A Lady in Love

by Cynthia Bailey Pratt

  “Well, it's certainly the only new invitation we've received today. Have you assurance enough to face all those people?”

  Though she pretended not to hear, a little voice whispered that Lord Reyne would certainly be at an evening party given by his betrothed. That, naturally, was no factor in her decision. “Of course, I do.”

  She needed all the confidence she could muster or the gold-trimmed chemise robe could lend. Entering the pink-and-cream ballroom was daunting enough to make her face pale, for every head swiveled to observe her. She'd grown used, during these weeks in London, to being looked at, but always before she could feel the approval in the air. Now, the faces frowned and voices whispered behind raised fans. Sarah knew that every pair of eyes, aided and unaided, watched as she approached Lillian Canfield. Harmonia, guided by Mrs. Whitsun's hand on her arm, fell back to let Sarah go on alone.

  Her garlanded head held high, Sarah waited for Miss Canfield to notice her.

  “Miss East!” her hostess said, holding out both hands with a warmth more vibrant than that offered to her other guests. “I'm so very happy you could come. What a charming gown! And you must show me that style of hair. So pretty! Come, you must meet all my friends. Alaric isn't come yet. He's bound to be late; he always is.”

  Sarah blushed then, at the kind greeting. The pressure of all those gazes suddenly seemed an intolerable burden. If Lillian had not been so determined to make Sarah known to her friends, Sarah might have committed the error of apologizing for her mistake in dancing with Miss Canfield's husband-to-be. She realized just in time, however, that by continuing to be stubbornly unaware that any solecism had been committed, Lillian Canfield could avoid the worse burden of the pity of all her large acquaintance.

  Lord Reyne arrived before eleven o'clock. Despite the crowd of people, for Miss Canfield's ball was to be given that highest accolade, “a sad crush,” Sarah knew the moment he entered. She faced her partner a little more squarely and spoke to him a trifle more gaily than she had a moment before. So emboldened was he by her increased interest that he dared ask her for a third dance. Sarah was on the point of agreeing, though she knew she'd find herself in further trouble with her aunt, when a male cough sounded at her elbow.

  “Miss East, I believe this is our dance,” Lord Reyne said.

  “Is it, sir? I don't believe so.” Mrs. Whitsun had warned her that any expression other than polite boredom would be taken to mean she was eating her heart out for him. “If he's fool enough to notice you,” her aunt had said, “don't compound his folly by encouraging his attentions. Be cold, be distant, be uninterested.”

  Lord Reyne did not seem taken aback by her impoliteness. With a second bow, he said, “I am but obeying the orders of our hostess.”

  “In that case, I cannot refuse you.” She curtsied to her former partner. Touching his arm as little as she could, Sarah strolled off with Lord Reyne.

  “I don't know. Miss East. This floor appears rather slick. Perhaps I should abrade the soles of your shoes so you do not slip.” He smiled down on her, and Sarah felt her heart give an impetuous bound. She sternly called it to heel.

  “I don't think that will be necessary.” The music began. A country dance, thank God, she thought. To be held by him after their temporary madness would be more than she could have stood.

  As their fingertips touched in passing, he said, “I'm sorry I have no orange to offer you.”

  “Do you want oranges? There are some by the refreshments.”

  “Ah, but they are too ripe for cricket.”

  “I suppose they must be.” Sarah chewed the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling back. If only Aunt Whitsun had told her how to behave with the necessary aloofness. Try as she might to make her eyes hard and cold, Sarah greatly feared their expression told more of her feelings than her unsmiling lips.

  Though the first dance of the set kept them apart, the second made the exchange of confidence easy. Though not a waltz, the dance involved a good deal of touching and standing by with arms entwined while other couples sashayed down the line.

  “Miss East ... Sarah, how have I offended you?” His voice was intense, sending a shiver of response down the back of her neck.

  “You have not.”

  “Obviously, there's something I've done to hurt you. Please believe my intentions were never ...”

