A Lady in Love

by Cynthia Bailey Pratt

  “Dorothea, how perfect!” Mrs. East said. She wrote a note on the sheet of foolscap by her elbow. “I shall tell Marsh to search by the stream. There should be plenty there. And, if not, I noticed this morning that my rose bushes are in bud. By next Wednesday, they'll bloom; no doubt about that!”

  The two ladies smiled contentedly at one another. The happy tears of the return from London with the betrothed couple were past. Harmonia and Mortimer meandered about Hollytrees, holding hands, far removed in thought if not in distance from the hubbub of the library, where mothers made plans. After two days of brain-squeezing, they'd completed the list of food to be served out at the wedding breakfast and had turned to the question of decorations for the church and hall.

  Lady Phelps said, “Dear me, there's still so much to be done. Sarah, how are you proceeding with those letters?”

  Hearing her name called, Sarah began to drive her pen across the page with more industry. “Very well, ma'am. This one's to your cousin Cecilia.”

  “Oh, yes. She'll never come, but she always likes to hear about the children. Although, to think on it, she did come to Harriet's wedding and while suffering from a sprained foot. Perhaps she will make it.”

  “It's very short notice,” Mrs. East said reassuringly.

  “Nevertheless, you'd better put her at the table with Mrs. Harleigh. They'll be able to compare doctors and have a lovely time.” Mrs. East nodded and scrabbled among the many pages of notes for the arrangement of the wedding breakfast.

  Sarah bowed her head once more over the list of addresses. Her task was to copy the meticulous announcement Sir Arthur had drafted. The twins were supposed to be helping her, but they'd ridden off with Mr. Randolph to oversee the delivery wagon which was to bring the two kilderkins of rum ordered in for the wedding breakfast. There'd also be brandy, but that would be brought in at night, due to a small question of Revenue.

  As the two mothers continued, discussing now how much white bunting they'd require versus how much the draper was likely to have, the rhythmic scratching of Sarah's pen slowed again. If they'd been planning a funeral, Sarah could have been miserable and caused no comment. But to be sad when everyone else is ecstatic smacks of rudeness, if not perversity. So Sarah struggled to seem as delighted with her brother and friend as custom demanded. Indeed, she was happy for them, but as though they lived in another country, separated from her by heavy seas and roiling mists. She sighed, and the salutation to a distant cousin blurred.

  Lady Phelps stopped in the middle of a sentence. “Listen! Is that Mr. Gerard with the post? Yes, yes, it is. Hurry, Sarah. Take the ones you've finished in to Sir Arthur for his frank and we'll get them off.” Sarah gathered a rustling armload to her chest."And be sure to tell me if the bishop has sent the license. I'm so glad you arranged that before you left London, Marissa. What a clear mind you have!”

  Sir Arthur happily complied with his wife's request, laughing that, “Those two years in Parliament are going to save me a fortune. Must all these people know about Harmonia's wedding?”

  “Lady Phelps and Mother says they do.”

  “Then they do.” He signed his name to the last one. “There you are, my dear.”

  Outside in the sunshine, the postman whistled and scratched his head, shoving aside his three-cornered hat. “If I'd known about this, I'd of brung a bigger bag, Miss Sarah.”

  “It's very good of you to make the extra trip to pick it all up. I hope we'll see you and Mrs. Gerard at the wedding breakfast.”

  “Oh, she's looking forward to it mightily, Miss Sarah.” He opened his satchel, and Sarah helped him fit all the letters in. “They'll be twice as many for yours, won't there? I'll have to bring a wagon for all them invites.” He chuckled and remounted his nag, not noticing that the young girl had gone white.

  Feeling as if her velvet slippers were anchors, she dragged herself back to the morning room. Flustered by Lady Phelps’ commands and with her hands full, Sarah had neglected to fasten the door securely. As she approached, she heard Lady Phelps say, “I just can't help wishing that there was to be another wedding after Harmonia's. Or even at the same time. I do love a double wedding. Sir Arthur and I were married at the altar with his older sister and her husband.”

  “Yes, I know. But, as I told you, things became very complicated for Sarah in London.”

