Shadows in the Grass

by Beverley Harper

  He had lingered for too long over her hand, aware suddenly that she was trying to withdraw it. Straightening, he looked into her eyes, noticing for the first time how the grey irises were ringed with a darker shade. ‘Charmed,’ he managed, feeling foolish.

  Lorna inclined her head, expression polite, before turning away.

  The de Ionghs went upstairs, Charlotte’s eyes following, her brother’s doing the same. ‘Damn me, she’s beautiful,’ Dallas whispered.

  ‘What?’ Charlotte was still watching Charles.

  ‘Nothing.’ He shook himself mentally. This will not do. Pull yourself together, man.

  Dallas nudged his sister. ‘Mama is watching you.’

  She threw him a grateful look before turning to greet the next guests. In a lull she whispered, ‘He is so fine a gentleman.’

  ‘Hush, Charlotte. Charles thinks the world of you. Don’t be forward and you will get your wish.’

  Shining eyes confirmed what Dallas already knew – that Charlotte’s admiration for Charles was a reflection of his for her. A match. What’s more, a love match. How lucky they were. If only . . . But no. Lorna could do far better than a fourth son with a courtesy title and few prospects. She was not for him. With an effort he forced himself to pay attention and greet the steady stream of guests.

  At eight-thirty, reception duty was handed over to the butler, who would deal with the tardy few yet to arrive. Lady Pamela Dalrymple and Lady Charlotte moved upstairs to the ballroom to perform their next chore, the introductions. Despite the fact that nearly everyone knew each other, gentlemen wishing to dance with this year’s crop of debutantes needed to be formally introduced.

  Following his mother and sister up the sweeping staircase, Dallas wondered how long Charles and Charlotte would have to hold back before they could acceptably dance together. Not the opening quadrille. His sister would be required to dance with the second-highest ranking guest – probably that odious nephew of Her Majesty. No, they’d have to wait for the second or third waltz or galop. Lorna? He could at least dance with her, it would be expected. Once only, however. Twice and tongues would wag.

  The earl’s job was to make himself available to guests, mainly the older men. To some extent Dallas was required to do likewise while, at the same time, keeping an eye out for any young woman sitting out a dance and going to her rescue.

  When he saw Lady Bloomsdale bearing down on him his heart sank. She was a large woman who resembled a ship with all sails set. She was also the mother of perhaps the most unattractive daughter in the whole of London. Lady Bloomsdale, despite vast estates and wealth, all of which would go to her daughter, Bernice, and in spite of continuous and persistent efforts, had so far failed to find a match for the poor girl. Men, even those in dire financial straits, ran a mile from Lady Bloomsdale’s non-too-subtle approaches. Bernice was now in her mid-twenties and, unless a blind fortune hunter materialised, unlikely to marry. This didn’t stop her mother from trying.

  ‘Lord Acheson,’ she boomed in a foghorn voice. ‘Be a dear and dance with Bernice. I fear her aloofness intimidates young men.’

  There was nothing he could do but comply. Bracing himself against the torture of trying to make conversation with Bernice for perhaps ten minutes – an arduous task indeed since the girl was practically dumb with nerves and inclined to bray at the slightest thing – Dallas did his duty. It was agony. She trod on his foot several times, blushed continuously, answered his questions with barely more than a nod or shake of her head. To make matters worse, nervousness caused her to perspire freely and by the time the waltz was over, both gloves were wet through and disgusting rivulets ran down her face and neck, disappearing inside the scooped décolletage and wetting the bodice of her gown. It felt a bit like holding a damp sponge.

  The music stopping did not put an end to the ordeal. Dallas had to promenade the floor with Bernice on his arm and then inquire if she would care for any refreshment. Thankfully, she said no.

  On returning to the other side of the room – as far from Lady Bloomsdale and her daughter as possible – Dallas joined Lord de Iongh, Charles and Lorna.

  ‘Young Acheson,’ boomed de Iongh. ‘Where’s your damned father, boy?’

  ‘He’s here somewhere, my lord. I glimpsed him in conversation no more than a few minutes ago.’

  ‘Good, good.’

  Conversation with Lord de Iongh inevitably left Dallas feeling he’d missed something vital. ‘Would my lord like me to find him?’

