A Lady in Love

by Cynthia Bailey Pratt

  “Tell them you dropped the jug while washing your face. You won't throw the water over him? After all, he has caused you, if not disappointment, at least some anxiety of mind.”

  Sarah shook her head, saddened that she could not bring herself to perform the first action he'd asked of her. But how could she possibly soak Harmonia's carpet?

  “No?” He took the blue-and-white jug from her hands. “Very well. Hop up into bed. Miss East, and pull the curtains close around.”

  Though she obeyed him, Sarah could not help peeking through a chink in the hangings. “Are you really going to do it?” she whispered. “How can you?”

  “Oh, I've awakened many an over-due soldier this way, Miss East. One ... two ... three!”

  Like a whale's spout, a wave broke upon the unhappy sleeper. The carpet, if not awash, was at least as damp as the rocks by the surf. Sputtering and coughing, portly Lord Dudley sat up paddling at his face. “I say ... I say!” he said.

  “Wrong room,” Alaric said, in a surprisingly gentle tone, putting the jug down on the dressing table.

  “Eh?”

  “Wrong room.”

  “Oh, oh, quite, old man. Quite. Good-night.” He had some trouble steering for the door, but Alaric caught his arm and showed him out. As he himself left, Alaric paused and looked back.

  “You'd better ring for a maid to clear this up.”

  “Lord Reyne!”

  “I cannot stay. Miss East. I am not foxed. My presence here would be impossible to explain, with you looking like that.”

  “I only wanted to tell you ...” No, she could not tell him what her heart truly felt for him. “Thank you.”

  “Good-night, Miss East.” He bowed and left, closing the door to Harmonia's room with a soft snick.

  The maid had the carpet dry, at least to the eye, by the time Harmonia came up. Nevertheless, Sarah apologized for the “accident.” Her friend dismissed it. “Oh, it isn't important. Mother's been wanting to change this room around for a month. What do you suppose the odds are she'll pick blue again? She always declares against it and then chooses it anyway.”

  Sarah helped her friend with the laces at the back of her gown. “Is Jessica going to be sleeping with us?”

  “Heavens, I don't know. She's still flirting with that fellow.”

  “Which fellow?”

  “He's an officer, I think, out of uniform. I wish they wouldn't come in civilian clothes. How are we to tell them from ordinary men?” Harmonia turned and caught her friend's hands. “What did you think of Harlow?”

  “He seems a very pleasant man,” Sarah said, without any clear idea of who she was approving. Had Sir Arthur and Lady Phelps found themselves another son?

  “Then you forgive him for spilling that punch on you? I told him you never could stay angry very long. You should have seen how you looked when ...” Harmonia laughed.

  “You've already begun to call him ‘Harlow'?”

  With a dismissive gesture, Harmonia stood up. “I don't believe in standing on ceremony. Not when he is only to stay with us two weeks.”

  “Two weeks? Will the entire party leave?”

  “I imagine they will. It's not very exciting here, as we both know. Once the hunting's over, they'll be off. Are you ready for sleep?”

  The two girls got into the large soft bed, caps properly on their heads, and laid the blanket over them, tight up to the arms. Harmonia chattered drowsily for a bit about Mr. Atwood. Sarah tried to attend, though her thoughts wandered to Lord Reyne. Eventually, though, as the chimes sounded for two o'clock, Harmonia's voice hushed into sleep. Listening to the deep, low breathing, Sarah tried to let that sound carry her away.

  It was no use. “Two weeks” sounded in her head. The very tick of the clock seemed to repeat the words. He would leave. She had only this time, a brief fortnight, to spend with Lord Reyne. Then, he'd be gone away for the winter. It was doubtful he'd ever come again. He was no great friend of Harvey's to come for frequent visits.

  She might, of course, meet him again in London, but as her mother had reminded her, the Season was a long way off. Six months. Anything could happen in six months. He might even marry.

  Turning her pillow, Sarah laid her cheek against the cool smoothness of the linen case. Her resolve was complete. In the next two weeks, she must spend every possible moment with Lord Reyne. Let the neighbors say what they would. Sarah was determined. He'd seen the sort of girl she truly was. The sort who made England great.

