A Lady in Love

by Cynthia Bailey Pratt

  “How ... how is Lord Reyne?” she asked, though the sudden jump in subject was perhaps rude.

  “Alaric? Would you believe that he did not want to come to London for another two months? Fortunately, his sisters have far more influence over him than I. Had he known his charming nurse would be here tonight, I know nothing could have kept him away. As it is, however, he won't return until next week. His house won't be ready until then, anyway.”

  “That's right,” Sarah said, almost to herself. “You said something about a new house, and a valet named ... Barton.”

  “My word, what a memory! That's precisely right. If I had not been present for many of the changes, I would think they'd merely switched address plates with the most fashionable house in the square. The entire building has been altered top to bottom and everything in between.”

  “I'm sure your taste is perfect, Miss Canfield,” Sarah said without sarcastic inflection. Alaric would only marry a woman who knew precisely what to do at all times, exactly what was fashionable, and which was the ideal firm to have in to do it, whether the matter at hand was furnishings or haying.

  “Would you believe that Alaric has approved every choice himself? He wouldn't listen to me hardly at all, although I did prevent him using a dark red drape in the drawing room. All the ladies would look like ghosts against so strong a color.”

  It hurt to say it, but Sarah stood fast against the quick, self-inflicted stab of agony. “Did he approve your rooms, too?”

  “My rooms? Oh, I shan't trouble about those until our wedding day is fixed.” She turned from Sarah, her smile becoming a little broader, and to Sarah's sensitive perception, a trifle less sincere. “Mrs. Whitsun! Sarah and I were having the most diverting conversation.”

  “You did not tell me you knew Miss Canfield.”

  “Oh, yes,” Sarah said.

  “Oh, yes, indeed,” Miss Canfield echoed. “We met during the summer. Lord Reyne introduced us.”

  “Indeed? Lord Reyne?”

  Sarah could almost hear Mrs. Whitsun thinking. She said, “Lord Reyne stayed at the home of some neighbors, the Phelpses.”

  “The Phelpses? Ah, yes. Miss Harmonia Phelps is about to make a stay with me, Miss Canfield. I hope we may have the pleasure of seeing you at a small gathering I intend to have in her honor. The poor thing is to be married, and thus has only a very little time left to enjoy herself.”

  “Yes, I was there when Miss Phelps’ betrothal was announced.”

  “Betrothal? What betrothal?” A tall man, very darkly tanned, approached. Though faultlessly dressed, he seemed almost to burst out of his clothing, both by the restless energy of his movements and by the undoubted corporation he sported above the band of his inexpressibles.

  “We were discussing the approaching marriage of a friend of ours, Father. You may recall my mentioning Miss Harmonia Phelps, after my trip last summer.”

  “Phelps? Phelps? Oh, yes, the house where Lord Reyne was taken ill. And this is she?” He turned his dark eyes, bright with curiosity, on Sarah.

  “Miss East, may I present my father, Mr. Jacob Canfield.”

  Sarah curtsied. “How do you do, sir?”

  “Gads but you're the loveliest girl here, excepting my own.”

  “Father, you'll make her blush.” Miss Canfield turned from her father and took Sarah's arm. “Come and meet my friends, Sarah. May I call you Sarah? And you must call me Lillian. We shall be friends. I declare it.”

  On the way home. Aunt Whitsun scolded Sarah. “Imagine not telling me you are acquainted with Miss Canfield and the Earl of Reyne. My dear thing, whatever were you thinking about? Haven't you realized yet that powerful friends are the most useful thing imaginable? All you need do is smile and what invitations you'll receive! Balls, breakfasts, musical evenings ... the mind cannot encompass it all.”

  “Yes, Aunt.”

  “Mr. Canfield, of course, is socially negligible, save for his fortune. He needs a good wife to ...” For a moment, Sarah sat petrified as Mrs. Whitsun pursued an idea. What if her aunt took the notion to hurl her at Mr. Canfield's head? To be viewed as the possible mother-in-law of Lord Reyne would be a bizarre situation, indeed. Sarah breathed more easily as the older lady went on with the swift recitation of her thoughts.

