by Sandra Heath
Suddenly she pulled her shawl around her shoulders. “I must speak to him,” she said.
“Is that wise, my dear?” Lady Letitia’s expression spoke volumes as to how unwise it was.
“I will not be long,” Anthea declared, and before anything more could be said, she hurried along the lantern-lit deck and then ashore. Within seconds she was approaching Jovian, who turned immediately, as if sensing her.
“Good evenin’, hic, Anth-thea.” His voice was muzzy, yet his gray eyes were surprisingly alert.
“Please tell me you do not mean to come on board in such an inebriated state!” she declared, emotion making her almost strident.
He glanced at Sir Erebus, who was deep in conversation with one of the other gentlemen, then said in a quiet but imperative tone. “It would be better if you stayed ashore, Anthea.” Suddenly his diction was firm and clear, without a hint of liquor.
She stared at him, as much taken aback by the improvement in his voice as by what he said, but then Sir Erebus turned. “Is anything wrong, Lady Anthea?” he inquired.
Jovian hiccupped, then laughed too loudly. “Methinks sh—hic—she’s been at th’brandy, Lethe, for I v-vow she’s asked me if—hic—she should go on the barge or not. As if I would know!” He swayed alarmingly and clutched Sir Erebus’s shoulder for support.
Anthea was stung. “Oh, there is no point in speaking to you at all, sirrah, for you are beastly drunk as usual. I pray you do not come near me again tonight.”
“I didn’ c-come near you now. You c-came to me, remember?” He raised an imaginary glass to her.
Sir Erebus disentangled himself from Jovian and came to draw her hand gently over his arm. “I’ll see that he leaves you alone, Lady Anthea. Now, please allow me to escort you,” he said kindly, and ushered her toward the boat again.
His genuine concern brought sudden tears to her eyes. She blinked them back. “Forgive me, Sir Erebus, I am afraid I still find it difficult to believe the duke is so changed.”
His fingers rested briefly over hers. “I quite understand, Lady Anthea. Believe me, he does not mean to be as he is; I fear he just cannot help himself.”
She halted. “You are his friend, Sir Erebus, do you know what happened to him? Why did he suddenly turn to drink like this?”
He exhaled slowly. “I don’t know what lies behind it, Lady Anthea. I have known him since I became his neighbor about twelve months ago, but he has not confided much that went on before our acquaintance. He may have always been a drinker, albeit secretly at first.”
“No, I’m sure not.” She would have known. Wouldn’t she?
“It is none of my business, I know, Lady Anthea, but my advice is that you forget him.”
“He is already in the past as far as I am concerned,” she fibbed, determined that the statement would very soon be true. She had to make herself accept that the Jovian Cathness she had loved had gone forever.
“There are other fish in the sea, Lady Anthea,” Sir Erebus said softly, as they reached the railed plank to the pleasure boat. The inflection in his voice could not help but command her attention, and she knew he was telling her he was one such fish. He raised her hand to his lips. “I trust we shall meet again, soon,” he murmured, smiling again.
“I trust so too, Sir Erebus,” she replied, politely but rather unwisely. She did not mean to encourage him but was swept along by the moment and grateful for being rescued from her self-inflicted confrontation with Jovian.
She went back on board and found Corinna and Lady Letitia waiting anxiously. “What was all that about?” Lady Letitia demanded crossly.
“I... I just asked Jovian not to come near us.”
“And he agreed, I trust?”
Anthea glanced ashore. “Not exactly, but Sir Erebus promised to see that he keeps away,” she murmured.
“Ah, the gallant Sir Erebus,” Lady Letitia murmured. “Such a gentleman, and no mistake.”
Corinna sighed. “And so annoyingly interested in Anthea. I wish he liked me even half as much.”
“So much for your equivocation over Viscount Heversham,” Anthea replied, with what she hoped was a light laugh. “Besides, Sir Erebus only spoke to me because I was silly enough to try reasoning with Jovian. I am quite sure that when he meets you, I will very soon be forgotten.”
