Was she ill? She sat up very straight, her eyes fixed, not on the play, but on some internal view. Her face, from being flushed with enthusiasm, was pale and her lips turned downward. If she were not ill, then she must be unhappy. Alaric did not stop to wonder that the thought pricked him like the point of a knife. Perhaps that aunt of hers had taken her to task for displaying so much interest in the performance; some people might take it to mean she was vulgar. Alaric thought her lively attention charming, and regretted he'd not told Mrs. Whitsun so.
Whatever else Sarah might do, she would never feign disinterest for effect, or drawl out praise in a way that was worse than outright condemnation. She was honest, he'd known that from the first, and her emotions were lived fully. If she sat still and quiet, something must be wrong. He only hoped someone over there would notice and help her. He wished he could do it himself, but that would be unwarrantable interference.
As the curtain closed, Alaric said, “I'm sorry, you fellows, but I'm going now.”
“Now?” Hibbert echoed. “What about the rest of the play?”
“Yes, and what about the club?” Chasen asked.
“You go. I don't feel up to it, somehow. But you must dine with me one day next week. Thursday? Very good. Excellent, in fact. Unless Miss Canfield has other plans, of course.”
“Of course,” Ward said, laughing. “You lads will have to get yourselves betrothed to find out what real independence of action means. Eh, Reyne?”
“Quite. Good evening, gentlemen.”
Walking home through the puddles left by a spring rain, for his carriage was deep in a crush of others, Alaric turned into the square with a sigh that was not entirely one of relief. His carefully chosen, beautifully appointed home was dark, save for a light in the library. He'd given the servants late leave, but he knew Barton would be there, waiting up.
“How was the play, my lord?”
“Don't ask. A bottle in the library, I think.”
“Yes, my lord. I'll bring in another glass.”
“Another?”
“Mr. Canfield has been waiting for you the last hour, my lord. With the claret.” Barton's face, never exactly writhing with expression, was even more impassive than usual.
“Is he drunk?”
“I would not say so, my lord.”
“Yes, well, your standards are higher than most, Barton. Bring in that glass.”
“Very good, my lord.”
“That you, Reyne?” Mr. Canfield's tall, broad form filled the open doorway. Though a waft of alcohol fumes floated out too, the man did not seem the worse for drink.
“Yes, sir,” Alaric said, crossing the hall with his hand out. “I'm sorry I kept you waiting.”
His future father-in-law shook hands with a powerful grip. “I called on the chance of finding you in, and your man said you'd not be long.”
Alaric shot a glance at the imperturbable butler. Though Barton had not ventured an opinion, he must have known the play would not be to his master's taste. “Another bottle, Barton.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Let us sit down, Mr. Canfield.”
“All right. May as well be comfortable. It's my girl I'm wanting to talk to about.”
Alaric poured his guest another glass. The fresh breeze from the square riffled the long white curtains at the windows behind his desk, making the candle flames dance. “Lillian? What's amiss?”
The former miller's apprentice squared his broad shoulders, deepening the shadow behind him. “Just this: when are you two getting married up? It's been over six months, man. Are you trying to slide out from under your obligation?''
“My dear sir!”
“Don't come your fine manner over me. I know what you are, well enough. A nobleman, and the son, grandson and great-grandson of a long line of noblemen. Your blood's blue enough and I'm what I am. But my Lillian's good enow for any prince. So why don't you marry the gel and get on with the raising of my grandsons? Or doesn't that prospect interest you? By God, if you turn out one of those namby-pamby fellers ...”
Alaric was torn between laughing and anger. However, to give in to either emotion would be to face, he feared, one of Mr. Canfield's large fists, and he was too tired tonight to give as good as he'd get. “I think I can assure you, sir, that my interest is entirely of the sort that would meet with your approval. But people just don't rush into matrimony these days. I'm endeavoring to give Lillian the time required to prepare herself for marriage.”
“Dammit, man. How much preparation does a girl need? She'll marry you and like it. Her mother and I married within six weeks of our meeting. I first saw her on a Wednesday and the banns were first called that Sunday. And her father was not nearly so dead set on the match as I am.”
