by Jane Ashford
They were among the first arrivals, but this was not an occasion for the fashionably late. Others entered soon enough, all of them friends or acquaintances. Fenella found John a comfortable perch and a plate of cakes and went to talk to her neighbors. Those who evinced an opinion seemed glad to see her. More were concentrated on their own enjoyment. A reminder, Fenella thought, not to exaggerate one’s own importance.
A wry smile still lingered on her lips when Roger entered the spacious drawing room. She was surprised to see him. He had been mingling in society even less over this past year. But the conventional mourning period, for his wife and his father, was over. He certainly had as much right as she to attend. Fenella turned away to speak to Mrs. Cheeve, the vicar’s wife, who had also just arrived with her husband.
The musicians in the corner struck up. Permanent employees of the Prouses, they included, as always, a piper, even though the bagpipe didn’t really fit with many of the usual dances. As well as the fact that the baronet and his wife weren’t the least bit Scottish. Fenella had asked them about this once. Sir Cyril’s gaze had gone distant as he declared, “It’s just such a magnificent sound, is it not?”
Now, accompanied by its eerie strains, Lady Prouse bore down on Fenella, took her arm and turned her around. “There, you two dance,” she said, pushing her toward Roger.
Before either of them could react, she’d moved on, putting other couples together based entirely on proximity, as far as Fenella could judge. She meant nothing particular by these pairings, except to set the dance moving.
Facing Roger, Fenella wondered what she ought to do. They hadn’t danced together since she came back from Scotland. Their past, and then a pile of complicating circumstances, had made it unwise.
The bagpipe shrilled, signaling a highland reel. Fenella’s foot tapped. She wasn’t the awkward girl who’d been thrown at him five years ago. And she felt like dancing. She extended her hands.
Roger took them. They laced their fingers together, standing very close, and then they joined the others in moving forward and back, hopping and turning in the steps of the dance.
His hands were sure and powerful. He swung her around with practiced skill. She’d forgotten that he was a fine, athletic dancer, Fenella thought. Or, she’d just avoided thinking about it.
They hadn’t touched in ages, certainly not since she’d returned from Scotland, and that had been best. She had no doubt about it. But before that, there had been occasions. She suddenly realized that the first of them had been here in this very room. It must be, yes, eight years ago.
Lady Prouse had organized a dancing class to help prepare her daughter Prudence for a London season, and she’d invited all the local young people, even those like Fenella who were not remotely out. Lady Prouse wanted enough couples to make up sets, and there weren’t a great many to choose from in the neighborhood. And so, although she was only fifteen, Fenella had wangled permission to go. She’d argued that the occasion was very informal and strictly chaperoned. Her mother had been ill at the time and had given in to her arguments. And so she’d come here, to this very spot, a pathetically gawky girl with unrealistic expectations. The draperies and furnishings looked just the same.
And then when Lady Prouse had to leave the room to attend to some household crisis, her daughter had cajoled the musicians into playing a waltz. Many of the boys, coerced into attending by their mothers, had been longing for a way to rebel, and they added their voices to hers. The musicians were persuaded, couples quickly came together, and Roger had been somehow left out, with only Fenella unpartnered.
He hadn’t been pleased, Fenella remembered. And he’d made no effort to hide his reluctance. But the others twitted him as a coward, or a bumpkin ignorant of the steps of the waltz. And so he had grabbed her, his arm tight around her waist, and spun her dizzily down the room. Fenella had found the dance intoxicating. She’d yielded to his masterful lead, senses swimming, until Lady Prouse returned and put a stop to their scandalous performance. “I wonder how Prudence is,” said Fenella.
Roger looked startled, as well he might. She’d been silent through much of the reel, and now she’d come out with this. He laughed. “No one ever had a more inapt name. She’s the least prudent creature I can imagine.”
Before he could think of that long-ago waltz, Fenella rushed on. “She married a man from Hertfordshire. The Prouses usually go to visit her down there.”
Roger nodded. “Do you remember those tableaus she organized one Christmas? Weren’t you in one?”
Fenella fought the blush, but it won out. Prudence had given her the part of winged Victory, to her utter delight. Even though she knew it was because she was the slightest girl and willing to perch on a tall plinth. But the diaphanous toga sort of thing she’d been draped in had turned out to be quite transparent when the banks of candles were lit for the tableaus. She’d been virtually naked, four feet above people’s heads. Her father had roared with fury.
“Oh yes,” said Roger. A spark lit his blue eyes.