  “Our turn,” she said, and smiled brightly while passing beneath the linked arms of the other couples, swinging in and out with Lord Reyne. Though she met the eyes of strangers, she felt nothing save his fingers locked with hers. So soon they'd slip away for ever. She couldn't remember how the dance ended, only that he never again used that particular tone when speaking to her.

  Then it was done, and Mrs. Whitsun was nodding approval from across the room. Sarah went to stand beside her aunt, feeling more drained than after an entire day in the summer sun. She sipped from a cold glass as someone called for silence. With the rest, Sarah turned to see what was happening.

  “Friends,” Mr. Canfield said, raising his arms in his tight coat like a successful prize-fighter. “I'm a lucky man tonight. I've been told the one thing I've been longing to hear, and that is that my girl will be married before the end of August!”

  “How vulgar!” Mrs. Whitsun whispered, though she joined in the gasp of surprise and the polite applause that greeted this unusual announcement. The snap of the breaking stem of Sarah's glass went unheard amidst the noise.

  “Now, then, lift up your glasses and drink to the happy couple.” Mr. Canfield took his daughter's right hand, joining it forcefully with Lord Reyne's left. There was some laughter at the expressions of surprise on the happy couple's faces. The toast was drunk willingly, the wilder spirits calling out jests.

  “I have the headache,” Sarah said, bending to whisper beneath the edge of her aunt's silver turban.

  “What? Don't be ridiculous.”

  “I'm going to send for the carriage and go home. I'll give orders the driver is to return at once. Don't disturb yourself, Aunt.”

  Mrs. Whitsun stood up, gripping Sarah's arm strongly. Though she smiled and kept her voice low, the outrage in her tone came through clearly. “Don't you understand anything, you silly fool? If you go home now, after that announcement, don't you know what people will think? They'll think you're heartbroken, going home to cry because you can't face the fact that he's marrying another. If you go home now, you daren't show your face to the ton again. Then what good will your beauty do you?”

  Sarah freed her arm, not roughly or with strength, but as easily as if no bond existed. “Let them think what they like,” she said, without lowering her voice. “It's true, anyway.”

  She had to stand for some little time in the marble-lined entrance, as Mrs. Whitsun's carriage was lost behind a myriad of others. If anyone looked upon her, Sarah was not aware of it. At last, the carriage came. After pulling across the curtains, she sat with her head in her hands. Her fingers felt comfortingly cool over her hot eyes. She did not cry, not yet.

  A few sentences to the yawning butler explained the ostensible excuse for her early return. Dismissing her aunt's maid, Sarah removed her clothes and clambered into an old nightdress, not fine like her others but darned by her mother's loving hands. Getting into bed, Sarah sat up, looking at the mountains and valleys of the rumpled white blanket.

  As squarely as she could, Sarah faced facts. There'd never really been any grounds for hope. Alaric had been betrothed before he'd ever met her. If he did not love Miss Canfield, how much less likely it was that he should ever love her.

  Sarah decided she never would marry now. Her great-aunt's lessons, carefully instilled, had as their main point the fact that any girl who transgressed the rules of society would have no chance at marriage. It had been Sarah's responsibility to find herself a suitable husband during this sojourn in London. She'd failed, not through lack of beauty, charm, or dowry, but by daydreaming over someone who could never be hers. Even if she'd not ruined all furthe
r opportunities by her bad behavior, Sarah could not stomach the idea of finding another man. The whole process of charming a stranger left her feeling completely exhausted.

  A clattering as of rain outside her window reminded her of the lateness of the hour. She slid beneath the covers, leaving only her forehead exposed. Once the rain began in earnest, she promised herself a good cry. The noise of the downpour would hide any sobs she would make, and then she'd not have to explain her mood to Harmonia, who had enough troubles of her own.

  The rattle at the windowpane repeated, and Sarah came upright. That did not sound like rain. It sounded like ... She recalled the frequent summons of gravel against the glass. If she opened the window, would she find herself in a dream of Harold and Harcourt, and the laughing days of long-ago?

