by Jane Ashford
“Are you on your way to the library?” he asked as he caught up with her.
“I— Yes, I was.”
“We’ve been very comfortable in such rooms, haven’t we?”
“I have been,” she replied with a touch of her old acerbity. “You seem comfortable anywhere.”
Gently, he drew her hand through his arm. She was stiff as they walked along the corridor.
“You want an explanation,” Flora said as they entered the library. She pulled away.
“We can talk as we used to,” he replied. He sat down on the small sofa beside the fire, so as not to loom over her.
She laughed without humor. “You want to have an argument?” She didn’t settle. She paced. The skirts of her gown swished in the quiet chamber. “One moment I’m kissing you, and the next I’m pushing you away,” she went on. “You must think me erratic, or a tease.”
“Never that.”
“It’s about last spring,” she blurted out. “When Royalton’s murderer tied me up and left me.”
Puzzled and concerned, Robert watched her face. He wanted to pull her into his arms, to banish all distress. As if that was possible.
“I was alone and afraid. You came and found me.” She said it as if it was a shameful admission.
“Rescue.” Was this why the word had such weight for her?
“Yes, I couldn’t do it myself.”
“None of us is—”
Flora rushed on, words pouring out as she kept pacing. “And then you just…went on, as if nothing had happened. You chatted and laughed, the same as ever. But I had nightmares.” Her blue eyes evaded his.
“I suffered one day of anxiety as I searched for you,” Robert said. “Not so very much to bear. It was quite different for you, imprisoned. And you’ve listened to the sad stories of street children for years.”
Flora stood still, staring at him, her lips open in astonishment.
“Trying to soothe the ones who woke screaming in the night,” Robert added. “To comfort the ones who wept, pale and silent. Ease those who lashed out in fury.”
“How do you—”
“Did you think I didn’t listen?” Robert asked her. “When you told me about the work of your refuge?”
“But I never… I didn’t say all that.” Flora was deeply shaken. The phrases he’d used captured the terror of the streets so exactly.
“The details were there between the lines,” he said. “In your tone, your face. In passing remarks from those who worked with you.”
Flora found her hands were shaking. Her eyes filled with tears. “But you were strong. I was weak.”
“I would never use that word about you.”
She didn’t quite hear him. “I pretended to take it as easily as you did. I tried to shut it all away.” The locks on her inner fortress rattled and strained.
“So that’s why.”
“Why what?” Flora tried to interpret the look on his face.
“Why you said it was intolerable to think of the matter, when I asked if you couldn’t bear to think that I’d done you a service.”
She remembered the humiliating way her voice had wavered. “I don’t want your pity.” Or worse, disappointment, she thought.
“You’ll get none.” He looked thoughtful. “Durand’s presence can’t be helpful.”
“No. He’s another reminder of Royalton and…all that.”
“Another? Ah, you mean that I am one as well.” Robert’s expression went wry.
Flora was desperately afraid that she’d really hurt him, this man who’d seemed invulnerable. “No. You aren’t! All your actions were admirable.” Her throat tightened. “Only today…after you’d freed me again…” Her hands closed at her sides. She forced out a difficult admission. “The dark comes rushing back sometimes. I can’t tell when it will happen. And I can’t seem to stop it.”
“So this lies between us,” he murmured. “Actually, I’m relieved. It’s more logical than those endless disputes about pretense.”
“Logical?” Flora cried. “It’s supremely illogical. Ridiculous. The murder happened months ago. I should be over it!”
“Should.” He shrugged. “You’ll find your way. I’ve never met anyone with more tenacity.” He smiled at her.
There was such warmth in that smile. It held none of the impatience and contempt she’d lavished on herself. Flora caught her breath on a sob.
“It occurs to me that we should examine this difficulty together,” Robert went on. “We have much better ideas that way, after all.”
Flora gazed at him as the mantel clock clicked off several seconds. Then she sank down on the sofa and threw herself into his arms.
Robert held her. She was trembling. There could be no question of more just now, and he found he didn’t mind. How many different sorts of embrace might one discover over a lifetime? he wondered. His father would know something about that.
After a while, he felt her trembling stop. Flora relaxed against him. Matters grew more complicated then. He wanted her desperately. And he was not made of stone.
Robert made the sacrifice of letting her go. He didn’t allow the disappointment in her face to sway him. Some truly precious things in life could not be hurried.
* * *
The amateur theatricals were approved by Victoria’s parents, igniting a flurry of conversation and activity. All the young ladies were entranced by the idea, and a number of the young gentlemen were lured away from the hunting by the thought of performance—or spending hours in the close company of pretty girls. Older visitors and men addicted to the chase reacted with disbelief, amusement, or indifference, according to their temperaments and interests.
“I’m sorry I won’t be able to join in,” Randolph said as Robert saw him off the following morning. “But duty calls.” He mounted his horse. “I’ll be back to see the play. Lady Salbridge was kind enough to invite me.”
“I imagine Victoria will have forgiven you by then,” Robert couldn’t help replying.
“She? What of me? I’ve never hit a flat note in my life.”