He’d remembered. Of course he had. How could he not? “That incident gave me an enduring hatred of sarsenet,” Fenella said dryly. “I’ve never worn it since.”
He burst out laughing, which had been her aim. The music ended. Fenella stepped away, more breathless than a bit of dancing could explain. Roger left her with a smiling bow, shifting to another partner for the next dance.
“You and Chatton move well together,” said Lady Prouse at Fenella’s shoulder.
Fenella turned to find a speculative gleam in her hostess’s eye. She resisted pressing her hands to her flushed cheeks. Or saying anything that might encourage matchmaking. “Have you seen my nephew?”
“He asked about our library,” replied Lady Prouse, looking mildly disappointed at this response.
Fenella found John among the books. He was reading one about India, and he looked tired. She gathered him up to take him home to bed, and probably face the wrath of Wrayle, but she cared very little about that.
* * *
The local church service on Sunday held a good deal of interest for the Chatton Castle neighborhood, which seldom welcomed strangers. Additions to society were always welcome in this isolated corner of the country.
The castle party itself included a distinguished older gentleman. Whispers soon identified him as an earl, and he was seen to be quite friendly with Lady Chatton, rousing a buzz of curiosity. There was also an unknown youngster at the far end of the castle pew, homely but amiable looking. His status couldn’t be agreed upon within the limited opportunities for gossip inside the church. He did not appear the least cowed by noble company.
The group from Clough House also brought a new member, a slender boy soon identified as the old gentleman’s grandson. Parishioners murmured that this visit must be pleasant for the old man in his sickness. He hadn’t been seen in church, or anywhere else, since being felled by the apoplexy.
The vicar’s sermon that day added to the excitement of the occasion. Rather than his usual homily on responsibility or compassion, he stated that his subject would be Cuthbert, the area’s patron saint and, he declared, the savior of England. “For after this holy man’s death and the many miracles due to his intercession, Cuthbert came in a dream to Alfred, known as the great, King of Wessex. Alfred was then engaged in a mighty struggle against the Danes, invaders from over the sea.”
The vicar paused and raked the congregation with his gaze. Roger, directly under his eye in the front, was taken aback. Reverend Cheeve was usually the mildest of men, but today his green eyes burned with fervor.
The man shook back the wide sleeves of his surplice, put a hand on either side of the pulpit, leaned forward, and continued. “Calling himself a soldier of Christ in this dream, Cuthbert told the king what he needed to do. Alfred must arise at dawn and sound his horn three times. Cuthbert promised that by the ninth hour the king would have
assembled five hundred men. And within seven days Alfred would have gathered, through God’s gift and Cuthbert’s aid, an army to fight at his side and vanquish the Danes. And so it happened. The battle was won. And England was not conquered.”
Roger stifled an impulse to applaud. Cheeve might have been rousing a fighting troop rather than preaching. Far more entertaining than his customary platitudes. The vicar did circle back after this to relate his story to his listeners, urging them to put their trust in the lord. But the jolt of energy he’d provided remained in the air. Roger put a bit extra in the collection plate to show his appreciation. He also congratulated Cheeve on a fine sermon as he passed through the church door after the service.
Outside, Roger came face to face with Fenella Fairclough, for the first time since their invigorating reel at the Prouses. And he couldn’t help thinking that she looked particularly pretty this morning, curvaceous and assured in a deep blue gown that echoed the hue of her eyes, with a shawl falling artistically over her shoulders. Her face, half shaded by a chip straw bonnet, reminded Roger of an antique cameo. If such a piece of jewelry could shift expressions like wind passing over water, he amended.
The press of people leaving the church urged him on, and they moved away together. “This is my nephew John Symmes,” she said, indicating a dark-haired boy at her side. “Greta’s son. John, this is Lord Chatton, a neighbor of ours.”
“You live in the castle,” said the boy.
“I do.”
“John is spending his holiday with us,” Fenella added.
“Ah.” Seeing his mother and houseguest ahead, Roger moved toward them. “We have a visitor as well. Up from London. Lord Macklin may I present Miss Fairclough and…” But young Symmes had faded into the small crowd between one step and the next. He appeared to be gone.