  “It's a great shame the advantage those dreadful men take of young girls. One of my boys would never do such a thing. Was he really pledged to another?”

  “I'm afraid he was. I can only hope that, in time, she'll see that other men have merit and not waste her youth dreaming of something that can never come true.” Her mother sighed, and Sarah forgave her for telling Lady Phelps about her disappointment. She could only hope that the name of the gentleman had been kept from her mother's friend. Sarah knew she'd hate to be the cause of Alaric's losing even a jot of his reputation.

  Though the ladies were unaware that she'd overheard their conversation, Sarah did not feel that she could face them so soon after being intimately discussed. It would be impossible to meet their eyes. Remembering her other commission, she went in search of Smithers. Finding him in the kitchen, the air steaming and fragrant with smells of baking, for Mrs. Smithers was hard at work creating the wedding breakfast, she asked if anything had come in the post from the Bishop of London. The butler regretfully said, “Nothing as yet. Miss East.”

  “But that's dreadful. He promised ... I shall have to tell Lady Phelps.”

  She went, leaving the butler to shake his head and say to his wife, “Miss East lost all her bloom in London.”

  “Late hours,” the sweating lady cook said with a censorious sneer.

  “Lost love,” her husband replied. “I heard Mrs. East telling her la'ship the entire tale. They never said the name of the fellow it was, but I can guess.”

  “Who?” Mrs. Smithers leaned nearer to him across the work-scarred table, holding up a dripping spoon.

  “Never you mind. And watch it! You've got batter all down your arm.”

  Upon hearing the news, Lady Phelps beat her hand on the leather blotter. “They must have a license. If only Mortimer had applied for one while he was here.”

  “Considering he did not know he was going to marry Harmonia before he went to London ...”

  “But it's the sort of thing a man may find himself needing at any moment.”

  Sarah said, “Good, here's Father.”

  “Why, do you need me?” Mr. East entered and stooped to kiss his wife.

  “Oh, Edgar, you always know when to arrive. The license hasn't come yet. The bishop promised it would be here by today. Whatever shall we do if it doesn't arrive in time?”

  Mr. East said, “I don't know. But Sarah has an idea. What is it?” He turned his bright blue eyes on his daughter and a smile of pure pride lit his face.

  Sarah responded to it with something like her old spirit. “I'll tell you in two words: Baggers Ashton! I've heard you mention him often.”

  “Old Baggers?” her father asked, a frown rumpling his shaggy blond eyebrows. Then his expression cleared. “You're right, of course. How clever of you! My dear, don't you recall my telling you that old Baggers had made bishop at last? It took him years, as he knows rather less about Scripture than my boot. Where was he promoted to?”

  “Blanstonbury, wasn't it?” Mrs. East said.

  “That's right, that's right. I remember him telling me in his last letter how splendid the hunting was. Very good, Sarah. All our problems are solved! I shall ride over at once.”

  “But,” Lady Phelps said, rather hesitatingly as though bringing up a subject of doubtful respectability, “isn't Blanstonbury thirty miles from here?”

  “Something like that,” Mr. East agreed. “Don't worry about me. Fathers aren't much use at weddings, especially a son's. I shall enjoy seeing old Baggers again. I last saw him ... let me see ... at about the same time as I saw my last nappy.”

  Mrs. East said, “It's three days
to the wedding, Edgar. You don't have to leave at once. Why not wait until tomorrow to see if the Bishop of London has sent his license? Then you'll have enough time to ride over to Blanstonbury, collect a license, and still be back in time. No, I forgot. The first license might come before you came back, and then you'd have had your trip for nothing.”

  “Not for nothing. I'd see my dear old schoolmate, which is worth something any day. And, at the worst, Harmonia and Mortimer will have two licenses which, as we all know, is better than none.”

  Their minds relieved, the ladies went on with their plans. Mr. East came to Sarah's side and peered over her shoulder as she worked. “How many of those have you done today?”

  She checked the addresses. “Twenty-four.”

  “Twenty-four! Your poor hand must be aching. Let me take over for a little while. I'm used to writing long screeds; these will take me no time at all. You go out and get fresh air into your lungs. We can't have you falling ill.”

  “There's no danger of that.”

