by Jane Toombs
Deirdre, shocked, glanced sharply at Alcida. “Where did you come by such an idea?"
Alcida lowered her voice. “Do you promise to say nothing to Mama?"
"I promise,” Deirdre assured her.
"The notion springs not from anything I am aware that Edward has actually done or attempted to do, although his reputation is not of the best, but from the monstrous actions of the villain in The Secret Crypt of Octavio, the novel I finished late last night. The heroine becomes entombed in Octavio's family burial vault and only escapes Octavio's unwanted attentions when she, quite by chance, turns the head of the griffin and thus opens the secret door to the passageway leading to the house. I often notice striking similarities between the characters in novels and the people I meet. As though the book was a mirror reflecting life."
Deirdre shook her head. “The novels I read invariably have the happiest of endings while life often disappoints with either a tragic conclusion or no real conclusion at all."
"If we fail to stop Phoebe from pursuing this flirtation with Edward,” Alcida said, “her story will certainly have an unhappy ending. And Clive's as well."
"And what precisely do you suggest?"
"That you strongly encourage Edward's attentions."
Deirdre stared at her. “Do you seriously think I should—"
"Hear me out. I think you must agree that Phoebe is in love with Clive, otherwise she would never have consented to marry him. Now, however, she has more than a few doubts both because of Clive's wound, which will result in a terrible scar"—Alcida slid her hand over her own pock-marked face—"and also because he behaves so strangely, so unlike the man she agreed to marry. Do you agree?"
Deirdre nodded.
"Clive is in love with Phoebe,” Alcida went on, “otherwise he would never have asked her to marry him. Since his return to England, though, he has a great many doubts of his own for reasons as yet unclear. Vincent—Dr. Leicester—expects him to recover, to become much the same person he was before he suffered his injury. So what we must do is give the two lovers an opportunity to become acquainted again. The main obstacle appears to be Edward. To my way of thinking, my sister believes Edward has feelings of tenderness for her."
"And yet, as you see it, he has no intention of ever marrying Phoebe."
"No, not Phoebe, not anyone. Edward is a rake comparable to the evil Mr. Lovelace in Clarissa. If you recall, after ravishing the heroine, he was killed in a duel with his best friend."
Deirdre, remembering her time with Edward in the park, was about to demur since he certainly had not played the rake with her. Yet she had to admit she hardly knew him. And, as Alcida and others had told her, his reputation suggested he was considerably less than a paragon.
"Therefore,” Alcida said, “someone must distract Edward to give Phoebe the opportunity to accept Clive for a second time. Edward has, of course, scant interest in me. In any case, I have never acquired the knack of attracting a man. That leaves you, Deirdre, especially as both Vincent and I have noted the attention he pays you. When Phoebe played ‘Jamie Douglas,’ we both became aware of Edward watching you, not my sister."
Deirdre shook her head, both to spurn Alcida's suggestion and in disbelief at her suggestion that Edward had had shown an interest in her. “What you suggest is quite impossible. I am not an accomplished flirt and even if I were, I could never bring myself to flirt with Edward."
"Oh, but you have to try. Surely you could never forgive yourself if you consigned Phoebe to the sad fate of becoming the innocent prey to Edward's wicked advances, being first disgraced and then cast aside, causing Clive to die of a broken heart. Which is very nearly what happened to the two lovers in the Turquoise Tower Of Broadnanger Belfry."
"A most unlikely occurrence,” Deirdre protested.
"Perhaps, yet do you have a better plan?” Alcida slanted a sideways glance at Deirdre. “Since, I believe, you do wish to do all in your power to help Clive."
"Of course I do!” Making up her mind in a rush, Deirdre said, “It might succeed, your notion just might help Clive."
Alcida nodded vigorously. “And there can be no better occasion for putting our scheme to the test than Lord Harmon's alfresco party."
"An alfresco party? At Edward's father's country house?” This was the first Deirdre had heard of it.
