by Dorothy Mack
“How can you say this? Of course it will. She will take up your time. I shall see much less of you. Oh, I cannot bear it!”
“You will certainly see less of me if you intend to enact me a Cheltenham tragedy each time we meet.”
The girl behind the palms clapped a hand over her mouth to prevent her tongue from giving voice to some of the chaotic thoughts chasing themselves around in her skull. What a cold, inhuman monster! Nothing the woman had said seemed to affect him in the slightest degree. She shivered slightly from reaction and put a hand to her back, which was beginning to ache from her cramped position. Thank heavens, the monster had persuaded his partner to return to the ballroom. They were rising now.
The girl had been so engrossed with the drama being enacted on the other side of the greenery that she had not thought about the identity of the participants, but now she was consumed with curiosity to see them with her own eyes. Cautiously she raised her head and parted two of the boughs, but her efforts were only partially successful. She could see the back of a big, dark-haired man whose body shielded his companion from view as they strolled slowly away from the alcove, and she caught no more than a tantalizing glimpse of a green and silver gown. For an instant, the man’s head turned slightly toward her position, and her curiosity was rewarded by a sharp image of a haughty profile and one winged black eyebrow. Dark devil! He perfectly fitted the part she had cast him for.
The girl gave a little chuckle as she rose stiffly from her unnatural position and stretched gratefully. The drama she had witnessed would have been reduced to farce had the villain been thin and reedy with a receding chin. She sobered abruptly, knowing that she should be profoundly shocked by what she had witnessed and ashamed of her own interest, but guiltily aware that she had not been so much entertained since her return from her grandfather’s house. A delicately nurtured female of her tender years should have swooned away of course upon hearing such strong stuff, or at the very least have had the propriety to cover her ears with her hands to avoid such an assault on her maidenly sensibilities. Actually, the idea of blocking her ears out of common decency to the unwary speakers had occurred to her at the outset, but aside from the practical aspect of not then knowing when it would be safe to remove her hands, in the beginning of that extraordinary scene, she had been too occupied with her troublesome stocking to be physically able to pursue this laudable course. Then had come the man’s announcement of his imminent betrothal, and — she might as well admit her depravity — nothing would then have induced her to forgo the rest of the titillating scene.
As she wended her way back to the ballroom, the girl was so occupied in speculating upon the identity of the parties to that tête-à-tête that she almost walked past her intended partner for the dance that was already well underway. Abruptly recalled to the present, she made a graceful apology and set about soothing the young man’s wounded feelings. Because she was basically a kind-hearted girl, she bent her best efforts toward concealing from him and her succeeding partners for the remainder of the evening the awful truth that not their most graceful steps or cleverest repartee had the power to anchor her mind in the present.
Surreptitiously, her eyes swept over all the twirling couples on the floor and searched among the guests seated in small groups around the room, looking for the protagonists of the scene she had just witnessed. Naturally she would not be able to recognize the woman by sight, but her voice had been quite lovely and very distinctive. Once she caught sight of a green and silver gown and gently led her escort in that direction only to come smack up against a formidable matron with an enormous bosom who was definitely on the shady side of forty. She had difficulty in stifling the giggle that rose in her throat at the picture of this woman who was obviously the soul of respectability taking part in that impassioned scene. No, the heroine of that drama was undoubtedly exceedingly beautiful — anything less was impossible to contemplate. She would do better to seek out the man — she refused to refer to him any longer as a gentleman — whose satanic profile was engraved on her memory. She’d know him twenty years hence in whatever disguise he might adopt; besides, no one of such imposing stature could pass unnoticed in a crowd. Nicholas! She tasted the name on her tongue and tossed it around in her mind, worrying it like a dog with a ball, but positively the only connection she was able to make was the youngest stable hand at Broadwoods, a sandy-haired lad of twelve.