  “Go along, go along,” he said, scooping the air with both hands. With a slight smile at this pleasantry, Sarah stood up. Her father sat down at once, reaching out to dip the pen in the chased silver inkwell.

  “Run about and shake away the fidgets. Don't come back for hours. You can work on these tonight, if I leave you any to do,” he said, falling to work, apparently taking no notice of the feather-light kiss Sarah dropped on his permanently wrinkled brow. Under his breath, as he finished the first line, he said, “Pish-tosh, what a driveling way to put it ... ‘honor is mine to tell you'. How like an M.P.... no wonder they sent him down....”

  Finding her hat, she left the house by the front door to walk to her home. Molly wanted to refit the dress Sarah was to wear to the wedding, as it hung loosely on the girl's figure. Though making every effort to think only of the upcoming festivities, Sarah found her thoughts dropping into a well-worn groove. What if, she thought, watching her feet kick out the front of her dress, what if things were different?

  What if it were Alaric on the horse I can hear approaching? What if the animal came to a sliding stop only feet away from me and I could look up and there he'd be smiling down at me? What if he vaulted down from the saddle and grasped me in his arms, begging me in broken tones to marry him?

  “Yes, yes, I will,” Sarah murmured.

  Harcourt kissed her cheek. “I knew if I made it back here before Harold you'd accept me,” he said, exulting.

  “What? I...what?”

  “I gave him the slip at the wine merchants. He thinks I've gone to buy Harmonia's wedding present.” Harcourt chuckled at his own cleverness and the lunk-headedness of his twin. “It's the first chance I've had to be alone with you, and by the Great Harry, I'm glad I took it. Harold will be blue-green with envy. He'll bite his pen in half when I tell him.”

  Sarah blinked and refocused her eyes. Thick dark hair, a strong smell of horses, stronger arms, and a long, narrow face wearing a grin that seemed to split it in half. Yes, it was Harcourt holding her at the side of this dusty road, his horse breathing heavily just behind them. This is what came of dreaming incautiously. “Harcourt, I don't know what to say.”

  “Why say anything?” He kissed her again, noisily, still on the cheek. “You've just left the house? Come, ride with me, and we'll go tell them the news. They'll all be so happy, especially Mother. She's been hinting around for days, now Harmonia's marrying your brother, that one of us ought to get cracking to marry you. We tried to tell her that this was no new thought, but you know what Mother's like.”

  “Yes.” She contrived to put a little distance between them, if for no other reason than fear he'd might break one of her ribs in his enthusiasm.

  “Now, I've always thought your mother likes Harold better.”

  “That's not true.”

  “Good! Then you don't think there'll be any objections to me as son-in-law? ‘Course, I don't understand your father, but I'm willing to love him for your sake.” He had taken one of her hands and led her toward his horse. Unthinkingly, Sarah followed along. “I don't care for double weddings, though Mother's a fiend for ‘em. On the other hand, I hate to wait too long.”

  “No,” Sarah said, catching up to his side. “Let's not wait too long.”

  All Harcourt's talk about their families decided Sarah. Even if she'd not overheard the regrets of her mother and Lady Phelps, she still would have been aware of their strong desire to see their families inextricably linked, by more than one couple. She'd marry Harcourt, making everyone happy.

  “I don't know if we should tell them now,” she said. “I'd hate to take any of the attention away from Harmonia.”

  “Why not? You always do.”

  “That's why not. Let Harmonia have her day.”

  “All right, but dash it—can I tell Harold at least? I want to see his face when he hears the news.”

  “Yes, you may tell him, but warn him to keep it all a secret, for Harmonia's sake.”

  Harcourt turned and put his hands on Sarah's waist. “I'll lift you up.”

  Had he been Alaric, Sarah would have yielded to his touch. This thought made her step back out of Harcourt's reach. “No, I'm going home. Molly's waiting.”

  “You can ride with me and be there in half the time.”

  “I prefer to walk, Harcourt. I've been shut up in the morning room all day. You run home and decide how you're going to tell Harold.”

  “Yes!” The boy grinned. “He'll gnash his teeth down to nubbins! We'll have to feed him gruel.” With athletic grace, Harcourt bounded into the saddle. “Shall you come to dinner?”