Lady Letitia’s eagle eyes missed nothing of her niece’s inner distress, so she diverted Corinna’s attention by taking her to meet someone. Anthea returned to the bow, which was now completely deserted, and sat on the bench to compose herself. But her unsettled mind dredged up the past, in particular the terrible night that Jovian’s cruel tongue had finally forced her to end matters between them.
It happened at Lord and Lady Farnborough’s 1812 Christmas ball.
Chapter Nine
The ballroom at the Farnborough residence in Curzon Street was a separate building that stood in the snowy, lantern-decked garden behind the house, and the Christmas ball was always a special occasion. The ball of 1812 was no different. Music sounded sweetly, there was a great deal of conversation, and all in all the occasion was an outstanding success for Lady Farnborough—except for the atrocious wine, of course. It was a mystery to Anthea why such an experienced and talented hostess should lavish money on everything except the wine.
The ball was in full swing when Anthea noticed Jovian’s absence. Her already low spirits plummeted a little more as she looked around in vain for his blond head among the sea of guests beneath the shimmering chandeliers and exquisite Christmas decorations. Things had been awkward between them for days now because he had been constantly drunk or suffering the aftereffects.
She did not know what was wrong, and he would not confide in her; indeed, at times his retorts had been sharp to the point of unpleasantness. As a result, instead of happily contemplating the imminent announcement of their forthcoming marriage, she was beginning to have serious misgivings about proceeding at all.
It did not seem possible that he could change so much in such a short time, almost overnight, in fact. The nonpareil with whom she had fallen so desperately in love, and whose kiss had made her feel as if they floated above the London rooftops, appeared to have been replaced by a changeling. The sunny paradise of the past months had suddenly begun to grow cold and wintry.
She noticed Aunt Letty talking to Lord Henley and hurried to ask them if they had seen Jovian. It was impossible not to observe that Aunt Letty’s glance slid uncomfortably away, or that Lord Henley cleared his throat before answering.
“He ... er, he went back to the house about half an hour ago.” Such truthfulness earned him a warning dig from Aunt Letty’s elbow, but it was too late, and already Anthea was hurrying out of the ballroom into the chilly gardens, where the colored lanterns cast rainbow pools of light on the snow.
The gemstones on her gauzy violet gown glittered as she hastened along the sand-scattered path, and the sound of carol-singing carried from the street, so that ever afterward she would associate Christmas and carols with those moments leading up to the shattering of her heart and happiness.
She reached the house and entered by way of the French windows of the billiard room. A number of gentlemen were at play and nodded to her as she passed. Had she seen the glances they exchanged afterward, she would have known what to expect.
Jovian was in Lord Farnborough’s firelit library, lounging idly on a brown leather sofa with a full glass of whisky in his hand and a half-empty decanter within easy reach on the floor. He had loosened his neckcloth and discarded his coat. Seeing her in a mirror as she entered the room, he raised the glass. “Ah, so you have f-found me,” he muttered thickly.
“So it would seem,” she replied in the clipped tone that had been so prevalent over the past few days.
“I th-thought to escape your nagging tongue and sour v-visage,” he said, sitting up slowly and drinking half the glass of whisky as if hoping the action would displease her.
She gazed at him. “Oh, Jovian, what
has happened to you?” she whispered.
His glazed eyes were hard in the firelight. “I have just grown t-tired of you, my l-lady. I don’t like your face, your v-voice, your damned name, or any—hic—thing about you.” He raised the glass again and drank what was left in it.
Salt tears pricked her eyes. “Do you really mean that?” she asked, just preventing her voice from breaking.
“Oh, go away, my lady, for I have h-had enough of your whining complaints. I’m s-sick of you, your conversation, your person, and—hic—your prissy standards. I vow you will be as comfortless as a prayer b-book between the sheets! A man can drink as he pl-pleases and should not be expected to do otherwise, simply because a damned w-woman doesn’t like it!”
He reached for the decanter and poured another full glass, although much was spilled because his hand was unsteady. “A wife such as you, my d-dear Anth-thea, would stifle the very life out of m-me. Look at you, you’re too skinny and flat, your hair is dull, and th-there is no kindness in you for a fellow’s afflictions.”