"Every year we attend an October picnic and go nutting on the grounds of Lord Harmon's house on the banks of the Thames. While the rest of us are engrossed in gathering walnuts, you and Edward, I hope, will be engaged in quite a different diversion."
CHAPTER 8
Deirdre, alone in the chill of the night, hearing the seductive rise and fall of the music, pressed her face against the cold window glass to watch the fashionably-dressed dancers inside the chandelier-lit ballroom. She watched as they came together, clasping hands above their heads, then part only to come together once more.
Clive, handsome and unscarred, danced with Phoebe who was beautiful in a pale blue gown, her blond ringlets framing her lovely, smiling face. Suddenly Clive glanced at the window and, although he gave no sign, Deirdre knew he had seen her. The dance ended. As Deirdre turned away into the night, the door to the ballroom opened, Clive stepped out onto the terrace and peered into the surrounding darkness.
"Deirdre!” he called.
At first she hesitated, but then she stepped from the shadows into the oblong of light on the terrace. Clive smiled, holding out his hand to her, urging her to come to him. After a brief moment of indecision, she started forward.
"No!” The man's voice came from behind her. Deirdre swung around and saw Edward standing at the edge of the terrace, a long-barreled pistol in his hand. Clive strode toward him.
She screamed, ran toward the two men, intending to fling herself between them. The pistol flashed, and she heard its ear-shattering roar. Clive staggered backward, one hand clutching his forehead. Blood oozed from between his fingers. Murmuring her name, he seemed to recover, reaching toward her, only to pitch forward onto the stones where he lay unmoving.
A sob burst from Deirdre's throat.
Edward calmly reloaded his pistol, then aimed it across Clive's fallen body. At her. He meant to kill her! For a moment she stood frozen, then, with a cry of terror, she turned and ran down the stone steps, impeded by her skirt, ran across the dew-damp grass, surrounded by the sweet scent of the roses. She could hear Edward pursuing her, his footsteps coming closer and closer.
Looking over her shoulder, she saw his dark silhouette against the light from the ballroom. Her foot caught and she sprawled onto the grass. Rolling over, she looked up and saw the half-moon scudding between dark clouds. Edward loomed over her, moonlight glinting from the silver barrel of his pistol. The only sound was the rasp of her breath, her terrified heart pounding so loud she wondered if he could hear it.
Edward knelt at her side, his actions slow and deliberate, and, as she shrank away from him, he leaned to her, gripped her by the shoulders and...
Deirdre woke with a start and sat up in bed, her entire body trembling from the terror of the dream. It was only an ordinary dream, not a foreseeing dream, she consoled herself. Only a dream. Not a vision, only a meaningless, although terrifying, dream.
She looked around her and saw the pale rectangle of the window, telling her it was almost morning. Today they would drive to Harmon Hall, Lord Harmon's country house, and tomorrow she would picnic along the Thames. With Edward.
She shuddered, but almost immediately shook her head to dispel her fears. She had naught to fear from Edward, he meant her no harm, she assured herself; her dream signified nothing, nothing at all.
As Deirdre, Phoebe, Alcida, and Deirdre's father and stepmother left the Darrington town house in the chill of an October morning to start their journey, Deirdre became aware of an elderly couple—evidently residents of the neighborhood since she had occasionally seen them strolling in the park—walking along the opposite side of the street.
In the past,
they had taken no notice of her. Today they stared. Not at the Darrington party, not at Phoebe, which strangers, struck by her beauty, were wont to do, but at her. As Deirdre watched, the woman turned to her companion and spoke in a low voice. He nodded in vigorous agreement.
"Are they acquaintances of yours?” Alcida asked, her curiosity evidently piqued.
"They are not,” Deirdre told her. “In fact, I have never spoken so much as a word to either of them."
"How rudely they look at you,” Phoebe said. “They have the same gaping stares as the children seeing the elephant in the menagerie for the first time. And they must be approaching their allotted three score and ten at the very least."
"Girls, we must be on our way,” called Sybil who was already seated in the traveling chaise.