Alaric shook his head, wryly smiling. “I'm afraid I'm not so impetuous, sir. But, if it pleases you, I shall ask Lillian to suggest a date for our wedding. No doubt she'll have some notion in mind. As a matter of fact, I believe she said something about wishing to be married around Christmas-time.”
“Are you sure she didn't mean last Christmas? After all, it's April. She can't mean to make me wait another ...” He counted quickly on his strong fingers. “No. I won't wait eight more months to see her wed. You talk to her, Reyne. And if you've got any feeling, you'll see to it that the date is sooner than that. June, maybe. Two months is more than enough time to ‘prepare.’ Specially when you've had six months before that!”
Mr. Canfield strode toward the door. “I'll not stay longer, Reyne. Though you keep a good cellar, I've said all I came to say.” The man hesitated and turned back. “You'll forgive me for speaking so plain. It's my girl I'm worried for.”
“There's nothing in the world to forgive, sir. Lillian is worth any effort.” His father-in-law-to-be nodded his head abruptly and departed, cramming a round hat on his head as he went out, without waiting for Barton to bow him away.
When the butler came in, bearing a bottle on a salver, he found his master looking out into the square, the curtain held back. Slowly, Alaric turned. “You've been long enough with that. Where'd you go for it? France?”
“I considered, my lord, that Mr. Canfield had taken his limit. Too much wine in a boisterous man may lead on to mayhem.”
“Please, Barton. I've heard enough poetry for one evening.”
“I feared The Ingrateful Wife would not be to your liking, my lord.” Barton bowed from the waist, pouring a stream of red wine into Lord Reyne's glass.
“Then why the devil didn't you say so? Leave the bottle and go to bed.”
“Yes, my lord. If I may say so, sir—you have been kind enough not to reject my opinion when I've ventured ...”
“Barton, I knew you when we had only a blanket for a roof and a box of charges for a table. You needn't talk as if you're an old family retainer with a mouthful of pebbles.”
“Very good, my lord. She ain't for you. Captain Naughton.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Miss Canfield. She ain't for you. Not sayin’ anythin’ against the lady. She's fine. But anyone can see with half an eye she ain't for you.”
“If my boots were off, my dear old campaigner, I'd throw them at you.”
“Very good, my lord.” The door closed with a soft snick.
As tired and stiff as though he'd spent the day in the saddle, Alaric lowered himself into the chair behind the desk, kicking his feet up onto the clean blotter. He lifted his glass and studied the inverted heart shape of the candle flame in its depths.
Slowly, repeating a lesson learnt by heart, he counted again the reasons why Lillian Canfield was his ideal bride. Listening to the silence of the large house, decorated with a view toward bringing her into it, he tried to convince himself that happiness could be derived from contentment. Alaric strove to keep his thoughts on Lillian. But the girl with laughing grey eyes who held up an apple and asked, “Do you want a bite?” slipped past all his barricades.
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* * *
Chapter Ten
That night, hours after they'd returned from the theater, Sarah woke to the sound of sobbing. She sat up. “Harmonia,” she whispered. “Are you awake?”
Her friend did not answer except by a loud gulp as of tears hastily swallowed. A bar of moonlight filtered in through the window beside her bed, shining across the carpet like a path. Sarah put one foot out from beneath the covers. The floor was freezing and her slippers were far underneath the bed.
“What's the matter?” she asked, stealing across to the other bed. Putting her hair back from her face with both hands, she leaned down to whisper, “Why are you crying?”
“I wasn't. Oh, yes. I was.”
Sarah sat on the edge of the bed, her cold feet tucked up beneath her. “Why? Is it ... is it Mr. Atwood?”
All colors were washed away by the moonlight pouring in through the sheer curtains. Her friend's face seemed like something drowned without her own bright eyes and cheeks to lend vivid life. Harmonia nodded miserably, dragging up the sheet to mop her face. “How did you know?”
“You've been here a week and you've hardly mentioned him. ...”