“You’re a man of the cloth. Forgiveness is obligatory.”
Randolph looked down at his brother with a sardonic quirk of his eyebrows. “Fortunate for you, as you so often require it.”
Robert laughed. He felt remarkably well this morning. Strolling back inside as Randolph rode away, Robert wondered where Flora was at this moment. Their first meeting after the confidences of last night was a matter of some delicacy.
“There you are!” Victoria came up from behind and took his arm. “Where did you go last night?”
This really must end, Robert thought. Beyond the present irritation, he had far more important things to do in pursuit of his… Dare he call it courtship? What else?
“After you made me sing with your brother.” Victoria pouted prettily. She waited for a reply. He made none. It would have been enough to discourage any other girl. Victoria merely tugged at his arm. “Come along. We’re beginning on the play. The performance is set for two weeks from today.”
“So soon.” Robert allowed himself to be chivvied one more time. He must find an opportunity. It was past time to detach Victoria once and for all.
“Lord Carrick is promised to another house party in Lincolnshire after that. And he refused to leave his copies of the play with us. So very disobliging of him.”
It had been decided that the group would put on The Rivals, the play that had been so successful at Carrick’s home. He’d sent for the copies they’d used, and seemed poised to take over the entire endeavor.
Victoria led Robert to the drawing room, where those interested in theatricals had gathered. The group came alert, like a pack of hounds catching a scent, when they arrived. Amused, Robert watched people eye each other in uncertain rivalry—some shy, others avid fo
r a role. It soon became apparent that their hopes were irrelevant. Victoria intended to hand out the roles, and Carrick had his own plan, as well as the instincts of an autocrat.
“It is my home providing the stage and costumes and so on,” Victoria sweetly pointed out.
Carrick gave her a courteous bow. “I have the experience and skills to make the play go smoothly.”
“A gentleman always defers to a lady,” she replied.
“Clever ladies are guided by gentlemen’s wider knowledge of the world,” he suggested.
Their voices increased in volume with each exchange. If they’d been navies, the knives would have come out next, Robert thought.
In the end it was decided that Carrick would hold auditions for some of the roles during the afternoon, while Victoria would decide others by her own methods. As the latter included consulting Robert on every point—and then ignoring his responses—he couldn’t slip away to the library. Or, he could have, certainly. But escape wasn’t the problem. If Victoria trailed after him, as she had been doing, that book-filled refuge would be lost. Robert set himself to make use of the play for his own purposes instead, much as he begrudged the time.
The final disposition was set for the following morning, in the ballroom of Salbridge Great Hall, which had been given over to the play. The huge chamber was chilly, even with fires lit in the great hearths at each end. It was meant to be warmed by crowds of dancers, Robert thought, as he sat in one of a circle of gilt chairs. Rain trickled down the glass doors that lined two sides of the room. The young ladies needed their thick shawls. He rather wished he’d worn his greatcoat.
“Be quiet, please,” said Victoria.
Her voice was crisp and authoritative. She held a list. Carrick, in the chair beside her, looked sullen. She would rule her future family, and country neighborhood, with a rod of iron, Robert thought.
“After extensive consultation—and Lord Carrick’s auditions, of course—we have decided on a list of players.” Victoria smiled like a queen certain of her power, and relishing it. “I shall play the chief female part—Lydia Languish, a young heiress.”
She made no apologies for appropriating the main role. Indeed, the idea clearly had not entered her mind.
“Lord Carrick will play the hero,” the daughter of the house continued, “Captain Jack Absolute, disguised as Ensign Beverley.”
She had tried to foist that role onto Robert. But he’d refused. After a quick look through the play, he’d agreed to do the hero’s father.
Victoria turned graciously to Carrick, handing him her list. He took it with poor grace but perked up as he became the center of attention. “I would like to say, first, that some of our number have exhibited a real talent for acting,” he began. “I was most pleasantly surprised. That is to say, impressed. For example, Miss Frances Reynolds showed quite a gift for pathos. She will take the role of Julia Melville, a young relation of the Absolutes.”
The young, fair girl sitting across from Robert looked astonished, then delighted.
“And also Mr. Edward Trevellyn, who had an unaffected ease in his reading. He will play Bob Acres, a friend of Jack Absolute,” Carrick continued.
Robert eyed the stocky, bluff Trevellyn. He would have expected the fellow to mock their efforts and bluster off hunting. Then he noticed the way he was watching Victoria, like a cat at a mousehole.
“We intend to ask Sir Liam Malloy to portray Sir Lucius O’Trigger, an Irish baronet,” Carrick said. “He’s Irish, after all. And a knight.”
Victoria nodded. Robert wondered if Sir Liam knew about this. He wasn’t here, and hadn’t shown the least interest in acting.
“Wrentham shall play Faulkland, a friend of Jack Absolute,” said the earl’s heir.
It made sense that he would choose one of his cronies, Robert thought.
“And Mrs. Malaprop, Lydia’s middle-aged guardian will be played by Miss Flora Jennings,” finished Carrick.
Robert hid a start of surprise. Victoria hadn’t told him this. Flora hadn’t applied for a role, and she wouldn’t like being given one by fiat. Carrick didn’t seem very pleased at his own announcement, either.
