A Lady in Love

by Cynthia Bailey Pratt

  As Alaric set her upright, he said, “Bless you, Harcourt.”

  “You must be the fastest man on two legs,” Sir Francis said in amazement, “I've never seen anyone move so quickly, and I've been out with the Revenuers.”

  “Pray continue, Mrs. Randolph. You play very well indeed,” Alaric said, ignoring this comment. “All ready now, Sarah?”

  “I'd rather sit down now, Harcourt,” she said, knowing she was red as a hunter's coat.

  “Do you need me, dearest?”

  “No, Mother. Go on. You have so little opportunity to dance.” Leaning on Harcourt's arm in a weak and womanly manner, Sarah left the set, leaving the rest to carry on despite the resulting uneven number of couples.

  Mrs. East and Lady Phelps exchanged glances and nods of strange significance. Only after the evening was done, and the Easts ready to depart, did they share a word in private.

  “What are we going to do, Marissa? When Miss Canfield arrived, I had hopes of Sarah turning to Harvey, but his attentions to the Dealford girl have been most marked.”

  “I think it's best if I send Sarah back to my aunt. I was planning to do it after Christmas, but an earlier trip will help her forget. If she stays at home, she will only pine.”

  “Yes, new scenes are what she needs. And when she comes back, there will still be Harcourt and Harold. Perhaps at last...” The two ladies embraced.

  Miss Canfield came for her visit, but Sarah had warning of it and was not to be found. Her mother had not heart to scold the girl for her rudeness, especially when she had news for her that she feared Sarah would not eagerly countenance. Lord Reyne and his fiancee were leaving Hollytrees the next day. Mrs. East held extra handkerchiefs ready, but Sarah did not cry. Her face became a trifle paler as she nodded to indicate she'd heard. This seemed as good a time as any to broach the subject of a return to Leamington Spa.

  “I know Aunt Whitsun will be so pleased to have you with her again. She complained your last visit was too brief.”

  What the old lady had actually said was, “How can you expect me to teach that child to be a lady in six short weeks? It shouldn't take any time at all. It should already have been taught her, but as it stands I shall require months!”

  “And then you can go directly from Leamington to London for your Season. I still hope to come to see you during it.”

  “Thank you. Mother. That will be splendid.” But her eyes still turned toward the window as though her vision were miraculous and she could see clear to Hollytrees to witness the bustle of packing and the harnessing of the horses to Miss Canfield's elegant equipage.

  “I have spoken to your father, and it seems there will be more money than we thought. His speculations on the Exchange have been quite successful lately. Aunt Whitsun will be able to take you to the finest dressmakers and the best dancing masters.”

  Sarah sighed. “I look forward to it.”

  “And Lady Phelps has offered you the loan of her coach, so your journey will be much more comfortable than last time.”

  “Lady Phelps is always so kind to me.”

  “She loves you nearly as much as I do.”

  * * * *

  Outside of Hollytrees, Alaric gathered his caped cloak more tightly against the whipping breeze. In his mind, he ticked off a list. Each servant had received his due vail, more heavy remuneration lying in the hands of Mr. Smithers and young Fred. He'd promised to introduce Harvey at his club when Mr. Phelps returned to London, and tendered an invitation to the elder Phelpses to visit him in Essex whenever they would. A note had been dispatched to Mrs. East and Sarah, thanking them for their tender care. He shook his head. That seemed to be all, and yet ...

  Lillian appeared on the stairs. Alaric smiled and offered his hand to assist her in entering the coach. Inwardly, he rejoiced that the movement caused him no pain. When he stepped up himself, there was no stabbing agony in the repaired muscles of his back. This country stay, for all its unconscionable length, had done him good. He felt as well as ever he had in his life, save for this single nagging doubt.

  The door slammed behind him. The coach creaked and rocked as the footman pulled himself up. Lillian's two maids sat on the seat opposite, the younger glancing up under her lashes at him, the other maintaining a precise distance between his knees and her own. Alaric heard the coachman's whistle as the coach started forward. He felt like calling out to the man to stop, but kept himself tightly under control. This was nonsense, yet once more he went over his mental list, tapping his hand on his knee to an unheard rhythm.