"That elderly gentleman,” Phoebe said, “gives every indication of wanting to cross the street and—” At a loss for what she expected to him to do, she paused and added, somewhat lamely, “and I know not what. Does he intend to question you? To sing your praises?"
"Since I have never met him,” Deirdre said, “I intend to ignore him."
Entering the chaise, she sat across from her father. After a few moments she heard the coachman's whip crack and they started forward, rattling over the cobbles on their way to Harmon Hall. Before they turned onto Oxford Street
, Deirdre glanced behind her and saw the couple staring after their carriage. After her, she was certain.
How strange, she told herself, feeling both puzzled and vaguely upset. Was it possible, she wondered, that they had mistaken her for someone else? Perhaps she reminded them of an old friend. However, after their carriage stopped to pay the toll at the Edgeware Road
turnpike and they left London behind, she forgot about the incident.
Her father, looking from the window at the overcast sky, shook his head. “Lord Harmon may well be forced to either forego or postpone his picnic this year."
"For five consecutive years,” Sybil told Deirdre, “the weather has been quite delightful during the week Phoebe, Alcida, and I spent at Lord Harmon's.” She shook her head. “This year, I fear the worst."
Deirdre noticed that a herd of cows in a pasture beside the road had clustered together with their heads facing away from the wind. “A sure sign of rain within twenty-four hours,” her grandmother had often warned her.
"If rain comes, we shall have our picnic indoors,” Phoebe said. “In fact I prefer the indoors, particularly at Harmon Hall with its many amenities. Did you know that as a nation becomes civilized, its people tend to center their lives indoors rather than out?"
"She must have read that in a book,” Alcida whispered to Deirdre.
"I heard what you said, Alcida,” Phoebe told her, “and it was not from a book, it happens to be my own observation. It came to mind because only last week Edward told me of some of his fascinating experiences living with the Iroquois Indian tribe, describing how they hunt and fish in the wilderness. The Indians are certainly a primitive people while we, who spend most of our time indoors, are most assuredly civilized."
"And you, Deirdre,” Alcida asked. “Which do you prefer?"
"The out-of-doors without a doubt!” she said with a vehemence that surprised her. As Alcida and Phoebe chattered on, she settled back and closed her eyes, recalling her rides with Clive across the heath, their many rambles in Ashdown Forest.
"Clive."
Phoebe's mention of Clive startled her from her reverie. “He expects to accompany Dr. Leicester to Harmon Hall,” Phoebe went on. “They hope to arrive tomorrow in time for the picnic."
"I observe little change in young Chadbourne,” Roger Darrington said. “I hope and pray he recovers soon."
"The country air,” Sybil said, “cannot help but have a salubrious effect on whatever it is that ails him."
"I greatly fear that he requires more than a breeze off the Thames to cure him.” Roger shook his head sadly. “But what it is he does require, I have no notion, none at all."
At the first mention of Clive's malaise, Phoebe turned her head away to stare from the carriage window. Only when the subject lapsed did she turn to Deirdre. “The Harmon estate is nothing short of magnificent. The cost must have been enormous."
"One of England's great country houses,” Roger said. “Dr. Johnson and his Boswell are only two of the many visitors who began journeying there almost from the day it was completed."
"And in time,” Phoebe said with what Deirdre took to be a wistful tone, “all of Harmon Hall will belong to Edward, the only son and heir."
Alcida glanced at Deirdre, her raised eyebrows clearly saying, “You can see what interests my sister. If you care for Clive and his happiness, you must discover a way to discourage her interest in Edward."
They passed through the gates to Harmon Hall in mid-afternoon and drove along a curving avenue, driving past a water wagon laying the dust. As they crossed a stone bridge whose three arches gracefully spanned a man-made lake, Deirdre was surprised to see, to her right and so near the lake that it was reflected in the placid waters, the white marble columns of a domed Grecian temple. For some unexplained reason, Deirdre felt a shiver of apprehension raise gooseflesh on her arms.
"The Harmon Pantheon,” Phoebe said.