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  * * *

  Chapter Four

  Sarah rose early for breakfast. For a moment, she hesitated on the threshold of the dining room. No one else sat there. Certainly not the one person she most wanted to see. Perhaps Lord Reyne hadn't come down yet. Or perhaps he didn't eat breakfast, though she could hardly imagine such a thing. “Good morning, Smithers. Am I the first?”

  “Yes, Miss Sarah. May I tempt you with some eggs? Or Mrs. Smithers has done a very nice piece of gammon. And there's haddock, porridge, and toast.”

  “It all smells wonderful. I'll have some of everything.”

  Smithers respectfully served her, not forgetting the three kinds of jam and her tea. Sarah thanked him with a smile and sat down to wait. The hour grew later, and her food colder.

  One by one, the rest of the family and guests trickled in. The butler and the footmen were kept busy exchanging plates, filling glasses, and ordering the table for the next influx. When Harold and Harcourt arrived at quarter to eleven, they immediately sat down next to Sarah.

  “Did you enjoy your evening, Sarah? My heart burned with jealousy every time you danced with another!”

  “Oh, yes, I enjoyed it very well. Thank you, Harold.”

  “I can't believe that ass Atwood spilled a drink all down your ... um ... gown.” Harcourt laughed at the memory.

  “Please, let's not talk about that.” She winced just thinking of it. Her discomfort increased when Lord Dudley rolled in with a pale face. He shuddered delicately when Smithers offered kippers. Accepting a glass of water, he sat down across from Sarah and hung his head between his hands. His only participation in the morning table-talk was an occasional groan.

  Harmonia bounded into the room twenty minutes later, closely followed by Mr. Atwood. “You were right not to go,” she said to him. “I'm certain the morning mist would have done your throat no good at all.”

  He gave a slight cough in answer, like a sheep about to give his first public speech. “Just a trifle of milk-toast, if you please,” he said to the butler.

  Catching his brother's eye, Harold nodded significantly. Not troubling to lower his voice, Harcourt replied, “I said he is an ass.”

  Harmonia shot them both a glance of disdain, and her tone when she spoke again held unaccustomed mildness. “Come and sit out of the draft, Mr. Atwood.” With the gentleman settled into the chair at the head of the table, Harmonia consented once more to notice the others present. “My goodness, Sarah, I was surprised to see you up so early. Did you sleep at all?”

  “Why, yes.”

  “You couldn't have told it by me. You were so restless all night long.”

  Knowing the boys were casting worried glances at her, Sarah said, “I'm sure you're mistaken, Harmonia. I slept excellently. Truly, I did.”

  “I'll wager you shouldn't have eaten the ham in the refreshments. It was much too greasy and never should have been served,” Harmonia said. Across the table. Lord Dudley groaned. “I shall speak to Mrs. Smithers about it.”

  Beside her, Harold fervently grasped Sarah's hand. “You must take care of yourself. So delicate a blossom ...”

  “Oh, Harold,” she said, wiggling her hand free. “I never even touched the ham.”

  “Besides, it couldn't have been better. I ate half a dozen slices and slept like a top.” Harcourt drew his brows down as Lord Dudley muttered something. “I say, what's the matter with you? Lifted two or three too many? You should have gone out with my broth
er and Lord Reyne. Nothing like a good gallop to rid a fellow of the collywobbles!”

  Lord Dudley rose unsteadily to his feet and weaved his way out of the room. Harcourt laughed. “Thought that'd get rid of him. Can't have a death's-head at breakfast—it's un-English!”

  “Where did Harvey go?” Sarah asked. She'd sat here for nothing. Lord Reyne was already gone out. She pushed her plate away, suddenly not the least hungry, even if her food had not lost all its appetizing quality long ago.

  “Oh, there's a pair of horses he's wild to buy, and he took some of the more sporting fellows over to examine ‘em.” Harcourt became aware that Harold scowled at him. He frowned back, purely on general principles, until a thought occurred. Hastily, he added, “That's Harvey all over. Spending money he don't have on horses he don't need.”

  It hurt him to say such things about his revered brother, but he'd heard once that the end justifies the means. Sarah couldn't fall in love with anyone but himself. It was unthinkable.

  Harmonia, however, couldn't let this insult go unchallenged. “What nonsense!” she said. “You know Harvey's last pair were touched in the wind.”