Each cruel word stabbed her like a dagger, and there were tears on her cheeks as she stood her ground. “Afflictions? Is that what you call your disgusting drunkenness? We are alone in here, Jovian, and I see no one coercing you to raise that glass to your lips. That is not an affliction; it is a deliberate and more than willing choice.”
“What a n-nag you are, to be sure. Hic.” He looked at her as if he truly did despise her.
“And what a shabby, pathetic excuse for a man you are,” she breathed. “You have no dignity or manners, and if you continue like this, you will soon have no friends at all.”
“Nag, nag, nag.”
“Well, I’ll spare you my presence now and forever more. I may have loved you only days ago, sirrah, but I despise you now. Consider our association to be at an end.”
“Gladly.”
Stifling a sob, she left the room, closing the door upon him and upon her lost happiness. She heard the crash of the glass as he hurled it after her.
* * *
Anthea’s unhappy meditation about that awful Christmas was ended when Corinna, at Lady Letitia’s behest, came to tell her the guests were now assembling at the table. Doing her best to look bright and cheerful again, she accompanied her stepsister to the table under the awning, and within moments everyone was seated, including Jovian and Sir Erebus.
Men with rowing boats hauled the larger pleasure craft out onto the water, then returned to the shore until needed to bring them to shore again. Soon the bishop’s dinner party had commenced, and it proved to be very recherché indeed, an emigrė French chef having been secured at considerable cost.
Corinna spent the meal casting surreptitious glances at Sir Erebus, to whose dark good looks she was drawn so much that she almost ached. She had yet to be introduced to him but felt as if she had known him forever. It was the strangest feeling, mostly agreeable, but sometimes—just sometimes—very unsettling indeed. Once or twice she shivered, although the night was warm. The shivers were on account of Sir Erebus, but she could not imagine why.
Jovian was seated well away from Anthea and did not grace her with so much as a single look. She, on the other hand, was guilty of keeping him under close observation, and what she observed was the number of times he refilled his glass. She hardly dared imagine how slurred and incomprehensible he was by now. Certainly she heard his voice droning loudly now and then and saw Sir Erebus endeavoring to reason discreetly with him.
A number of people looked on disapprovingly, for Jovian was embarrassing, not amusing. Why couldn’t he realize that? Why, oh why, had he been invited tonight? And why was it her lot to still feel such pain on his account? For every time she looked, she saw his former self standing forlornly in the long shadow cast by his disagreeable new self. The real Jovian was still there ... if only he would come out of hiding and overthrow the vile usurper.
Everyone had reached dessert when ten o’clock arrived and the first fireworks were signaled. The display went from glory to glory, with Roman candles, girandoles, jerbs, tourbillions, squibs, pots de brin, and amazing sky rockets soaring from the shining pagoda. There were fountains of glowing sparks that were almost too beautiful to be believed, and the air was filled with hissing and crackling. Drifts of smoke floated across the park, and cascades of light spilled from the bridge parapet to dance on the water. In the distance were fireworks elsewhere in the London skies, especially from nearby Green Park, where the Castle of Discord was undergoing its transformation into the Temple of Concord.
The bishop’s guests had soon left the table for the deck rail in order to have the best view possible. Sir Erebus was among them, leaving Jovian the only person still seated. But then, as Anthea observed with silent helplessness, that was where the decanters were located. Corinna’s yearning gaze followed Sir Erebus’s every move, but if he glanced toward her at all, it was only in search of Anthea, who began to feel a little uncomfortable as she realized that she was the unwilling recipient of the admiration so longed for by her stepsister.
Anthea observed that longing looks were not only passing from Corinna to Sir Erebus, but to Corinna herself from Viscount Heversham. The mystery of the redheaded lady had been solved, Lady Letitia having discovered that she was the viscount’s married sister, Lady Ellison. It seemed Lord Ellison was a wayward husband whose latest affaire de coeur had caused his wife many tears, and she had fled to her adoring brother for sympathy.