Though she lingered at the ball until her mother and sister declared themselves bone weary and insisted on leaving, her hopes of coming upon the couple were quite dashed. Riding home in the carriage, her relatives found her rather abstracted and agreed among themselves that it had been an exhausting evening, thanks to the oppressive heat, and that bed would be most welcome to all.
Though physically tired, the girl found sleep eluding her, so active was her brain in speculating about the two people who had monopolized the better part of her attention for hours now. Thanks to having spent the last two years of his life as nurse, friend, and principal confidante of her grandfather, she was well aware of what frequently went on behind the facade of proper social behaviour demanded of all aspiring to the top level of society. He had not believed in raising girls to be ignorant about the world in which they were to function. Nor had he considered them a fragile species set apart by inherent delicacy and too exquisitely sensitive to face the ugliness that existed in society at any level.
She knew, for instance, that there were a number of women like the one with the husky voice who remained acceptable only because discretion was also a way of life with them. The only sin in Society was to cause a scandal. That would close doors to the sinner that would have remained open in the face of private knowledge of the offending behaviour. But, morals aside, the woman was definitely in love with that monster, though why was a question that passed her understanding. And he had been callous and even casually cruel to one who was obviously his mistress, which argued a sad want of loyalty, though she recognized that society held that such women deserved no better. It was a moot point as to who was more deserving of sympathy, the mistress he refused to marry or the poor innocent (one assumed) who would find herself shackled to an uncaring, unfaithful husband. For the latter’s sake, the eavesdropper sincerely hoped she was not some romantic child head over ears in love with that spoiled devil. Well, she herself would never know the outcome, and she had wasted too much time on unpleasant strangers as it was. On the thought she fell asleep, but in her dreams she was pursued by a ghost in a green and silver dress holding a devil’s mask.
The knock on her door that chased away the remnants of troublesome dreams was greeted with relief by the girl in the tester bed.
“Come in!” she called, in the expectation of seeing the maid she shared with her younger sister.
However, it was not Becky’s flaxen head that peeked around the door, but her sister’s lovely face with its frame of riotously curling black hair. Twin dimples appeared beside her mouth as she taunted laughingly, “Sleepyhead! Do you know it is past ten o’clock? Becky tells me you did not so much as stir when she brought warm water in a half hour ago.”
The girl on the bed sat up guiltily and stretched like a cat. With head on one side, she studied her sister thoroughly and found nothing to criticize. Deb was the loveliest girl! Those black curls and huge brown eyes made the creamy skin of her perfectly oval face even more dramatic. Both girls had inherited their mother’s short straight little nose, but, regretted the girl in the bed, there the benefits ended as far as she herself was concerned. Deborah was the very image of Lady Langston, who had been a celebrated Beauty in her day. Her colouring was warm and vibrant, she was the happy possessor of three dimples, and her petite daintiness made the frequent appellation of Pocket Venus by members of her devoted following not altogether inappropriate. Her sister always felt her own more generously curved figure took on a vulgar voluptuousness when compared with Deb’s fairylike proportions.
“Ah, well, the grass is always green
er,” she remarked rather cryptically, and bounced out of bed.
“Greener than what?” inquired her puzzled sister. “Sometimes I think you enjoy being mysterious, Kate.” She pouted prettily, an accomplishment her more prosaic sister had never been able to acquire, partly because she felt so unutterably foolish when displaying any affectation, no matter how highly regarded the trait might be.
“Never mind, love. I was merely dithering. One must accept one’s fate, after all.” She proceeded to the basin and began washing her face.
“There you go again, uttering enigmatic remarks that have nothing to do with the topic of the moment,” protested Deborah reasonably.
Kate laughed merrily. “I promise you, from now on I shall keep to the topic of the moment. What is it, by the way?” She rinsed her face and commenced patting it dry with a towel.
“Last night’s ball,” declared Deborah rapturously. “Was it not the most delightful evening you’ve ever spent?”