  Sarah turned the brass handle and leaned out over the sill. In the street below, a man stood, half-illuminated by the flickering lantern light. A long cloak muffled his figure. Seeing her, he raised up on tiptoe and waved something white at her. It did not flutter like a handkerchief. It was square and stiff like a sealed letter. “Harmonia?” he called. “It is I. Harlow.”

  “Mr. Atwood? What in the ... ? Stay there; I'll be down directly.”

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  * * *

  Chapter Twelve

  Cautioning him to be silent, Sarah led Mr. Atwood through the hall to Mrs. Whitsun's morning room, their path lit only by the candlestick she'd picked up from the console table. The breeze through a window, opened a scant inch, set the flame to flickering. The huge shadows cast on the grey-blue wall behind them bowed and swayed as if in an evil dance. The color, chosen to flatter an aging complexion, did nothing to improve Mr. Atwood's sallow face. After putting down the candlestick, Sarah shut the heavy door. “We can talk now,” she said.

  “You're ... you're looking very well. Miss East.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Atwood. Aren't you supposed to be in Scotland?”

  The man's prominent Adam's apple rose and fell in his skinny neck as he gulped. He cast a glance over his shoulder, as though expecting to see pursuers. “Yes, yes, I am.”

  “Harmonia's been quite worried about you. You do remember Harmonia? Your affianced wife?”

  “Yes, of course, I do. How is she?” He seemed to realize his curiosity was not as lover-like as it should be. “I've been thinking of her rather a lot just lately. I wonder if you would mind giving her this?”

  Sarah took a grubby paper from his hand. It looked as if it had been much handled."What is in this letter, Mr. Atwood?''

  “Uh, it's ... that is ...” Fixing him with a steady eye, Sarah repeated her question. Harlow Atwood crumpled. “It's an apology.”

  “For not having written?”

  “For marrying someone else.”

  “What?” His muttered words were so low, Sarah could not be certain of their sense.

  Mr. Atwood shushed her, patting the air with his hands. “I've snuck out,” he said. “If Lucy finds I've gone, especially to come here, I'll never hear the end of it.”

  “Why should she find out?”

  “You don't know Lucy. This is the first place she'll look. She's always been jealous of Harmonia, seeing as Lucy's so much older. Er ... Harmonia's not here, I take it?”

  “No, but she'll be back in less than two hours.”

  “Oh, good. I needn't see her, then. You give her that letter, Miss East. It will explain it all.”

  “It cannot explain away her humiliation and pain, sir,” she said, flicking it indignantly onto a table. Sarah's face was red for her friend's sake. It burned all the more brightly because she suddenly understood what Miss Canfield's position would have been if Lord Reyne had left her for another.

  “Well,” Mr. Atwood said, after a long pause. “I'd better be going along. Lucy, you know.”

  “I insist that you stay to see Harmonia.” Sarah advanced on him. “To leave now would be an act of cowardice.”

  The gangling fellow raised his shoulders in a continental shrug. “You don't know Lucy.”

  “I have no wish to know a woman who would steal another's affianced husband. Didn't you tell her about Harmonia?”

  Still backing up, headed by a poltroon's sure instinct for the front door, Mr. Atwood said, “I made every effort, but she never seemed to want to listen. I had no choice but to marry her. Miss East, once that incident in her room came out. She promised me she'd not tell a soul, but the next thing I knew, I was standing up in the kirk ... er ... church. You'll tell Harmonia that, won't you?”

  “I think you've behaved abominably, Mr. Atwood. If Harmonia's brothers were here, they'd take a horsewhip to you!” Feeling a strange breeze, Sarah looked around to find that she stood in the street. Glancing up at the windows that reflected the street lamp, she realized, after a moment's alarm, that they were still unobserved, save by a distant figure striding towards them at the end of the street. “You are not a gentleman, sir. I'm happy Harmonia isn't at home to learn of your perfidy.”

  Mr. Atwood also seemed to discover that his escape path lay open. “I'm sorry you feel that way. Miss East. I know Lucy would have liked to meet you. Good-bye.” Off he darted on his long legs, only to collide with the sole other person in the street.

  “Aha!” said a familiar voice as strong hands caught hold of Mr. Atwood by the slack of his coat.