A placatory message from Lord Ellison had been handed to his wife just before the pleasure barge left the shore, and now she was all smiles and dimples again, leaving her lovelorn brother to belatedly realize how he had neglected his own affairs of the heart. He gazed at Corinna, only too aware that her favor had now been bestowed elsewhere.
Anthea felt very sorry for him but could not help thinking he had handled everything badly. He should have told Corinna who the lady was and certainly should not have devoted his attention so completely to family matters that he abandoned Corinna altogether.
The watching crowds clapped and gasped as scintillating explosions lit the indigo heavens above London, and the lake reflected the show, rippling like liquid jewels in the light breeze that sprang up to gently cool the smoke-filled air. The breeze caused the flotilla of hitherto motionless pleasure craft to drift inch by slow inch toward the bridge, although no one noticed.
Anthea was intent upon the fireworks when suddenly she heard Jovian’s voice. “Be ready, Anthea. Be on your guard.” It was so clear that she whirled about, expecting to find him at her shoulder, but he was still seated at the table with his back toward her.
Then he spoke again. “Listen to me, Anthea. Go to the stern, and take Lady Letitia and your stepsister with you.”
There was no drunken slur; he was perfectly articulate. She hesitated, confused by the constant changes in him and shaken too by his ability to somehow speak inside her head. What was happening? Why go to the stern? What was he talking about?
Anger touched his voice. “Do it, Anthea! I may not have power enough to prevent what is otherwise bound to be, and I want you to be as far away as possible.”
The urgency of the command made her breath snatch, and without further ado she hurried to Aunt Letty and Corinna, the latter now all blushing delight because Sir Erebus had joined them. Anthea blurted the first thing that came into her head. “Aunt Letty, I... don’t feel well. Will you come and sit with me at the stern, where it’s quiet?”
Lady Letitia was immediately filled with concern. “Why, of course I will, my dear. We both will, won’t we, Corinna?”
It was a subtle way of telling Corinna that a young lady of just nineteen should not remain alone with a gentleman she hardly knew, but even so Corinna pouted and resisted. “Oh, but Lady Letitia—”
“That is the end of it, my dear,” was the prompt reply.
Sir Erebus came to the rescue. “Allow me to come with you, ladies; then if anything is required, I can be your page-of-all-trades.
”
Corinna was delighted. “Oh, how gallant you are, Sir Erebus,” she breathed.
Lady Letitia did not argue with his suggestion but put an arm around Anthea’s shoulder and ushered her past the deserted dining table to the stern, where there were comfortable sofas and chairs. Anthea allowed her aunt to fuss around her and accepted the glass of iced water that Sir Erebus brought from the table.
She stole a glance at Jovian, and for the briefest of seconds he smiled at her. A wellspring of loving emotions rose through her veins, for he was the old Jovian, the one who had plucked her heartstrings and played wonderful melodies with her senses; the old Jovian, whom she had adored so very, very much. And whom she adored still, no matter how hard she tried not to.
Suddenly there were cries of renewed wonder from the onlookers. Smoke had begun to belch from the pagoda, and everyone expected another extravaganza, but then the pagoda shifted slightly, and flames began to leap from it. Soon the blazing edifice lurched over the water in the direction of the drifting flotilla and at last there was an uncertain stir as people realized that not only was something gravely wrong with the display, but the breeze was carrying the vessels toward danger! The crowds ashore however, still believed it was part of the show, and they cheered and clapped.
Some alert gentlemen on the vessels began to shout ashore for the rowing boats to put out and haul them to safety again, but the crews shouted back that they had been hired to row after the display was at an end, not halfway through it.
Sir Erebus became uneasy. “Can you swim, ladies?” he murmured.
Lady Letitia looked at him as if he were mad. “No, sir, I cannot, and even if I could, do you imagine I would jump in the water in these costly togs?”
“High fashion may be obliged to give way to necessity,” he replied.
Corinna’s face puckered, and her little chin wobbled. “Are we going to drown?” she whispered.
Lady Letitia would have gathered her close, but Corinna rushed to Sir Erebus and flung her arms around his neck. “Oh, you must save us, Sir Erebus! You simply must!”