  “You seem restless,” Lillian said. “Didn't you sleep well?”

  “No, that isn't it.”

  “Isn't what?”

  “What's bothering me. I can't think what it is. But there's definitely something I meant to do before leaving here, and I'm certain I haven't done it.”

  “It will come to you when we are twenty miles down the road. I know that is the way my mind works, when it works at all. Did you leave something behind in your room? You'll be able to write to Sir Arthur and ask him to send it on. They are dear people, don't you think?”

  “Perhaps I'm imagining it.” In an undertone, he said, shaking his head after each item, “Boots, hair brushes, nail brush, tooth brush ..."He scratched his cheek. Finally, he spread his hands. “I never heard that chicken pox can affect the mind, yet I fear it must have in my case. I have shaken out my brain like a featherbed, yet I cannot think of what I have forgotten.”

  “Never mind, I know it will come to you,” Lillian said, reassuringly.

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  * * *

  Chapter Eight

  “Remember to stand up straight.”

  “Yes, Aunt.”

  “Try to smile when you speak.”

  “Yes, Aunt.”

  “Refer strange gentlemen to me when they ask you to dance.”

  “Yes, Aunt.”

  “And try not to look bored. It spoils all your looks.”

  “No, Aunt.” It mayn't have been the expected response, but Sarah knew from experience that Aunt Whitsun did not listen to her anyway. She was far from the first young relation Mrs. Whitsun had fired off into the murky, shifting waters of the ton. There were times when Sarah felt she was merely another body in a white gown to be ushered about London until, with any luck at all, someone married it.

  For the third time in ten minutes. Aunt Whitsun said, “We've not moved a yard, not a yard, closer to the house. Such a frightful crush there'll be inside.” They had moved, of course, only so slowly as to make the motion unnoticeable. She darted a quick glance at Sarah from beneath her rather projecting brow. “Don't, dear thing, or it'll come down.”

  Sarah's hand froze on its upward path. Her hair had been piled on her head by her aunt's freezingly upright maid. A few of the pins seemed to have been driven straight into her head. A tight fillet of silver satin ran through the curls. Only slightly more uncomfortable was the string of small pearls. The clasp scratched her neck every time she turned her head.

  Most of all, however, Sarah hated the long gloves of white kid, an important part of her evening ensemble. They were loose around the tops and crept nastily up and down her arms, creasing about her elbows. She should have been used to them, for they were used even in Leamington, but she still found it difficult not to fuss with them.

  “Here we are at last. Now remember, Sarah, your future welfare depends, in large measure, on the effect you have on the others here tonight. No one will wish to be acquainted with you if you misbehave. Don't fidget, don't scratch, stand still unless you're dancing, and speak up. But don't be nervous or you'll perspire. There's nothing worse than a sweaty partner.”

  Sarah waited for her great-aunt to step out. It had rained earlier, and the chilly spring air was cold on her exposed shoulders. Yet, Aunt Whitsun insisted Sarah leave her warm velvet cloak in the coach. Though Sarah shivered, she obeyed.

  “You'll do as you are,” Mrs. Whitsun said, casting one last g
lance over Sarah's satin robe, the exact color of fresh, heavy cream. Unlike most dresses of this style, it fell open over an underdress of the same color, instead of a contrasting shade.

  Looking up, Sarah saw that the stairs leading into the house were entirely filled up by elegantly dressed ladies and gentlemen, struggling to keep their places in the queue. Mrs. Whitsun advanced boldly, butting the lowest man on the shoulder with her fan. When he turned, his eyes met Sarah's. She didn't know him. It seemed rude to her that her aunt had poked him, so she smiled an apology. His gasp was audible even through the noise of the pushing crowd, and everyone turned to look. A silence fell. The people been pressing forward. Now they fell back.

  “Come along, dear thing,” Mrs. Whitsun said, nodding to Sarah.

  There was now room enough for them to walk up the stairs into the house. However, the interior was if anything more crowded than the outside. If someone blocked the way, Mrs. Whitsun merely jabbed at them until they turned. On seeing Sarah, they stepped aside, eyes wide with astonishment. Though Mrs. Whitsun simply continued forward, Sarah always said, “Thank you,” before following.