Once beyond the bridge, they entered a grove of ancient oaks and, when they came from under the trees, Deirdre gasped as she saw, across a wide expanse of open park land and lawn, the magnificent house, a building in the style of classical Greece with a matched pair of stone steps leading up to the splendor of a portico whose six columns supported a pediment on top of which stood the statues of three gods—Venus in the center, representing beauty and fertility, flanked by Ceres, goddess of the harvest, and Bacchus, the god of wine.
The exterior of Harmon Hall was magnificent, awesome and, Deirdre thought, rather overwhelming. When Edward led their party through the house, she found the interior, considered the greatest of Robert Adam's many achievements, built on a grand scale with exquisite taste—yet more of a museum than a family residence.
The centerpiece of the Harmon country house was the great Marble Hall whose alabaster columns rose more than twenty-five feet above the floor, a room without the distraction of windows—almost the entire ceiling was given over to a skylight—a room with the busts of English kings and queens set in niches on all four walls.
On the east side of the Marble Hall the drawing room, music room, and the library represented the arts of painting, music, and literature, while the dining room and the bedchamber reserved for visiting royalty were on the west side. Two semi-detached wings were connected to main part of the house by corridors with the kitchen wing on one side and the family and guest wing on the other.
The chapel, greenhouse, stables, carriage house, and the Pantheon, Edward told them, were all located nearby on the extensive grounds, shielded from the main house by trees. Other smaller structures included the fishing house and the boathouse, both on the Thames, and both a half mile from the main house.
Harmon Hall took Deirdre's breath away. She had never imagined that such splendor existed, much less that she would be invited to such a country house as a friend of the family. Even as her sense of awe began to recede, she realized how tempted Phoebe must be by the attentions of Edward, the man who would one day be master of this vast domain. The opportunity to be the mistress of Harmon Hall would tempt almost anyone.
Does it tempt me? Deirdre asked herself that night as she lay in an ornate four-poster bed in her mauve bedchamber. She had always considered herself to be but little interested in possessions, had always considered the character of a person to be infinitely more important than what he happened to own. No, she had not changed, she decided as she slipped into sleep, while she admired the house's beauty she had not been swayed by the opulence of Harmon Hall.
In the morning, Deirdre was drawing on her long pink gloves when there came a tapping at the door and Alcida entered.
"I quite approve of
your gown,” Alcida said, “with one reservation."
Deirdre wore an afternoon dress of white lawn with puff sleeves and a deep vee décolletage modified by a lace-edged pink silk insert. Embroidery decorated the pink silk band at the dress's hemline.
"And that is?” Deirdre asked.
Looking about her, Alcida saw Deirdre's sewing basket, rummaged inside and brought forth a pair of scissors. Before Deirdre knew what she intended, Alcida began snipping at the stitches holding the pink silk insert at the neckline of her gown.
"What are you doing?” Deirdre demanded as she hastily drew away.
"I intend to do for you exactly what the innocent heroine of The Rake's Reward did for herself. I mean to change you from a demure young country miss into a sophisticated enchantress."
"And the removal of an insert will accomplish such a miraculous transformation?"
"It cannot fail to help."
Even as Deirdre shook her head, Alcida advanced on her, scissors in hand. “I must,” she said, “for now your insert hangs askew.” She cut the remaining stitches and held up the triangle of silk in triumph. “You look quite—quite daring."
As Deirdre turned to the looking glass, the resonant bong of a bell told them the time had come for the guests to gather in the drawing room. She stared unhappily at her revealing décolletage while Alcida tugged at her arm.
"Come,” Alcida said, “we must leave for the picnic at once."
Deirdre reached for her pink silk paisley shawl, drawing it around her shoulders and covering the deep vee between her breasts. Unfortunately, she could hardly clutch the shawl in such an unbecoming manner without causing comment. Sighing, she draped it properly over her arms.
"Hurry,” Alcida urged from the doorway.
Deirdre had imagined the picnic being a casual affair, had pictured a short stroll from the house to the park land where the picnickers would serve themselves to simple country fare from tablecloths spread on the grass.