There arose a great shout of joy and triumph at this action. Though Kelthorne regretted that he had let his temper get the better of him, there was not one present who remonstrated with him. Even his sister, Mary, who preferred everything to be proper, patted him on the shoulder.
“Well done, brother. A more selfish creature I have never before seen.”
“Aye,” Radsbury exclaimed beside her. “Well done, indeed.”
*** *** ***
Judith became aware of her surroundings in small stages. She was within a coach and three ladies were speaking quietly.
“Did you see him give Mr. Hemyock a leveler?” Judith recognized the voice of Miss Banwell.
“He was magnificent,” the timid Miss Upton whispered excitedly. “Oh, Abigail, you are so fortunate to be singled out by him.”
“Did he really strike Mr. Hemyock?” Miss Currivard asked.
“Indeed, he did. Do you know what else he said? He mocked Mr. Hemyock in the most beautiful manner. He repeated the very thing Mr. Hemyock had said to that young man who tends the horses only he said, ‘Unlike you, I have no hesitation in using my fisticuffs with an inferior,’ and then he struck him down with one blow. Oh, but he is a dashing man and to think he saved Miss Lovington’s life.”
Judith now realized what had happened. That Charles in his stupidity had tried to prove his mettle by firing at the stag and that Lord Kelthorne, with his already proven skill as a hunter, had saved her life as well as Shelly’s. This knowledge served to shake some of the stupor from her mind and she struggled to right herself. Only then did she realize she had been reclining on Miss Currivard’s lap.
“I do beg your pardon,” she said, embarrassed.
“Nonsense,” Miss Currivard said, smiling sympathetically. “You were exceedingly brave to protect Mrs. Ash’s daughter as you did. The least I could do was offer you a little kindness.”
“Have I been, that is, how long—?”
“Only a few minutes. Are you feeling better?”
“My head is swimming.”
“Do you care to use my vinaigrette?” Miss Banwell asked, searching in her beaded reticule.
“No. I thank you, no. I believe I would feel even worse.”
“Harriet,” Miss Currivard said. “Would you fetch Miss Lovington a little wine? Brandy, if it can be found.”
Miss Banwell scampered from the coach, her voice elevated as she called to Kelthorne’s servants.
“I detest being such a nuisance,” Judith said.
“You are no such thing,” Miss Upton said in her soft voice.
Judith glanced from Miss Upton to Miss Currivard and thought what an excellent friendship the young ladies enjoyed, Miss Banwell included. She was envious suddenly, remembering her own cousins and being with them just like this, innocent, kindhearted, excited about all the possibilities before them. How much she had once looked forward to such a time in her life, when she would be at a country party during the summer, perhaps searching for a proper husband, hoping to tumble in love, and desiring above all that heroism and chivalry would mark the days.
How different her life had been. How utterly different, indeed.
She felt uncomfortable suddenly in the presence of these ladies. “I think I should rejoin the troupe.”
“Will you not wait for your wine?”
She had forgotten Miss Banwell’s efforts. “Of course.”
She sat back but looked out the window. From her position, she could see the troupe taking down the portable stage and others loading the wagons with the props, costumes, and tents used in the course of the day.
In a few minutes, Miss Banwell arrived with a small glass of brandy. Judith took it gratefully and began to sip, pausing as the lively young lady clambered aboard the coach, rocking it grandly. Judith laughed. “I nearly spilt it.”
“How dreadful that would have been,” Miss Banwell said. “And on your lovely muslin. I do beg pardon.”
“It would not have been your fault,” Judith said. “I should have waited for you to take your seat.”
“I am settled now. I hope you still wish for the brandy.”
“I do, very much, indeed. Thank you for your kind attentions. My nerves, I must say, are in such a state.”
Miss Banwell frowned slightly. “I find I am constantly amazed when I hear you speak.” Her words were thoughtless and she blushed to the roots of her hair. “Oh, I am sorry.”
Judith was embarrassed anew and sipped her brandy. The ladies had been so kind but she knew quite well just how odd her proper diction must sound in comparison to the general speech of the troupe. She felt compelled, almost driven to confide in them. “I suppose you are desirous of knowing, of understanding,” she began, but she found it difficult to continue. Indeed, her eyes suddenly brimmed with tears and her throat grew painfully tight.
Miss Currivard quickly took possession of her hand. “My dear Miss Lovington, you owe us no explanation. Indeed, you do not.”
“Pray forgive me,” Miss Banwell said. “I spoke heedlessly as I always do. I am so sorry.”
Judith could bear no more of their kindness, for it only reminded her of how much she had lost when she had escaped a most vile stepmother and the man she in turn had all but invited to invade their home.
She finished her brandy quickly and said she must leave. She descended the coach only to find Lord Kelthorne suddenly before her, offering his hand to keep her from toppling over anew. She wanted to refuse but she was dreadfully dizzy.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
He quickly wrapped his arm about hers and guided her in the direction of the troupe wagons. “Only tell me you are uninjured that I might be at ease, for I am still incapable of believing you escaped without harm.”