  Sarah asked, “Do all these people know you?”

  “A fair percentage do. Why?”

  “They let you by.”

  “It's not for me they do it,” Mrs. Whitsun said, and then, after a sidelong look at her charge, shook her head. “Never mind. Come along, come along.” They had gone up and up, through the house, and now they reached the head of a staircase from which they must go down.

  “Oh!” Sarah said, wavering a moment on the topmost step. She could see everything. The long drop of the red-carpeted steps led to a glass-like floor of polished wood. The scent of hothouse flowers mingled with the sound of sweet music, making her almost dizzy. Looking out at the people who massed about the huge room, she couldn't help but see that they were all staring back. Some even pointed, nudging those who stood nearby. Then they, too, would turn and stare.

  She turned smiling to her aunt. “Leamington Spa wasn't like this! Not even the Assembly Rooms.”

  Mrs. Whitsun merely shook her head once more, the large fake diamond anchoring her turban flashing in the light of the crystal-daubed lusters hanging from the ceiling. “We cannot linger here; we shall appear reluctant. Go on.”

  Once more, the guests parted before them like a curtain drawing back for the prima donna. Sarah came off the last step and glanced around. The ladies glittered no less than the suspended chandeliers. The gentlemen were but foils to beauty in their dark coats and silken breeches. She heard their laughter, and wondered at its cause, though she did not now fear it was at her expense. At least, she looked as if she belonged.

  Despite the price of the gown on her back, Sarah knew she was but a traveler in this strange country called “the ton." This was not her true life. For only two weeks, at Christmas, when she'd gone home, had she felt a part of the real world. Sarah reminded herself that she must live through three months more of it—the Season—before she could return home. Though her aunt and mother had promised that the time would fly by, it had not yet begun to do so.

  From somewhere near at hand, a voice called out, “Maudie!” Knowing this to be her aunt's Christian name, Sarah turned obligingly about, trying to recall all her aunt's instructions about meeting new people.

  “Amabelle!”

  The two women embraced, their lips never touching the other's cheek. Sarah remembered Lord Reyne kissing the air above Miss Canfield's glove and closed her mind against the memory. She'd honed that talent in the last six months, if none other.

  “How do you contrive to look so youthful, Amabelle? There must be a scandal behind it somewhere!”

  “Young men, my dear Maudie, and lovely long milk baths.” The speaker was too thin, which added more wrinkles than her fifty-odd years had naturally received. She apparently scorned both turbans and trained skirts, as she wore a stunning gold tiara in the latest mode and a low-cut gown that proclaimed her readiness to dance. “But who is this?”

  “Allow me to introduce my great-niece. Miss Sarah East.”

  “Not your great-niece! It's unbelievable.” Sarah found herself peered at through a thick lorgnette which magnified the snapping blue eyes of her observer to the size of oysters. “La!” the woman said, letting the glasses drop to the end of the ribbon. “Does she talk? And what difference does it make if she can't!”

  Amabelle laughed and then said, with a pleasant smile replacing her wide grin, “You must forgive me, my dear Miss East. The shock, you know. If one's old school friends start arriving with great-nieces and granddaughters, one may be suspected of harboring such things themselves. I'm your hostess, by the way.”

  Belatedly, Sarah sank into a curtsy. “Forgive me, your grace. I didn't realize it.”

  “No, how should you? She's charming,” Amabelle, better known as the Duchess of Parester, said to her friend. “And you've just arrived? You'd best allow me to find you her partners, then. A few matrimonially undesirable men are here—of course, they are the ones who are the most amusing—and she shouldn't meet them. Yet. After she's married is soon enough.”

  Mrs. Whitsun sat down in “Dowager's Corner.” For all Sarah knew, chairs had never been invented. Her escorts returned her to Mrs. Whitsun at the close of each set, yet she never had the remotest chance of sitting. Another man was certain to be waiting his turn. Though she'd been popular at the Leamington Assemblies, there she'd occasionally meet someone who wanted to sit out. In London, it seemed the choice was dancing or going out past the French windows into the garden. And Sarah had been threatened with what happened to young ladies who left the floor with gentlemen for the pleasures of a breath of cool air. “Cool air would be all very well,” Mrs. Whitsun had once remarked, “if it were not that cool air is very frequently dark air.”