“What could I say? I don't know anything. He never writes me. I've sent him letter on letter, and I don't receive anything in return. Not ever. I don't think I've gotten a letter from him since ... oh, since February. And that was only a brief note, hardly worth franking.” She sniffled.
“Have you asked him why he doesn't write more often?”
“I don't like to ask. I don't want him to think I'm the kind of girl who criticizes.” Drawing a quavering breath, she went on. “I'm so worried. What if something's happened to him?”
“The people who employ him would surely let you know.”
Harmonia shook her head. “Maybe not. Harlow didn't let them know about me. He said it might jeopardize his position if they knew he could only stay a year.”
“I see,” Sarah said, though she did not. “Write him again tomorrow, and ask him why he doesn't write back. Maybe he just never thought of it.”
Harmonia grasped her friend's hand. “Do you think ... ? I will. I'll demand an accounting. Will you help—oh, I forgot. You're going riding with Harvey.”
“Yes, he asked me to. But I'd much rather ...”
“No, no, you go. This is something I have to do alone.” She paused as if in thought, and then said, “Besides, you've not had a chance to ride your horse since you bought him. I can hardly believe Mrs. Whitsun let you do that.”
“Russet was a bargain for such a love. And my aunt doesn't object. She told me yesterday that she thinks I should go for rides in the Row more often. But that first time out, there were too many other people riding to find out what she can do. Early in the morning, or so Harvey says, there aren't so many riders to get in the way.”
“I don't know why you call your horse that. She's not red.”
“No, I know. But she's the apple of my eye. Is there anything I can do for you, Harmonia? Would you like me to make you a cup of tea or chocolate? I know the cook won't mind my being in her kitchen.” She knew no such thing. Her aunt's cook was a tartar, who defended her stove and hearth like a demon.
“No, I don't care for anything. I just wish he'd write to me! Even a word would be welcome.”
“I know. Try to sleep, Harmonia.” Feeling helpless, Sarah returned to her own bed. The girls had decided from the first to share a room, both for company and late-night gossips. Now that Sarah was awake, she could not go back to sleep. Not even the rhythmic breathing of her friend, finding slumber quickly through sheer exhaustion, could stop her thoughts from racing, despite how well she knew the track.
When Miss Canfield first suggested visiting the theater in her company, Mrs. Whitsun had taken her up at once. Not even Sarah's pleading the headache had dampened Mrs. Whitsun's enthusiasm for the plan. She had talked for an hour to Sarah about all the important people who would be there, about the eligible men who would fall in love with her, like Romeo and Juliet, admiring her in her balcony setting. But it was not until her aunt sighed, complaining that Lord Reyne would not be joining them, that Sarah's heartache dissipated.
She had even given in to Mrs. Whitsun's insistence that she sit up in front of the box, despite feeling like a bolt of cloth in a draper's window, because she could watch the play so much better from there. Though the high-flown language was a trifle difficult to follow, Sarah had enjoyed herself until the door opened and in walked Lord Reyne.
How splendid he'd appeared in his evening dress, with the brilliant white linen throwing back the candlelight. And then, wonders of wonders, he'd come to her side. They'd talked for a time, and he'd smiled. But those moments had been too brief; he'd returned to Miss Canfield. Sarah had not the faintest notion what happened during the next two acts. She lived only for the moment when the curtain dropped down, and yet. Lord Reyne never came back.
Lying back against her pillows, Sarah decided to forget that he'd gone from her, that he'd not returned. She smiled in the darkness, remembering what it had been like to have his entire attention focused on her alone. She invented a thousand witticisms to keep him laughing, conveniently forgetting she'd never have the boldness in real life to deliver a one of them.
Early in the morning, noticing her niece was heavy-eyed and yawning, Mrs. Whitsun said, “It will be an early night for you, dear thing. We can't have you falling ill.”
“I just had a difficult time sleeping. Aunt.”
“Over-excitement. My, that habit was an excellent investment. There are not many girls who can carry that shade of pink.” Mrs. Whitsun gave the antique-colored lace at Sarah's throat a straightening pat. “Do be careful of that train; I know you are not used to it, and nothing looks worse than a girl tripping over her own clothes.”