  ‘Eh! No need. Damned fine show.’

  ‘Thank you, my lord.’

  ‘What’s the occasion? The countess did mention it on the way here but I’m damned if I can remember.’

  ‘My sister, my lord.’

  ‘Good God! Is she old enough?’ Lord de Iongh had obviously forgotten greeting Charlotte at the entrance and that she was exactly the same age as his own daughter.

  Dallas answered patiently. ‘Seventeen, my lord.’ Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lorna lean forward to peek at him. When he turned, she dropped her eyes, blushed, and moved back behind her father’s formidable figure.

  ‘Seventeen, eh!’ mused Lord de Iongh. ‘I swear, these young gels grow up too fast these days.’

  ‘I’m sure they do,’ Dallas said, keeping his eyes on where Lorna had disappeared. Sure enough, she couldn’t resist another look, this time accompanied by a tiny smile and slight inclination of the head before leaning back. Dallas returned his full attention to her father.

  ‘ . . . the next thing one knows, one is attending their nuptials.’

  Dallas assumed they were still speaking of Charlotte. ‘No doubt she’ll soon find herself betrothed.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Lord de Iongh’s capacity for social chitchat had been exhausted. He had lost interest and moved swiftly to his favourite topic. ‘Have you heard? That damned Ponsonby has had the temerity to question the queen’s workload. The man is mad. He completely disregards medical advice. Her Majesty has been in delicate health since Albert passed away.’

  ‘Well, Sir William should know best,’ Dallas said cautiously, although privately he was inclined to think that the queen’s personal physician tended to say whatever was demanded of him.

  ‘Damned right, Acheson. Well said.’

  Dallas relaxed. He’d taken a calculated gamble that Lord de Iongh was a royalist and it had worked.

  The older man was staring reflectively into space, hands clasped behind his back, rocking on his heels. Each time he swayed backwards, Dallas caught a tantalising glimpse of Lorna. Next to her portly, florid-faced father, she had the appearance of a delicate flower.

  Lord de Iongh cleared his throat and Dallas wondered if the man would ramble on in defence of the palace and its occupants. He tended to disagree with de Iongh’s beliefs but was too polite to say so. The fact remained, however, that the popularity of Queen Victoria, in fact of the entire royal family, had been waning for several years and public opinion was divided over the cost to the nation of keeping the royals in such grand and opulent style. With the monarch’s reluctance to be seen publicly, and her son, the Prince of Wales, preferring the pursuit of leisure and pleasure, the public believed they were not getting their money’s worth. Republicans, becoming more outspoken, demanded to know exactly how a Civil List costing £385,000 a year could possibly be justified for a queen who was well known for her miserly ways. The Prince of Wales was proving irresponsible, indiscreet, and considered unsuitable as heir apparent to the throne. The Franco-Prussian War had fostered speculation that the monarch sympathised with Germany. William Gladstone, the Prime Minister, was increasingly preoccupied with what he called ‘the royalty question’ – how to convince Queen Victoria to be more available to her public. These days it was difficult to know who favoured the queen and who did not.

  ‘Did you hear about that oaf Dilke’s speech in Newcastle?’ Lord de Iongh asked suddenly, his ruddy face taking on an expression of contempt.

  Dallas, clearly
at a disadvantage since he knew nothing about it, could only shake his head.

  ‘Suggested that royalty cost the nation a million pounds a year. A million! What rubbish. Even went so far as to call it a mischief.’

  ‘That’s outrageous, sir.’

  The older man leaned towards Dallas, a conspiratorial look on his face. ‘The queen has asked for four hundred pounds a year for John Brown.’ While his loyalty to the throne was not in doubt, Lord de Iongh, like most others in the land, had come to dislike the man who had started out as a stableboy at Balmoral, been promoted to gillie by the queen and Prince Consort, then, in 1864, elevated again to become the queen’s Highland servant. Brown offended everyone with his brusqueness and the fact that, since her beloved husband’s death, he and he alone enjoyed the queen’s total attention. It was even rumoured that she had secretly married the man. No-one else dared speak to Her Majesty like Brown. He had been overheard on one occasion disapproving her attire. ‘What’s this ye’ve got on today, wumman?’