  “That's just what I mean. Who told him to buy those old nags anyway? Even I knew what to expect. I mean to say, they were deuced narrow in the chest.”

  “Well,” Harold said offensively, “if you found it obvious, anybody should have seen it.”

  Sarah broke into this infant argument. “Where did they go to see these new horses?”

  “Brocklebury. And another thing ...”

  “Oh, I see.” Lord Reyne would be gone most of the day. Sarah excused herself, unheard amidst the Phelps children's brangle, and went upstairs to gather her belongings. Halfway through her packing. Lady Phelps came in to help her.

  “Are you going so soon, my dear?” Lady Phelps asked, gathering Sarah's brush and comb. “Why not stay to luncheon? We've hardly had a moment to talk. And I know Harriet is longing for a good coze with you.”

  Smiling, Sarah refused Lady Phelps’ invitation. Talking to Harriet, who had never been a particular friend, could not be considered a substitute for the sight of Lord Reyne. Besides, Harriet's conversation revolved solely around the myriad perfections of Mr. Randolph and young Harpocrates. Sarah now had her own standard of perfection, and she knew she'd be unable to keep from mentioning Lord Reyne's name. At home, she could wander in the woods, thinking of him without interruption.

  As Lady Phelps escorted Sarah to the front door, she invited her to a picnic she'd arranged to entertain her guests next week.

  Sarah agreed immediately. “Excellent!” Lady Phelps replied. “Shall I send Harvey over to fetch you on Thursday?”

  “No, thank you. Not unless it's wet.”

  “If it's wet, we shan't have a picnic, silly girl.”

  “Then you won't need to send Harvey,” Sarah said, smiling at Lady Phelps’ joke. She'd been walking over to Hollytrees in all weather for years, and Lady Phelps knew it well. Thanking her for her kindness, Sarah's words were drowned by a raucous huzzah from out-of-doors.

  “What in the world ... ?” Lady Phelps asked, hastening forward. All the younger and spryer male guests, with Harcourt and Harold frowning in the forefront, waited on the steps of Hollytrees. Addressing her sons, she asked, “Are you going to play a game?”

  “No, Mother. We are walking Sarah home.”

  “What? All of you?”

  “Not ideally,” Harold replied. “But it seems to have turned out that way.”

  “Really,” Sarah said, addressing the assembled gentlemen in a tiny voice. “It's very kind of you, but I ...”

  A man stepped up and offered her his arm, to a chorus of cheers. “Permit me. Miss East.”

  “Gallant Sir Francis,” some wit called in a falsetto voice.

  “Thank you,” Sarah said, awkwardly shifting her brown-paper parcel to her other side. Sir Francis had an abundance of dark, curling hair and a definite dimple in his well-tanned cheek. Sarah turned a look of dismay on Lady Phelps.

  Meeting Sarah's gaze, she coughed and said, “Then, I needn't worry anything will happen to you. Good morning, my dear. Tell your mother I shall come to see her tomorrow afternoon.”

  Sir Francis proudly led Sarah through the cluster of her admirers and proceeded to be charming. He had to speak rather loudly to be heard above the rattle of twenty Hessian boots all striking the road at the same time. Sarah nodded and tried to smile, but the effort lost all pretense of reality when she chanced to lift her head. At the end of the road, by the double gates, sat a man on horseback.

  Her escort stopped, more or less as one. “I say, Reyne,” Sir Francis drawled, “back so soon? The bits of blood not worth the trouble, I suppose.”

  “I decided not to accompany Mr. Phelps.” Alaric cast a look over the younger men assembled before him. “I've seen less elegant turnouts in the Guards, gentlemen. If you ever decide to join the militia, do let me know. Though I misdoubt me you'll ever again find such a charming commander.” He touched two fingers to the brim of his hat and bent slightly forward in the saddle, his glance falling on Sarah.

  She felt the embarrassment she'd undergone at the first sight of the young men had been worthwhile if that same sight made Lord Reyne laugh. A smile of rare radiance lit her face. It remained there all the time she walked home, leading Sir Francis to think himself a devil of a buck.

  Fortunately for Sarah's peace of mind, her mother and Lady Phelps had always maintained a steady traffic between their households. Rarely in me history of their friendship had a day passed without some child trudging back and forth with a note or jar of jam or skein of silk. The only change in this routine was that Sarah could now be found immediately whenever her mother had a small commission for Hollytrees, instead of having to be searched for. This eagerness to be of service continued, despite the dangers Sarah found in the journey.