  “Miss Canfield is a different story. Her mother was a Wentlow, you know, not anything great in the world, yet quality tells. His money makes her success possible, but she is no ordinary Cit's daughter. There are hundreds of those girls, without the slightest idea of how to go on. Overdressed, eager, and pushed forward in the most shocking way. But Miss Canfield ... her taste ... her charm ... her fiance! The catch of the Season!”

  “Yes, Aunt.”

  “And you know him yet never told me! I'm so disappointed in you, Sarah. Before the war, he was the most sought after bachelor in England. Then he comes back, and hardly has he been in the country a month than the announcement of their betrothal appears. Of course, Mr. Canfield is in bliss! He's been angling to marry her to a title since they came on the scene.”

  “Yes, Aunt.”

  “But not just any title would do! No, he's particular. It's got to be someone who doesn't need the money. He's refused at least four gentlemen with pockets to let, including the Marquess of Feddenham. Can you imagine!” Mrs. Whitsun obviously had the greatest difficulty imagining anything of the sort. The effort required in marrying off two sisters, herself, and eight cousins to date had taught her not to be so finicky.

  “No, Aunt.”

  Sarah struggled to stifle the singing voice inside her. Sternly, she told herself that the appearance, or nonappearance, of Lord Reyne was of no significance to her. Yet, her heart leapt and bounded against the confines of her body, and her brain whizzed about like a drunken top. He was coming to London. He was coming to London in a week! Try as she might, the tune the orchestra had played as they were leaving rose to her lips.

  “Why didn't you tell me you can sing? Honestly, if you're going to be keeping secrets from me, how do you expect me to ... to present you well. I thought you had no accomplishments.”

  “I haven't,” Sarah said, swallowing her song.

  “You mean you aren't trained. I shall set about engaging Senor Beddini tomorrow. Your father said such things are within your allowance for this Season.”

  “But I don't wish to learn to ...”

  “You'll like it once you begin. Remember how you hated taking up dancing lessons when you first came to my home? Yet when you returned, you were so eager for them to begin again.”

  That had been when she was still hoping that some day she'd find herself again in Lord Reyne's arms. Staring out as the dark streets of London passed at a slow clop, Sarah fought to keep her thoughts fixed on trivial things. The moment she relaxed her concentration, however, her mind filled with memories of the brief time she'd spent with Lord Reyne. Awake, she could maintain control. Asleep, she danced again, not with any of the young men introduced tonight, but with the one man who always partnered her in her dreams.

  “I'll wager your aunt wears a wig,” Harmonia murmured. One week later, Mrs. Whitsun kept her promise of a party for Harmonia upon her arrival in London. Unfortunately, popular though Sarah had been at the balls she attended, the event was not a success. There was, after all, quite a difference between dancing with a beautiful girl and giving countenance to her friends.

  “I shan't take your wager. How should we ever tell?”

  “Wait until midnight—then shout fire?”

  Sarah gave her friend a playful push. “Your engagement hasn't changed you at all.”

  A shade passed over Harmonia's face. “No, it hasn't.” Then, her polite smile reinstated, she said, “Are these all the people Mrs. Whitsun invited?”

  “You know it's not. But there's a new play opening tonight, and she thinks most of the guests went there. Perhaps they'll come when it's over.” Sarah nodded and smiled at the dozen or so individuals who dotted the shining floor like anti-social iceb
ergs in a vast sea. The orchestra at the far end of the hall played spritely music, which sounded abnormally loud in the great empty spaces between people.

  Mrs. Whitsun did her best to turn these few into a cohesive group, the first stage of forming a party. But short of beginning an absurdly small set or arranging two tables of whist, there was little to be done. She chattered relentlessly. Passing the two young ladies charmingly dressed in newly purchased finery, she murmured, “Don't stand here, girls. Walk about. Talk to them.”

  Sarah raised her hands and then let them fall. “But, Aunt, I don't know any of them.”

  “Nor do I, Mrs. Whitsun.”

  Just as the older lady was about to make an exasperated reply, the doors opened and a large party walked in, making a good deal of noise which muffled the announcement of their names. She turned to greet them with a brilliant smile, though it faded immediately. “Oh, dear, it's the Morebinder clique. He's a dreadful young man and goes about with the worst sort of people. I'm sure they've come just to spoil everything. Why couldn't my evening have been a crush, where no one would notice them? What ever shall we do?”