  Derisive talk about John Brown was a favourite pastime for those privy to the comings and goings of the queen’s household. The man’s influence over the monarch was such that she used him to convey messages to those who had previously enjoyed access to her.

  Dallas secretly approved of the rough-and-ready Brown. He rather hoped that the Scotsman had indeed found his way into Victoria’s bed – it might relieve her sour countenance. Such feelings, however, could not be disclosed to Lord de Iongh. ‘His responsibilities are great, my lord,’ Dallas responded, adding quickly at Lord de Iongh’s expression of disapproval, ‘though not, I fear, as great as his affections for his influence over Her Majesty.’

  He was rewarded with a bark of approving laughter. ‘Damn me, Acheson, you’d make a fine politician.’

  Dallas could at last move off the subject without appearing rude. ‘With your permission, my lord, may I ask the Lady Lorna for a dance?’

  ‘Certainly,’ de Iongh said jovially. ‘If indeed my daughter has room on her card.’ He turned away to speak to someone else and Dallas found himself face-to-face with Lorna.

  ‘If a dance is acceptable, my lady, it would be my honour.’

  Her brother, oblivious of his friend’s sudden interest in Lorna, laughed. ‘She’s been saving a space for someone, haven’t you, sis?’

  Lorna frowned at him. ‘Not really. I don’t see why I should accept every offer.’

  Dallas raised an eyebrow. ‘Who’s the lucky man? I shall challenge him immediately.’

  She giggled, remembered her manners, fluttered an ornate fan and consulted the dance card in an effort to hide her embarrassment. At seven, Lorna had told her governess that one day she would marry Lord Dallas Acheson, not understanding the response received as to why she couldn’t. At twelve, though aware of the intricate do’s and don’t’s of just who would make her a suitable husband, Lorna still had a secret crush on Lord Dalrymple’s fourth son and she was flustered by the gleam of attraction she now saw in his eyes. There was one space left on her card. She showed it to Dallas. ‘There.’

  His eyebrows rose in mock surprise. ‘Only one?’

  ‘I think, sir, that one should be sufficient.’

  He bowed over her hand hiding a smile. ‘Then one will have to do. I shall count the minutes until then.’

  Lorna only just managed not to smile with delight. Nodding gracefully, she moved a step closer to her father.

  Charles, thinking Dallas was teasing his sister, said in an undertone, ‘She still has the devil of a temper, old chap. She’s taking this season so seriously. If you mock her too much you’re liable to end up on the receiving end.’

  Even though Charles was a close friend, Dallas could not tell him his true feelings. Instead he pulled a face and turned the conversation. ‘Can you believe how grown up the two of them are?’

  The other looked momentarily embarrassed, cleared his throat and ran a finger around the stiff dress-shirt collar. ‘Your sister has become quite beautiful.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Dallas agreed.

  ‘Ah . . . Then you know how I feel about her, don’t you, old chap?’

  ‘I have noticed your eyes develop bovine characteristics whenever she enters a room.’

  Charles responded with a sickly smile. ‘I’ll speak to Lord Dalrymple, of course.’

  ‘I’d advise you to speak to Charlotte first,’ Dallas said with a grin.

  ‘Indeed.’ Charles gave a nervous cough. ‘If I call on her, will she receive me do you think?’

  ‘Last week I’d have said yes but she’s a woman now.’ Dallas shrugged. ‘Far be it from me to speak for her.’ Then, taking pity on his friend’s desperate expression, added, ‘At a guess, I’d still say the same.’

  Charles, relieved, went off in search of Charlotte. Lorna turned back to him and Dallas gave her a dazzling smile. ‘May I be permitted to say how fetching your gown is?’

  ‘Thank you.’ A flush rose to her cheeks.

  ‘When are you returning to Edinburgh?’

  ‘Mama wants to leave next week.’

  ‘So soon!’

  Lorna pouted slightly. ‘Everyone I know will stay until the grouse season opens. It really is too bad of Mama to leave so early.’ She fluttered her fan and inclined her head to someone nearby. ‘Charlotte is staying on, I understand?’