  The difficulties were lessened by Harmonia's loss of interest in the conduct of her friend's beaus, having found one of her own. Without Harmonia to give the alarm, Sarah found it easier to evade the younger men. All the same, Sarah did not abandon her caution, still looking both ways before emerging from the trees and listening carefully for the sound of male footsteps before advancing down a seemingly deserted hall.

  Despite her care, it was a near run thing on one or two occasions. Lord Dudley had the knack of appearing around a corner just as Sarah came out of range of cover. Fortunately, he seemed to have no memory of their encounter in Harmonia's bedchamber. Furthermore, though he'd smile when he saw her, he did not appear intent on overwhelming her with his charm. The same could not be said of the others when they found her.

  Though the nearly universal demand for her company continued, every day she was disappointed in her own dearest wish. Sometimes, no matter how indiscreetly she inquired, she couldn't even manage to find out from Lady Phelps and Harmonia where Lord Reyne was, or what he had done that day.

  On Tuesday, she came up to return a shawl her mother had borrowed. Mrs. East had been unable to locate it until almost four o'clock, so when Sarah arrived, Harmonia asked her to stay to tea. Entering the green drawing room, she crossed to take her teacup and then searched for a place to sit.

  Lord Reyne sat in an armchair, pulled around near to the fireplace. Though until that moment she had found the touch of autumn in the air invigorating, she now went closer to warm her hands. She felt almost afraid to look at him, yet she did not miss his self-absorption. Sad lines sculpted his narrow face. She wondered if he were in pain.

  He glanced up, his frown still in place. Recognizing her, his features seemed to relax. “Ah, Miss East. Have you climbed any more trees? Or led any more parades?”

  Sarah could only shake her head, too happy to speak. He actually remembered her after nearly an entire week without seeing her! She seated herself on a hassock near his feet. Sipping her tea, Sarah did not dare raise her eyes above Lord Reyne's knees. Finally, an idea of something to say crossed her mind. “Are y
ou enjoying your stay at Hollytrees?”

  He nodded. “So much so that I have agreed to remain for several more days. I had thought of leaving tomorrow.”

  Sarah's heart leapt painfully and she nearly spilt her tea. He was not going soon, though not staying long. “But you are to be here for the picnic?”

  “I have been persuaded. I think young Harvey wishes to question me about my experiences during the last campaign. Somehow, I find it difficult to talk about that now. I suppose my memory is failing. The price of old age, you know.” His mouth twisted, and Sarah made haste to change the subject.

  “You said, I think, that you've a house in Essex. What is it like?” She hoped to picture him in his home, if he would tell her enough. It would give her something to dream of, after he left.

  “Miss East, as I have seen you in your night attire, you needn't talk to me as though I were entirely a stranger.” Alaric lowered his voice to a murmur. The instant blush that appeared in her cheeks brightened her grey eyes before they were hidden beneath those dark lashes, so absurdly lovely for a girl with hair quite like spun gold.

  “I never thanked you—”

  “On the contrary. Miss East, you thanked me by allowing me to be of service. Forgive me for teasing you, and for leaving you now as I must. I am engaged to discuss the Corn Laws with Sir Arthur.” Alaric stood up and turned away, his hand accidentally brushing against the silken coil of her hair. He sternly ignored the tingle that ran up his arm at the contact.

  Dealing with the hero-worship of the sons of the Phelps family wore on his nerves, but he enjoyed the freedom of the house. He'd found some old friends in their library. The gently rolling countryside admirably suited a man who needed to hone his skill in the saddle without overtiring himself. And yet, Alaric had not felt quite at ease until he saw the East girl hesitating beside him. The temptation to tease her was overwhelming and dangerous. He'd write to Lillian tonight.

  Sarah had not another opportunity to speak to Lord Reyne that afternoon. But she could watch him, even when ostensibly speaking to one of the others. She could only hope the cold breeze would fade by Thursday, for it would be too bad if the picnic must be canceled. Prayers for fair weather would be within the bounds of sanctity, she supposed, if she prayed for the success of Lady Phelps’ plans, rather than selfishly.