  “At least they'll fill up the room,” Sarah said, hoping to cheer her aunt. But Mrs. Whitsun only groaned.

  The young viscount sauntered over, a young woman on his arm who, although of undoubtedly genteel family, ought to have been warned not to let her dresses hang so low, if only for fear of the ague. “Miss East,” the gentleman drawled, raising his quizzing glass to his pale eyes. “What beauty you shine in tonight. The moon will be embarrassed to rise above the clouds.”

  “Lord Morebinder,” Sarah replied, curtsying. “You recall my aunt, Mrs. Whitsun?”

  “Yaaas, to be sure.” But he did not move his eyes from the contemplation of Sarah's face. He flicked his focus to Harmonia for an instant when her name was pronounced, before returning to his scrutiny of Sarah. The female on his arm yawned openly. “I hope to have the pleasure of a dance, Miss East,” Lord Morebinder said. “If your aunt will allow me.” He disengaged his arm from the bored woman's grasp and offered it to Sarah.

  “Forgive me, but I must refuse. We cannot be the only two on the floor.”

  “Russell!” Lord Morebinder said, raising his voice a modicum. “Dance with Miss ... er ... Miss Phelps.”

  “Oh, damn, must I?'’ One of his male friends, painted and powdered like a woman, said. “That orchestra isn't fit for chickens to scratch to. La, what a dull party!”

  “And what shall you do about it?” the viscount asked. The man looked nonplussed. “I—I hadn't thought. ...” “Think about it, while you apologize to Miss East.”

  “Oh, quite, quite. Your pardon. Miss East.” He pursed his reddened lips into a pout.

  “I should forgive you, sir, but it isn't my party.”

  “Here, Jasper, look at this!” Another man, whom Mrs. Whitsun recognized as the dissipated Sir Percy Alvendale, wandered over to the fruit baskets standing sentinel at the sideboard.

  Taking up an orange, still somewhat green, he tossed it skillfully from hand to hand. Then, without warning, he fired it through the air, directly at the orchestra. It winged the conductor's wig and landed with a thud against the first horn's brass bell. The entire contingent gave Sir Percy a dire glance, which affected the young man not at all. His fellow bucks applauded and laughed.

  “I had a deuced straight eye while at Harrow,” Sir Percy said proudly. Then he sighed. “I rather miss cricket, you know. Haven't been to Lords since God knows when.”

  Sarah asked, “Did you ever play cricket. Lord Morebinder?”

  “I do. That is, I did.”

  “You must have been good at it.” Sarah smiled tightly at him. Let his friends throw oranges in her house, would he? She'd enjoyed playing the game with her brothers and the Phelpses. “Are you a bowler, or a batter?”

  “I swung a pretty fair willow, once upon a time, that is. Come to think on it, this room is awfully like a cricket pitch, isn't it? Long, straight, and narrow. Infernally like the pitch at home,” Lord Morebinder said wonderingly.

  He was quite a young man, and possibly had been handsome, before his looks were blurred by the excesses of profligate indulgence. Casting a weary glance over his followers, Lord Morebinder shrugged his world-weighted shoulders. “Blast, we've only enough for one side.”

  Sarah said, “I used to bowl for my brothers.”

  “I won't hear of it,” Mrs. Whitsun said firmly.

  “And I am accounted a steady wicket-keeper,” Harmonia added.

  Mrs. Whitsun said, “I refuse to have anything to do with this nonsensical notion!”

  So Lord Morebinder appointed her umpire.

  The canes all the fashionable fellows carried were set up as wickets. “They're too tall, of course, but I don't suppose we've anything else. Now for the bats ... ah, Sherwood, Gretcham, you've brought your umbrellas, excellent!”

  Sarah and Harmonia won the toss. After hearing an explanation of the general rules of the games, the indolent ladies of the clique were prodded into position, several dimly mentioning their brothers’ enthusiasm for the game. A stir of excitement went around the assembled players as Sir Percy carefully selected a new orange with which to open the match.