Her sister raised her face from the folds of the towel. “Aside from nearly expiring from the heat and thinking the refreshments sadly devoid of interest — did you taste those awful raspberry tarts? — at least I think they were intended to be raspberry tarts — I found it most diverting. The music was excellent and the company most distinguished, especially a certain Captain of the House Guards,” she finished, with a teasing smile that brought a most becoming blush to her sister’s cheeks.
“Well, I do think he is most distinguished in his regimentals, and so very handsome,” insisted Deborah, somewhat pugnaciously.
“I perfectly agree, love, but I cannot resist teasing you. In the two months since you have appeared on the social scene, Captain Marlowe is the seventh beau, at least, to capture your interest. I fear you are sadly fickle, my dear one.” In the act of scrambling into a pretty, white-dotted, red muslin gown, a smiling Kate glanced over to her sister, inviting her to participate in the joke. What she saw caused her to drop the gown precipitously.
“Deb! What have I said to make you cry?” Hastily she stepped over the fallen dress and put an arm around her sister’s shoulders.
“If you don’t believe that what I feel for Stephan is quite, quite different from anything I’ve felt before, how shall I ever convince Mama that I am serious when I say I’ll marry him or no one?”
Kate’s expression mingled consternation and sympathy as she strove to soothe her sister and prevent her from sinking into a fit of the vapours. Truth to tell, she had rather avoided recognizing Deb’s growing preference for Captain Marlowe as the lasting passion it now appeared to be, knowing his circumstances, both social and financial, rendered him quite ineligible for consideration in the marriage schemes their ambitious mother had devised for her daughters. He was a younger son of a solid but undistinguished Hampshire family and, though perfectly capable of supporting a wife in comfort, not being dependent on his army pay, he could not be compared with others of Deborah’s admirers. Mama entertained high hopes of achieving a brilliant match for the lovely Deborah, whose social success had brought scores of eligible suitors in her train. Kate could find it in her heart to be grateful that their parent’s unexpressed but patent disappointment in her elder daughter’s looks had caused her to moderate her ambitions where she was concerned. She shook her head over the folly of it all and bent her attention to the task of soothing and supporting her sister’s spirits. To this end, she reminded her that they would be attending the ball at Almack’s this evening and basely predicted that red-rimmed eyes would drive Captain Marlowe straight into the arms of another, more cheerful girl.
“For men dislike females who resemble watering pots, you know, and will go to any lengths to avoid them.”
Deb gave a watery chuckle at this nonsense, innocently confident of her power over the haplessly smitten Captain.
Soon the sisters were discussing their wardrobes for the evening and the crisis was past — for the moment only, thought Kate soberly, as she once again stepped into the muslin gown and absently accepted her sister’s assistance in doing up the buttons. She was turning the possibility of approaching their mother on Deb’s behalf over in her mind when the younger girl brought her back to the present.
“Stephan told me Mister Robin Dunston would be joining him at Almack’s tonight. You rather like Mister Dunston, do you not, Kate?”
Her sister was relieved that Deb, busy with the buttons down the back of her dress, could not see the blush that heated her own cheeks at the introduction of this name.
“Oh, yes,” she answered with airy unconcern. “I find Mister Dunston quite conversable and a better than average dancing partner, especially in the waltz. Deb,” she interpolated, hoping to change the subject, “do you recall anyone whose given name might be Nicholas — a tall man with broad shoulders and very black hair?”
After a moment’s cogitation, Deborah declared herself unacquainted with anyone by that name except the stable boy at Broadwoods. “Why, do you know someone of that description?”
“No, but I had the strangest experience at the Westerwood ball last night. My stocking had gotten itself into an uncomfortable ridge under my foot, so I sought privacy to fix it and ended up behind some palms in that anteroom. I was well hidden when a couple came to sit — come in!”