“Yes, Aunt.” Sarah heard a jingle as of harness and went to the morning room window to search the street. “It's Harvey, already. Doesn't he look fine? Those clothes must be new. Yes, they are. Look how proud he is of them.”
The lanky young man stopped on the steps of Mrs. Whitsun's townhouse and inhaled a great draft of morning air. Then, suddenly somber, he painstakingly plucked a piece of invisible lint from his sleeve. With a word to the groom who held the two horses, Harvey rapped the knocker. Sarah was there to open the door before the sound had the chance to echo.
“Good,” he said, looking her over. “You're all ready then.”
“Yes, I am. But I'm surprised you're so early. Harmonia said you'd be late.” She waved her riding crop to her aunt, still peering out the wide front window.
“What does she know?” Harvey asked, making a cradle of his hands so Sarah could stand on them to mount. “I hate girls who keep you waiting, on and off for an hour while they fuss. Especially with a restive beast like this under me.” The big bay, as rangy as his master, blew out his breath as though in agreement and danced, kicking his black feet. “That's not a bad animal you've got there, by the way.” They rode away, leaving the groom sitting on the steps.
Upon reaching the Park, Harvey, only in town a week, was busy greeting friends and nodding to his acquaintances. Sarah found that even at seven the rides were not empty as she'd hoped. A few of her admirers were out and her cheeks ached from smiling so much so early. She could feel beneath her the tense muscles of her mare and, as much as the horse, longed to go bounding over the empty expanses she knew existed beyond the Row. Yet, as Harvey had brought her, she felt compelled to remain beside him.
Harvey half-rose in his saddle, looking off into the distance. “Isn't that ... I believe it is!”
“Who? What is it?”
“That girl. Emma Dealford. And without her mother for once, by God!” Harvey gazed eagerly at the dim figure of a girl on a white horse. Then he slumped down and cast a sheepish glance at Sarah.
“What eyes you've got, Harvey. I can just see that is a horse. Do you want to greet her?”
“I don't want to leave you.”
“Oh, I'll come with—” Sarah recognized the expression in Harvey's eyes. It was the same a dog she'd once owned would wear whenever someone went for a walk without him. At a word, Harvey's ears would no doubt prick up. “Go ahead, Harvey. I'll wait for you down this lane.”
Quickly, before anyone noticed she was now alone, Sarah urged Russet to turn aside from the main thoroughfare. Not knowing the ground, she dared not let her mare entirely off the rein, but she could not resist moving up from the leisurely pace of the Row to a brisk trot. Though a few patches of mist still clung to the low spots on the path, a breeze stirred her hair as her heart beat freely for the first time in days.
Then, a small man appeared almost under Russet's hooves. Sarah pulled sharply at the reins. The horse, surprised, reared back. As Sarah fought to keep her seat, she glimpsed a long object of wood and steel in the man's hands. Shocked, she let go and fell off.
“Are you hurt. Miss?”
“No, I don't believe so.” For a moment, she thought she was back in her own woods, staring up into an autumn sky. But this man's eyes were brown. He was small and scrawny, his clothes patched together with dark squares and ragged threads. The object in his hand was definitely a pistol.
Sarah sat up, her hand on her head. The universe still gyrated. She took her hand away and the reeling slowed. “Where's my hat?”
He searched around with his eyes. “ ‘Ere you go,” he said, bending to pick up a squashed and dented object. Handing it to her, he stepped back and leveled his pistol once more. “Give me ... yer money and ah ... yer jewels.”
Rising, Sarah found she rather towered over the man. He wore a tattered cap on his greying brown hair. “I'm afraid I haven't anything. I'm riding this morning, not going to Court.”
“Ain't it my luck?” The man lowered his pistol, shaking his head as though he'd never expected any better success.
“I'm sorry to disappoint you,” Sarah said. “Aren't you going to shoot me?”
“No, miss. I can't hurt nothing, after being in the wars.”
“Oh, were you a soldier?”
“Yes, miss. With the Army of the Peninsula.”
A Lady in Love Page 14