  “I don't know. We'll see what Mother has to say.”

  “I hope you can. It'll be such a pleasure to see Harold glowering at you. Stand back now.” Sarah stood away and he clapped his heels against the horse's sides. With a snort, the animal took off. Harcourt stood up in the saddle and waved his hand above his head, whooping like a Red Indian.

  Sarah walked on. Except for the dust still hanging in the air, the entire episode might have been a dream. Inhaling deeply, Sarah revised that opinion. Such sore ribs never resulted solely from imagination. She'd accepted his proposal and was now the future Mrs. Harcourt Phelps. Someday there'd be a procession of little Phelpses. Harcourt, while not witty, not blue-eyed, and the possessor of footsteps that resounded rather than whispered, could be called handsome in a boyish, outdoors fashion. She'd get over Alaric Naughton, Earl of Reyne. One day, no doubt, she'd be unable to remember even his voice. It would be drowned out by the clamor of young Harcourts.

  The quiet woods along the road beckoned. She'd be alone and peaceful there, with no great horses and loud boys to disturb her daydreams. Sarah turned and entered the green coolness. This had always been her shelter.

  The six months between October and March had not served to rid her of his image, and their meeting during the Season had reinforced her love. Perhaps it would take six years before her heart healed, though it was not fair to ask Harcourt to wait so long. There must be a way, she thought, to pretend to be in love with her childhood friend. She tried to invent a daydream of happiness with Harcourt at the center. But her thoughts danced away, like so many butterflies, to hover about Alaric. Chasing after them only exhausted her. In the end, she let them drift where they would.

  When she came home, she fell asleep in the morning room. Her mother and her maid found her there when the supper bell had rung twice. Drawing up the blanket over Sarah's motionless body, Mrs. East said, “Let her sleep as long as she likes tomorrow. She's been working too hard.”

  “Lovin’ too hard's more like it,” Molly said.

  “You know about that?”

  “Find me a single soul in the county as doesn't. If I had him here, he'd soon regret playing fast and loose with my girl.”

  “You'd have to stand in line behind me,” Mrs. East said with a fierce look. “What can the man be thinking of? Why doesn't he do something about it?” she asked, closing the do
or.

  It was late in the morning of the next day, the day before the wedding, when Sarah woke up. Wandering downstairs, she begged Molly for a cup of tea. “You'll be having something more than that, it's to be hoped,” Molly said, her hands on her hips.

  “No, thank you,” Sarah answered with a slow smile.

  “That wasn't a question. Sit down and I'll make you some nice toast, with my special damson plum preserve.”

  “You only give me that when I'm ill.” Obediently, Sarah sat down at the kitchen table.

  “It's the end of the pot, and you may as well have it as the next person. When you're through, put on that dress and I'll start fitting it to you. I'm ashamed to see you in my kitchen in your dressing gown. Is this the fine way you learned in London?” The maid's heart dropped another notch when Sarah did not answer back in her familiar hasty way. Stabbing the bread with a toasting fork, she held it to the flame as if it were the body of a certain earl.

  Two hours later, Molly stepped back a last time, squinting above a mouthful of pins. “That's as straight as mortal hands can make it,” she said indistinctly.

  “I beg your pardon?'’ Sarah said from the dizzying height of a straight-backed chair.

  After spitting out the pins, Molly said, “That's as good as I can do. But don't you dare lose another ounce before that wedding, or this dress will fall off halfway through the vows. Let me help you down.” Reaching up a worn hand, she grasped Sarah's smooth fingers and steadied the girl. “Now slip out of that and put on your pretty blue silk, so I can see if it still fits you.”

  “What for?”

  “Dinner at the Phelpses. Never say you've forgotten tonight is their pledging dinner.”

  “I thought that was the night we came home.”

  “No, that was the-night-you-came-home dinner. Tonight is when Master Mortimer lifts his glass to his lady. You must be there. It's oh so romantical.” Her white-swathed bosom rose and fell while she gave a misty-eyed sigh.

  “I don't know, Molly. I'm tired. Maybe I'll take a quiet supper here, by myself.”