  Unlatching her arm from one man, Sarah paused by her aunt's chair a moment, ostensibly to have her see to a possibly torn flounce. “But can't I stop just for a few minutes?” she murmured, thinking of her feet which felt on fire.

  “Absolutely not. This is the supper dance. You must have a partner. Sir Augustus Boneview is most congenial. He will take you in. He enjoys hunting. Be pleasant. Smile, Sarah!”

  Obediently, Sarah's lips turned up. Sir Augustus was indeed congenial, but, alas, was no more than five feet, six inches tall. His head was near her shoulder. Though it was possible that Sir Augustus enjoyed the view of Sarah's chest more than she admired his bald spot, the dinner gong was welcomed by them both.

  “How is the hunting in Bedfordshire, Sir Augustus?” Sarah asked. Her aunt was certain to inquire if she'd raised the subject after such a prompting.

  “Are you interested in hunting, Miss East?” Sir Augustus began to tell her about it, without waiting for a reply. As he listed the pedigrees of each hound, Sarah fell into the trap of wondering if Lord Reyne kept dogs. She felt certain dogs would like Lord Reyne. Even Petey had taken to him at once. Of course, the bull was notoriously easy in his affections.

  Realizing her thoughts had strayed into remembrances of Hollytrees, Sarah shook herself and said, “How fascinating, Sir Augustus. Do you really mean ... ?”

  “Indeed I do! Thirteen at once, on my word.”

  He went on talking as he and Sarah traveled into the supper room. So sympathetic and interested a listener did he find her, that he almost forgot his duty to fetch her some refreshment.

  While he was gone, a lady, a little past her first youth yet splendid in a blue silk gown that echoed her sapphire necklace, excused herself from a laughing group and came toward Sarah. Tentatively, she offered a gloved hand. “Miss East, is it not?”

  “Lady Reyne?” She recognized the former Miss Canfield at once, though the face before her was utterly different in its details from the one she'd so often imagined. The cruel mouth, mocking eyes and claw-like fingers had changed to softness, sweetness and gentleness. The wart on the bridge of Miss Canfield's nose had apparently been entirely imaginary.r />
  The other woman chuckled. “Not yet.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I am not ‘Lady Reyne.’ Not yet. Alaric and I have not yet made arrangements for our wedding.”

  “Oh, I ... that is, I didn't ...”

  “How could you know?” Miss Canfield lifted one smooth white shoulder, smiling. “But what of you? Are you in London to stay?”

  “I am living with my great-aunt, Mrs. Whitsun.”

  “Mrs. Maud Whitsun? I know her very well. She is the dearest friend of my dearest friend's mother. I trust your mother is keeping well?”

  “I had a letter from her on Tuesday. She and my father are in excellent health.”

  “I'm so glad. They were very kind to me when I came to visit your enchanting house. And Sir Arthur and Lady Phelps? And Miss Harmonia?”

  “Perfectly well.” She realized her answers lacked warmth and said hastily, “I expect Harmonia to visit me soon.”

  “But how marvelous! Of course, she wants to choose her trousseau for her marriage to Mr. Atwood. I hope ... that is, may I call upon you? I should so much enjoy seeing her again, and I may be able to offer some help. You know, I am on the point of suffering through that experience myself, and it would be so much more enjoyable if we could all go to the shops together.”

  “I know Harmonia would enjoy it.”

  “And you also, of course. One can never have too many pretty things, eh? That is an uncommonly lovely gown. Madame Oulange, is it not? She is a terror, don't you think? But I cannot quarrel with the flawless results she achieves.” Sarah nodded, recalling the vivid little Frenchwoman who had scurried about her with a tape and squeals of delight.

  Was it possible that, in addition to imagining the hideousness of Lord Reyne's choice, she had also been deceived in her memories of Miss Canfield's wicked nature? Her reaction to Sarah's slip about her status had been telling. An elderly countess whom Sarah had once called “Mrs.” had complained about it for weeks, insisting her companion wheel her Bath-chair out of range whenever Sarah came by.