horse? From all around her came the piteous cries of men calling for help. Pain throbbed in her left temple. When she touched her forehead, her hand came away sticky with blood...
Deirdre sat up in bed. The chamber was dark. It was only a dream, she assured herself. There was no blood; she was unharmed. Why, then, did this searing pain not cease, a pain so intense it precluded thought, a pain that forced her to put her hand to her forehead, made her close her eyes in a vain attempt to seek relief?
As the throbbing slowly eased, the pain receding, a different kind of pain pierced her heart. Of a sudden, she realized what her dream meant. Clive! She knew with a dreadful certainty he had been hurt, grievously hurt. If only she could be with him to tend his wounds. There was nothing she could do to help him except clasp her hands and pray.
CHAPTER 4
"Our carriage is ready,” Alcida said from the doorway to Deirdre's bed chamber.
Deirdre nodded, settling her Chinese shawl over her shoulders before leaving the room. As they walked to the top of the curving staircase, she asked, “Where is Phoebe? Did she change her mind about going to Lord Harmon's ball at the last moment?"
Alcida glanced right and left before saying, in a confidential whisper, “If she had her way, Phoebe would be the first to arrive at the ball and the last to leave."
"Alcida! Deirdre!"
They turned to see Phoebe motioning to them from the doorway of her room.
"You must come here at once and look,” Phoebe insisted. “Both of you."
When they entered the bed chamber, Phoebe was posed between a cheval glass and a looking glass on the wall. “How many Phoebes can you count?"
Standing beside her, Deirdre saw their images almost endlessly reflected back and forth between the two mirrors. How beautiful Phoebe looked, in her exquisite lawn gown of light blue, the color perfectly matching her eyes.
The gown featured three satin bands and a fringe of sky blue just above the hem; blue satin braid decorated both the square neck of her bodice and the bands of her puff sleeves. Her light blue velvet head band—decorated with small white roses—contrasted prettily with her blond curls.
"I count eight Phoebes,” Deirdre said, “and each new image seems even lovelier than the one before.” It was no more than the truth.
"La,” Phoebe said with a satisfied smile, “we really must leave, Mother will be most impatient. And as for your father—” But still she lingered to admire her reflections in the two glasses, first touching her hair, then opening and fluttering her fan.
"Your gown flatters you,” she said, glancing at Deirdre. “If only you could do something with your hair to allow the curls to fall properly in a graceful disarray over your brow."
A hasty look in the mirror told Deirdre that her green satin hair ribbon was, as usual, fighting a losing battle to contain her riotous red curls. She did like her gown, though. The dress, of French cambric muslin, was decorated with narrow em
erald-green braid at the high waist, along the bow in the back and just above the hem. The green braid outlining the scoop neck of her bodice accentuated the pale skin of her shoulders and neck. The gown might flatter her, but nothing, she was aware, would turn her into a beauty like Phoebe.
With a last lingering glance into the mirror, Phoebe turned and led the way along the hall and down the curving staircase. As they settled into the carriage beside the obviously impatient elder Darringtons, Phoebe said, “We were admiring one another's gowns."
Sybil smiled affectionately at her elder daughter. “All three of you will turn heads tonight,” she predicted, nodding at Deirdre.
Deirdre, though aware Sybil favored Phoebe, was surprised and gratified by having her stepmother notice her.
"I warrant I shall be quite bored,” Phoebe said, “since I have absolutely no intention of dancing. Even if Edward begs me for a dance, I shall refuse the honor despite his being our host."
Deirdre listened to the wheels of the carriage rattling over the cobbles while Phoebe listed the sacrifices she was forced to make because of her devotion to Clive Chadbourne. Closing her ears to Phoebe's words, she allowed her thoughts to roam, recalling the dispatches in The Morning Post recounting a great victory by Lord Wellington at Vittoria in Spain and reporting that the hated French were in retreat eastward toward the Pyrenees. Beyond the Pyrenees lay France.
There had been, to her consternation, no word as yet either from Clive or about Clive.
If her dreams were truly prophetic, Deirdre assured herself for the hundredth time, Clive had been wounded but, thank God, the dream had shown he was alive. He would, she hoped, be coming back to England, perhaps soon. To Deirdre, his well-being was all-important, the fact that he was returning not to her but to Phoebe mattered little in comparison.
Having almost convinced herself that Clive was safe, she vowed to try her best to enjoy herself at the Harmon's ball. Since this was her first fledgling step into London society, into the world of the ton, she felt a certain trepidation mingled with the excitement of anticipation.