  “I say, Reyne, old man, let me go! There's a good fellow.” Mr. Atwood pleaded, twisting and turning in the peer's grasp.

  Sarah was dumbstruck. She felt she'd not only forgotten how to speak but that even the ability for conscious thought had departed. Lord Reyne seemed so much bigger than usual, like an avenging spirit, that she wanted to fall at his feet, but she could not move.

  “I suppose you were just arriving?” Alaric demanded. “All the more shameful if you are going. Miss East, have you no moral sense whatever? Receiving gentlemen in the middle of the night and in your nightclothes!”

  “He ... he isn't in my nightclothes. ...” she said in a tiny, ridiculous voice.

  Alaric only turned on her a look of scorn before giving his attention once more to the interloper between his hands. “Be gone, sir, before I call the servants to thrash you. No, by God, who needs them?” Loosening his shoulders in the tight black coat, he hurled Mr. Atwood away as lightly as if he was an old, dried-out branch.

  Landing with his arms and legs curled up, like a spider cut loose from a web, Mr. Atwood scrambled to his feet. “Remember to give it to Harmonia!” he said as he turned to run away. He tripped over a loose cobble and sprawled like a beached starfish for a moment before finding his footing again. A brief whizzing noise and the street was empty save for Sarah and a furious Alaric.

  “That was Mr. Atwood,” Sarah said, still softly.

  “So, not content with carrying on illicitly with a man, you betray your dearest friend? Did that add more spice to the proceedings?''

  It was absurd to think, at this moment, of his arms about her, foolish to wish that he might embrace her again, only this time without pausing to remember all the reasons he should not. But when Alaric did nothing beyond glaring at her from across the street, a new sensation began to bubble up inside her. It burgeoned and grew: a mood very different from what she was accustomed to feeling in his presence.

  “I think ... I think I ought to be insulted. What are you doing here. Lord Reyne, anyway?”

  His angry color had ebbed, only to be replaced by a sudden flood of abashed red."I happened to be passing by, that's all.”

  “Passing by? But Miss Canfield said you lived at the other end of town. Besides, I thought you'd still be at the Canfields', making arrangements for your wedding.”

  “And so I should be, if I had any sense. Miss East, go into the house before you catch your death.”

  “I will!” In slippered feet, Sarah trotted up the steps, preparing to slam her way into the house and never give Lord Reyne a backward glance. But, putting her hand to the brass knob in the center of the
door, she found it would not turn! She tried it again, a frustrated moan escaping her lips.

  “Go on,” Alaric said from the street.

  “Don't you think I want to?” she asked, glaring at him with hot eyes. “It's locked. Someone locked it.”

  He stepped up to stand beside her, and Sarah pulled her dressing gown more tightly around her. Impatiently, Alaric raised his fist to knock on the door. Sarah put her hand on his arm. “Don't. If the butler tells my aunt about this, she'll think I've lost my mind.”

  “So, you're not entirely dead to propriety.”

  “I don't know what you mean. Mr. Atwood simply stopped in to give me a letter for Harmonia.”

  “Where is it?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “If you expect me to believe that highly unlikely story, I want to see this so-called letter.”

  Sarah plunged her hand into the patch pocket of her robe. “Here it is and ... oh. I left it in the house.”

  “As I thought.”

  “Besides, it's Harmonia's. You couldn't read it, even if I had it with me. That wouldn't be right.”

  “Kindly keep off irrelevant side issues, if you can.”

  “It's not I who can't keep my mind on the business at hand. However am I to get in again?” She looked at the shiny white door with anger sparking in her grey eyes. As if she'd not taken about all the abuse she could for one night!

  He searched the front of the house. “Could there be an open window somewhere?”

  “There shouldn't be. My aunt is severe on the idea of burglary. All the servants have been warned.”

  “What about that one?” He pointed to the tiny opening at the base of one of the morning room windows. The marble still was perhaps eight or nine feet above the street, set in the brick wall. Though the closest window to the door, it was too far away to be reached even from the top step.