  Flashes of the child were still there, for which Dallas was grateful. With his interest aroused, it would be so easy to flirt. ‘Why don’t you see if you can stay with us? I’m sure your mama would allow it.’

  Lorna’s face brightened. ‘What a wonderful idea. I shall speak to Charlotte at dinner.’ She looked at him boldly. ‘Will you be here?’

  The fact that she returned the attraction he felt for her was not lost on Dallas. But what was the point? Both his family and hers would quickly forbid the development of a relationship destined to go nowhere. ‘Alas, no. Papa wants me in Scotland to assist with preparations for this year’s pheasants. Will you be accompanying your parents to Tayside this year?’

  She hid her disappointment well. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then I look forward to seeing you there.’

  Music started for the galop and the next young man on Lorna’s card appeared and bore her away.

  A week later, only Dallas and Lady de Iongh travelled north by train. Lord de Iongh asked if Dallas would be so kind as to accompany his wife in their carriage. ‘Her wretched maid is ill. God knows why she has to go now – says it’s something to do with a church fete. Works too damned hard on charitable affairs if you ask me.’ Lord de Iongh was clearly uninterested in his wife’s reasons for cutting short the London season, merely vexed that he had to find a suitable travelling companion for her. Both Charles and Lorna would be spending several more weeks in London. The earl, having pressing political reasons for staying, was only making a brief return to Scotland for the start of pheasant shooting on the first day of October.

  With Lady Dalrymple looking after Lorna as well as Charlotte and Lord Dalrymple’s gout playing up, Dallas was the only one Lord de Iongh felt he could reasonably ask to travel with his wife.

  Dallas, as was expected of him, courteously agreed. At least it would be company and he knew she played beggar-my-neighbour tolerably well, a welcome relief on the tediously long trip.

  He was pleased to be leaving London. Dallas had been expected to escort Lorna to any function to which she had no-one to accompany her. It was a week of hell. At times he felt that his attraction to Lorna would burst from him. A chaste peck on the cheek in greeting or farewell had him burning to hold her.

  In lucid moments, Dallas told himself his feelings were caused by wanting something he knew he couldn’t have. By the time he boarded the train with Lady de Iongh, he’d managed to convince himself that Lorna was no more than the friend he’d always known. He was glad of that. To sit with her mother for twelve hours harbouring passionate emotions for Lorna would have been intolerable.

  As they waved goodbye, D
allas actually felt quite proud of his restraint. It was the honourable thing to do. He was a gentleman. His conscience was clear.

  He did not anticipate the bottle of wine and two glasses produced from a travelling basket as soon as the train gathered speed.

  ‘The trip is so dreary,’ Lady de Iongh explained. ‘Join me.’

  She kept Dallas off-balance and uncertain for several hours. She would lean forward to tap his knee with her fan, then sit back with a small frown. She introduced several topics not normally discussed in polite conversation, retreating modestly if he responded in kind but persisting when Dallas appeared unsure how to react. Playing cards, her fingers brushed his several times although she appeared not to notice. With darkness falling outside, Dallas was both aroused and scared. He had no idea what Lady de Iongh was up to or even if she intended anything at all.

  In his limited experience, Dallas had met three kinds of women with two modes of behaviour. Either they did or they didn’t. It was as simple as that. Those who didn’t were to be treated with due regard for their virtuous natures. Those who did either worked in establishments operating specifically for that purpose or they openly accosted one in the street. The third kind was more difficult to read. Bored high-born wives looking for a diversion. Alison de Iongh was blurring the boundaries. He was uncertain what she wanted of him.

  He was definitely not expecting a second bottle of wine.

  ‘I do so hate to drink alone.’ With one hand she opened her bodice slightly. ‘I feel the heat terribly. Wine is so refreshing. Here.’

  Unwisely, he held out his glass.

  She steadied his hand with hers, laughing gaily. ‘This wretched train shakes so.’

  Dallas sipped sparingly but Lady de Iongh quaffed hers. ‘I hope you don’t mind, Dallas, I’m developing a headache. I must let my hair out.’ With that, she stood, removed several silver combs, and tresses, gold and curly, tumbled free. ‘That’s better,’ she breathed, tossing her head.