  Sarah loosened up her shoulder, an easy motion due to Madame Oulange's abbreviated notions of a ball gown's sleeve. After a moment of mental preparation, she prepared to deliver the first ball in the smooth, peculiarly graceful arc that had been the despair of Harcourt and Harold in the merry old days when they'd all been friends together.

  “The Earl of Reyne, Mr. Canfield, and Miss Lillian Canfield.”

  Fortunately, Sarah had not yet begun to bowl. She stayed her hopping through the crease and turned to face the entrance. Alaric stood on the bottom step, the Canfields behind him. She could not see their faces; they were only background to him. Across all the long distance of the hall, his eyes, so very blue, sought out hers. Then, one of his eyes closed in a lightning fast wink, and he nodded as though with approval.

  Sarah delivered a straight, medium-fast ball that Lord Morebinder could no more hit than he could sing soprano. His friends jeered. The over continued until six balls had flown down the pitch. Then Sarah took herself out of the game, leaving the next over to a girl whose dainty costume did nothing to conceal the muscularity of her right arm.

  “Well played, Miss East.” Lord Reyne advanced to meet her and bowed. “I wish I had arrived somewhat earlier. It's been a long time since I played.”

  “I think we women will win. Lord Morebinder seems to have overestimated the skill of his team. They don't seem to be very good,” she added as the orange went skimming past the batter.

  “Lord Morebinder is frequently over-confident. I've played cards with him.” He took his attention from the game and looked at her. “Lillian tells me you met last week at the Duchess of Parester's. I'm pleased to hear all is well at home.”

  “Yes, it is.” She wished he would take his eyes off her, so that she might study him without blushing. As it was, she kept her gaze fixed on the players, though awareness of him pervaded every breath she took. “Harmonia's here. She's wicket-keeper.”

  “As I see. She looks in glowing health.”

  “Oh, yes. Harmonia is never ill.” Gliding her hand over her cheek, she wondered if she appeared as tired as she felt. Last night had been sleepless, as many nights had been—nights in which she'd lain awake and writhed at the memory of her foolishness. Tonight would be the same. For, fool that she was, the first sound of his voice, the first glance she'd had of him, this moment with him alone beside her, all combined to teach Sarah one depressing fact. She loved Lord Reyne no less for all the six months that lay between them. She loved him more, so much that her heart nearly strangled her with its fierce beating.

  “Do you return to the fray?” he asked. Her replacement had held up her hand for a pause and fell to rubbing her arm, a questioning frown on her brow.

  “No,” Sarah said. “I'm resigne
d.”

  Lord Reyne rubbed his hands together. “Do you suppose it would be ... cricket ... if I volunteered my services to the female side?” He smiled more broadly when he saw her doubtful expression. “I'm entirely recovered from my wounds, Miss East. You see, I remember that you were ever concerned for my well-being.”

  “I saw you are no longer troubled by them, sir.”

  “How can you possibly know that?” Alaric said, raising his brows at her as thought she possessed second sight.

  “It's just that you seem ... happy, that's all.” She did not precisely know how to express it. Every motion he made was free, as though he'd shrugged off some galling fetter.

  “I am happy. Miss East.” It was a statement of determined fact, allowable of no argument or even discussion. “Ah, she'd given up. Pray excuse me.” He walked across the room for a consultation with Mrs. Whitsun, who instantly allowed him to play for the ladies. Taking his place in the crease, he looked about the field as though he'd made a recent purchase of it and deciding where it would fit in his house.

  His house. Miss Canfield's future home. Sarah saw Miss Canfield watching Alaric with an expression of mingled pride and laughter. How could he help but be happy with such a woman waiting to become his bride? The wonder was that they were not already married. Without knowing why, Sarah began to circle the room to stand beside Miss Canfield, who welcomed her with a smile. Clapping, Lillian called out,"Oh, well played!”

  Sara joined in the applause.

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  * * *

  Chapter Nine

  “Bravo!”

  “Hurrah!”

  “Bravo, bravo!”

  The three men sitting in a box with Alaric joined in the cheers. Many voices called out to the actor on the stage. He, having finished a long speech of language so metaphysical as to render him unintelligible, bowed deeply to the audience. A rain of flowers flooded the stage from sentimental ladies.