The knocker proved to be Becky with a message that Miss Deborah was wanted in the sewing room where Miss Fiddleton, the seamstress, was ready to fit her new ball dress. The maid moved into Deborah’s position to finish doing up Kate’s buttons. The sisters went their separate ways, and her experience of the previous evening slipped from Kate’s memory.
During the remainder of the day, she found her thoughts racing forward to the evening. She could not deny she was looking forward to tonight’s ball at Almack’s with more than her customary anticipation, nor that the expectation of seeing and perhaps dancing with Mister Robin Dunston was the cause of her eagerness. At the same time, she resented feeling this way. She had never been self-conscious in masculine company before. She and her brother, Roger, two years her senior, had been boon companions throughout their childhood.
When her father was alive, Broadwoods was often full of Roger’s school friends, some of whom she was pleased to call her own friends even now. There were young men she enjoyed dancing with and men she enjoyed conversing with, and she found the fathers of some of her friends absolutely delightful creatures, but until Mister Robin Dunston had appeared on her horizon, no male had ever succeeded in bringing a blush to her cheeks. She shrewdly suspected there was not a great deal in his cock loft, to employ one of Roger’s phrases, despite his agreeable party conversation, so she must suppose his attraction for her lay primarily in his undeniably handsome face, plus his talented performance on the dance floor — and more shame to her for this admission. She did not feel, as Deb apparently did about her captain, that life could contain no greater happiness than to marry Mister Dunston; in fact, she entirely distrusted the institution of marriage as productive of contentment for a woman. Her parents had dwelt together on terms of armed civility for as far back as her memories extended. As a child she had adored her father, but with maturing had come the unwelcome knowledge that his philandering had greatly contributed to turning her still beautiful mother into the near hypochondriac she was at present.
Lady Langston almost revelled in poor health. She was never without her vinaigrette, and the collection of bottles, phials, jars and containers for the medications prescribed by the physician currently enjoying her patronage would cause a stranger’s eyes to start out of his head. Her daughters were well used to dosing Lady Langston and catering to her invalidish whims, but Deborah, who had a gentle, uncritical nature, was by far her preferred attendant. She had been a loving mother during Kate’s childhood. The girl often wondered of late if her mother’s gradual estrangement from her elder daughter had begun when Kate had urged her to make an effort to rise above her physical difficulties and try to do without some esoteric prescription of the practitioner of th
e moment. Of a certainty, Lady Langston’s frequent animadversions on people “bursting with rude health themselves who lacked the sensitivity to appreciate that others were less fortunate” were pointedly addressed to her elder daughter. Kate had not repeated her error of casting aspersions on any of the treatments prescribed since, but she knew herself unforgiven.
Her mother had been the moving force behind Kate’s long sojourn with her paternal grandfather. When Lord Langston had commanded the presence of one of his grandchildren for a short visit to ease his loneliness following his son’s death, Lady Langston had said quite reasonably that she could not spare her son in her bereavement, and since Kate was the child who most favoured her father, she was the ideal choice.
The short visit had lasted until her grandfather’s death, not that Kate had begrudged that irascible but decidedly entertaining individual one day of her company. Had her mother asked for her return before she had rendered her final tender service to her grandfather, she’d have pleaded with her to allow her to remain where she was most needed, but there had been no such request; and when she had come home after an absence of more than two years, it was to find that the gap between mother and daughter had widened insensibly. Deborah had grown from a worshipful young sister into a poised young woman. The sisters got along famously together, but the closeness that had previously existed had inevitably diminished over such a long separation. Instead of her sister, other girls had shared Deb’s first experiences on being released from the schoolroom.
Deborah and her favoured suitor were much in Kate’s mind that afternoon as she went about some minor housekeeping tasks. She had still not decided on an approach to her mother when it became time to dress for the evening. Lady Langston was going to be severely disappointed, to put it mildly, if Deborah’s preference for Captain Marlowe persisted. The quiet routine of their lives suddenly looked like it was becoming rather complicated.