She looked up at him. She had meant to reassure him but instead, she fell into his gaze and found no words coming to her tongue by which to speak. This was the moment she had been avoiding all day, being near him, close to him, even touching him as she was with her arm linked tightly with his.
Finally, she uttered, “You saved my life. Lord Kelthorne, how shall I ever repay you? When I looked at the stag and saw the wildness in his eye, I knew.” Her breath caught raggedly on a sob.
“Pray say no more,” he said, crushing her hand against his. “You are well and that is all that matters.”
But she was not well. Her heart ached desperately. In these past few minutes, in the carriage with the castle ladies, she had experienced the very best of the society she had forsaken and longings both powerful and deep rose to consume her. Worse still, was that she felt as she always did in Kelthorne’s presence, as though she wished to stay beside him forever. She could not explain it, but certainly it was made more intense by the knowledge that he and he alone had saved her from certain death.
Once within a few feet of the last tent now being struck, she released his arm and turned to face him. “Thank you again, my lord.” She offered her hand and he took it.
*** *** ***
Lord Kelthorne looked into chestnut colored eyes and knew that his mouth had fallen most unattractively agape. “I am sorry I looked at the horses instead of you,” he whispered.
At that, she smiled and even laughed. “I thought you were displeased with my performance. It was very lowering.”
“How could I ever be displeased?” he said passionately. “How could anyone when you sing so enchantingly?”
He fell silent. There was nothing more to say. He knew he should release her hand but he could not. He just stared into her eyes savoring this moment as though it was absolutely the last time he would ever settle his gaze upon her.
She was so very beautiful. How his heart swelled as he looked upon her. She had been quite brave in protecting Shelly and he would always hold her in great admiration for that. How many other ladies would have had the bottom to stand her ground so that the child could escape?
“Aubrey,” Laurence called to him sharply. “‘Tis time to depart.”
The odd spell was broken and he released her hand. He offered a brief bow, turned on his heel and joined his party.
The time had come to leave Cheddar Gorge.
*** *** ***
From a stool situated near the wagon at which Mrs. Marnhull was working, Judith watched the castle party coaches rattle away. The jingling of the traces, the clip-clop of the horses hooves as each equipage was set in motion, the cries of the coachmen, soon disappeared from sight and hearing.
The troupe continued packing, of course, with little conversation. An air of fatigue had settled over the members as well as a sense of concern and ill usage. A heated argument broke out suddenly between John and Charles, not unexpectedly, of course. She was certain John had merely been waiting for the castle party to leave before he gave the much needed dressing down.
Shelly ran to Judith and crawled into her lap. “Why is papa so angry with Charles?”
“Because he should not have used a rifle to kill the stag.” Shelly buried her face in Judith’s shoulder. The quarrel lasted a very long time. No one paid the least heed.
In the end, Charles sulked. Judith ignored him, taking her place on the cushioned seat in the wagon in which the ladies rode together. Shelly remained with her. She found she had grown angry that through Charles’s stupidity she had nearly lost her life. She would have, too, had it not been for Lord Kelthorne.
Her thoughts became fixed for that reason on the earl and it seemed her heart began to throb almost painfully in her chest. She wished suddenly that anyone other than Kelthorne had raised his rifle and slain the buck for now, she feared, her desire for him had tripled at the very least.
A crippling frustration settled within her, of desires that could not be fulfilled, desires she had ignored for most of her time with the troupe, of memories of being with her cousins and all the silly plans they had made to cut a dash in London during their come-out season.
She wished herself a thousand miles from Somerset. Never, when the troupe had arrived at the town of Portislow, did she think she would find herself in the midst of such struggles within her own heart. It was as if a very large door, and very grand in appearance, had swung open to reveal golden light and all of her hidden desires fulfilled, only she was not allowed to cross the threshold. She was a songstress, and, at times, an actress of the troupe. Lord Kelthorne, Miss Currivard, Mr. Doulting, Miss Banwell, Miss Upton, and Mr. Emborough were as untouchable to her as the sky.
Shelly had fallen asleep. She wished her life were as uncomplicated, that she could simply close her eyes, drift into sleep, and all that was troubling her would disappear like mist before strong sunshine.
Margaret asked Betty to trade places with her and once seated beside Judith, took Shelly from her. “Ye can scarcely keep yer eyes open. Lean on me shoulder, if ye like.”
Judith wanted to say no, but she was greatly fatigued and leaned against her friend.
“Are ye well?” Margaret asked on a whisper.
“Aye,” Judith responded. “Just a trifle sad.”
“And no wonder.”
“I wish I had enough set by to purchase my cottage. I believe I would do so tomorrow.”
Margaret clucked her tongue. “As I have told ye an hundred times, Judy,” she continued in her whispers, “a cottage ‘tis not fer ye. I’ve seen ye with Shelly. Ye’ll not be content ‘til ye have a husband and were ye to make a push, even now, ye might have one afore summer ends.”
Judith sighed heavily. Whispering as well, she said, “You must be as mad as Bedlam if you are thinking what I believe you must be thinking.”
“Not so daft as ye might think. Just try not to discourage him should he come to call again.”