“It’s too bad that some of our number are not here,” said Victoria severely. “I shall speak to them afterward.”
“The remaining four parts, the servants, will be played by different people in successive scenes,” Carrick went on. “This will allow everyone who wished it to have some time on stage.”
“But that will be confusing,” said Victoria, clearly hearing this for the first time.
“The audience will follow along.”
“No, they won’t.”
“They did so when we put on the play before.”
“That is nonsensical.”
“We don’t wish to leave people out,” Carrick said.
Looking around, Victoria saw that the group’s opinion was against her. “Everyone must begin learning their parts right away,” she said in a bid to regain the upper hand.
“We will start rehearsals tomorrow,” Carrick put in.
There were murmurs of dismay.
“You can read from the pages at first. Until you have the speeches by heart.” Carrick picked up a cloth bag that sat at his feet. “If you haven’t yet gotten a copy of the play, I will give you one now.”
People rose and surged forward. Victoria snatched three of the copies and started toward the ballroom door. He’d have liked to warn Flora, Robert thought. But he had no hope of getting to her first.
“What?” said Flora a few minutes later. “No, I am not going to act in the play.” She stood before Lady Victoria, who sat on a sofa by the drawing room fire like the queen receiving supplicants at court. Lady Victoria had sent a footman to fetch Flora on this wet day.
“It is all decided,” replied the younger girl. “You can’t cry off now.”
“It’s not crying off if you never agreed to something in the first place.”
Lady Victoria thrust a sheaf of paper at her with a steely glint in her brown eyes. “People are expected to join in and be entertaining at house parties,” she said. “I suppose you may not know, since you are never invited, but it isn’t done to hide and sulk.”
“Sulk?” The girl really was exasperating. Had the footman said where she was? The thought of Lady Victoria hunting her down in the library was unpleasant.
“Everything can’t be arranged for your amusement,” Lady Victoria said. “I’m sure you wouldn’t wish to ruin the play for everyone else.”
“I would not, of course. But I have no doubt one of your friends would be glad to take…whatever role you’ve assigned to me.”
“Oh no. It’s simply meant for you.”
The smirk on her face told Flora the story. “Am I to be a witch? Or a heavily veiled mythological parent?”
“You were so good in the tableaux at portraying old—”
“Hags?”
“Older ladies, I was going to say. And you can’t be so rude as to refuse when I ask you to join in one of our…communal activities.” Lady Victoria held out the sheaf of paper again, shaking it a little.
“Why do you want me in the play? You dislike it whenever I come near Lord Robert.” Curiosity overcame Flora—one of her chief strengths, or besetting sins, depending on who you asked. “Why do you wish to marry Lord Robert?”
The girl blinked, as if startled once again by Flora’s frankness.
“I mean, why him, especially?” Flora wondered. “You have a number of suitors.”
“He is the son of a duke,” said Lady Victoria.
“True, but he’s not the eldest. He will have no title. Not like Lord Carrick or Lord Fanshawe.”
“He is in the first stare of fashion. He knows exactly how to go on in society. I shall set fashions myself. Everyone will envy me.” The girl’s brown eyes grew
distant. “We’ll go to all the best parties. You can’t say anything to discourage me. I shan’t listen.”
Lady Victoria wasn’t thinking of Robert the man, Flora realized. She saw only the leader of the ton. She knew nothing of his intelligence, his kindness. She didn’t even seem moved by his dizzying physical attractions. And Lady Victoria hadn’t considered that Robert’s fortune was modest, that he would have no great country estate like Salbridge, no neighborhood for her to rule.
“Have you stopped listening to me again?” her companion demanded.
“Sorry. I was thinking.”
“How can he like you, when you are so very annoying?” Lady Victoria flapped the pages at Flora.
“Another consideration for you. Is his taste infallible?” Flora felt a laugh bubbling up. She swallowed it. “I really don’t wish to be in the play.”
“As a representative of the family, your hosts, I insist.”
What was she going to do, go to the girl’s parents and complain about being asked to join in a “jolly” project? Flora took the sheaf of paper.
With a sound very like a triumphant ha, Lady Victoria turned her attention to her pile of lists.
She was spoiled, Flora thought as she walked away. The only daughter of the family. It occurred to Flora that she was also an only daughter. An only child, actually, and she wasn’t spoiled. Was she? Had Papa given her too high an opinion of her intellectual abilities? He’d been a hard taskmaster, never lavish with praise. Had her mother coddled her? No. More often it had been the other way around. With a sigh, Flora found a chair, opened the play, and began to read.
Eleven
Sofas and comfortable chairs had been moved into the ballroom, with small tables to hold branches of candles, a welcome light on this damp, dreary day. Flora had taken a seat to finish reading the play, but she was diverted by the buzz of activity, and reminded that the tableaux had turned out to be good fun.
Not far away, a mixed group of eight sat in a loose circle reading out bits of dialogue to each other and laughing. They were to alternate playing the servants, Flora had been informed, and they clearly meant to enjoy doing so.