Judith chuckled softly. “I am a poor songstress. There is only one manner in which such a man looks upon a female like myself.”
“P’rhaps,” was all she would say.
Judith fell asleep against Margaret’s shoulder wondering what Kelthorne’s thoughts might be and wishing, not for the first time, that he would try a little harder not to be so very much her ideal.
Chapter Eight
Kelthorne traveled alone with Miss Currivard. He had not desired to do so but his sisters would brook no opposition on that score. In addition, there had arisen an understanding among the party that he was courting her quite seriously even though his heart was in no manner centered upon her. He had been unable, therefore, to avoid the intimate situation.
To her credit, she did not attempt to engage him in conversation. Rather she sat gazing out the window, her hands folded serenely on her lap. She seemed inordinately content, something he did not understand.
He found he was a trifle irritated. Did she not comprehend his attraction to Judith? Did she not understand in the least that when he was near Judith his heart pounded unreasonably? Had he, therefore, misjudged Miss Currivard’s intelligence?
He groaned inwardly. Would that he had never come upon Judith trespassing in his orchard that first night. He could have fought his desire for her otherwise. The truth was that had she been a lady of quality he would be courting her now and not Miss Currivard.
But she was not a lady of quality even if her speech bespoke her birthright. For reasons he did not know, nor cared to know, she had chosen life as a professional songstress. Little better than an actress, particularly since she had been traipsing about the country in the company of several healthy young men. She could not possibly be innocent for all her protests and yet, God help him, he wanted to believe she was. Not that any of it mattered, not one whit! Regardless of the truth, even were she to attempt to reenter polite society, she would never be able to overcome the stigma of her years of living in such a manner
He glanced sharply at Miss Currivard. “Why did you desire this picnic? I confess I did not understand it from the beginning. What did you hope to achieve?”
She smiled and shrugged. “Precisely what I did achieve.”
Now she would be evasive? He was irritated once more. “And what was that?” he snapped.
She lifted her brows to him. “Have I offended you in some wretched manner, my lord, for I vow from the moment of entering the coach you have been as cross as crabs. Yes, I know you have not spoken meanly to me, but everything about you is as prickly as a hedgehog from the time we departed Cheddar Gorge.”
He drew in a deep breath feeling quite guilty. “I do beg your pardon and no, you have not offended me, not by half. It is merely that, well, I suppose I am distressed by many things not least of which that Miss Lovington could have perished today and my shot was deuced fortunate.” There it was, he thought, the truth that was haunting him, just how close Judith had come to being killed by the wounded stag.
Miss Currivard leaned forward and caught his gaze, which he gave to her reluctantly. “I am not ignorant—” she began, but then checked her words. “That is, of course, you must be overset. Who would not be when another’s life was dependent upon clear thinking and accurate shooting? You are to be commended a thousandfold for what you did today. At the same time, I cannot help but wonder the toll it must have taken upon you.”
He nodded. “I suppose you must be right. I would wish the moment undone. Good God, what a fool that Hemyock creature is.”
“I could not agree more nor did it escape my notice that the rest of the troupe held him in much contempt for what he did. Amazingly, however, he seemed entirely oblivious to his perfidy.”
“Such fellows as that,” he said, shaking his head, “usually are. They often leave a trail of disaster behind them without once looking back. Even in the chance moment they do, they ascribe any such spate of misfortunes to the work of the gods.”
She smiled and leaned back. “Giving the subject a slight turn, however,” she said, “I suppose I do owe you some explanation about the picnic for I did have a purpose as I said before, one that I achieved, which was to come to know Miss Lovington better.”
“But why?” he asked, both astonished and mystified.
She regarded him carefully for a long moment. He felt certain she was trying to communicate with him in her silence, but he seemed to be rather doltish for no inspired meanings arose to explain her thoughts.
She finally said, “I will confess that my reasons are to a degree incomprehensible even to me, but when I heard her sing for the first time, I felt as though I already knew her. Do you not think that odd?”
“Yes,” he murmured, but he believed he knew precisely what she meant. “Perhaps it is the nature of her gift to create such sentiments in others.”
“Perhaps,” she said. “But at the same time, I had the strongest sense that she might be able to understand me.”
He laughed in his incomprehension. “But she is little better than an actress. Do you hope to befriend her? I would think it quite ill-advised.”
She tilted her head slightly. “Do you truly?” she asked.
“Well, yes. Her position in society is so far beneath yours, so far in fact that she might as well reside in another land.”
“Indeed?” Though she spoke quietly and as always in a poised manner, he felt a blade of ice cross to him and cut very quickly.
He felt rather insulted. “Yes, I do, indeed,” he responded.
“Did it never occur to you that she and I might share something in common?”
“What would that be?” He could not imagine to what she referred.
She chuckled softly. “That neither of us belongs where we are on the Portislow estate. By birth, I do not belong in your company and she most clearly does not belong with that acting troupe. Yet there we must both perform as required of us by the circumstances of our lives. Over which I know I had not the smallest control and which I am come to believe neither did she. No lady of poor birth could sustain so perfect an accent without having been born and trained to it, which leads me to wonder again just how she came to be with the troupe.”
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