Roger’s mother offered happy greetings, and Macklin acknowledged the introduction with his habitual composure. Roger was about to suggest that they depart when Harold Benson edged around Macklin, plump and furtive to the earl’s tall and distinguished. Indeed the self-appointed historian was half crouching, so that his rotund figure looked even more squat. “I’m avoiding Cheeve,” he informed them. “He thinks I can guarantee him the part of St. Cuthbert in the pageant, but I can’t. That decision is not up to me. He’s wasted his oratory.” Benson moved so that Roger was between him and the church door, where the vicar still lingered. “But I have been asked to speak to you again, Lord Chatton. And also to Miss Fairclough. I’m happy to find you together. There’s a scene in the pageant that is part of a Viking raid on the Lindisfarne manor, and the committee wondered, hoped, that you two might enact it. As a gesture of support for the enterprise. To help make the venture a success, you know. And reflect well on the neighborhood.”
Despite this blatant hint, Roger started to refuse, but Fenella spoke first. “What sort of scene?”
“A Saxon noblewoman repels the Viking attacker with a broom.”
“A broom?” asked Fenella.
“She bashes him on the side of the head,” replied Benson. “Naturally we would take care—”
“I could do that,” Fenella interrupted.
“I’m sure you could,” said Roger. “And enjoy it, too. I don’t intend to be bashed, however.”
“The Viking prevails in the end, of course,” said Benson. “He sweeps her up and carries her off and, well, there is another bit, but we could make adjustments.”
“Throws her in the midden?” Roger suggested. “Or the pig sty perhaps?”
“After she kicks him in the face, repeatedly?” said Fenella.
Benson looked taken aback. “Whatever the exact, er, outcome I’m glad to put you down as settled for the roles.” He whipped a small notebook from his coat pocket, pulled out a stub of pencil, and made checkmarks on a list inside.
“Wait,” said Roger. He noticed Macklin and his mother watching this exchange with interest. His mother leaned over to whisper to the earl, who would soon know all the history with Fenella that there was to know, from his mother’s point of view, Roger thought.
“Rehearsals begin day after tomorrow,” said Benson.
“Rehearsals!” repeated Roger and Fenella at the same moment.
“Just a moment,” said Fenella.
“Cheeve’s spotted me,” said Benson. “I must go.” He ducked sideways, scuttled along the path through the churchyard, and more or less ran away.
“Oh dear, I was going to ask him about taking a role myself,” said Roger’s mother.
“I suspect you’ll have your chance,” said Macklin.
Without meaning to, Roger met Fenella’s sparkling blue gaze. She was clearly irritated and amused and resigned. And why did he imagine he saw so much in a glance, Roger wondered. He couldn’t possibly. He was very bad at such perceptions. And yet he was certain. Roger felt an odd inner tug of emotion. He couldn’t identify it. And when he had been so sure about her feelings, too. That made no sense. And it was dashed uncomfortable. He turned away toward his waiting carriage.
On the other side of the churchyard, shielded by a tall monument, Sherrington Symmes, known at long last as John, was kicking pebbles onto the plinth when an older boy walked around the obelisk and joined him.
“Hullo,” he said.
John merely nodded. He wasn’t in the mood for conversation.
“My name’s Tom,” said the newcomer.
John kicked a larger rock. It struck the base of the monument, bounced back, and tumbled off into the grass.
“Dedicated to the memory of Malcolm Carew,” Tom read from the stone. “Beloved husband, respected father. They all say something like that. Have to, once they’re dead, don’t they?”
John felt a spark of interest in the newcomer.
“I mean, you never see a gravestone saying rotten husband, mean old dad, and all ’round clutch-fisted blackguard. Ain’t done.” He consulted the inscription. “Plenty old when he died. I suppose nobody shells out for a great spike like this if they didn’t like the fellow.”
John laughed. “Who are you?”
“Name’s Tom,” the other repeated.
“Tom what?”
“Dunno.” The older boy shrugged. “Don’t got a last name.”
“But how can you not?”
“I don’t remember my parents. Grew up scrambling, like, on the streets of Bristol.”
John’s interest increased by leaps and bounds. “My name is John Symmes.”
“Grandson of one of the local gentry,” Tom answered. “I heard.”
“You live around here?”
“No, come up for a visit. With Lord Macklin.” Leaning out, he indicated a tall somewhat intimidating-looking gentleman amid the parishioners.
John tried to figure out their association. Tom didn’t seem like a servant exactly. But he couldn’t be a relation of that high-nosed man. Not with the history he’d mentioned and the way he spoke. Still, better to err on the side of the complimentary. “Are you his grandson?”
Tom laughed. “Not hardly. I’m, well, I don’t rightly know what. I heard his secretary call me the earl’s current project.” He grinned.
It was an immensely engaging grin. John felt a tug of liking for this older, homely boy. Which was a rare experience in his life. “What does that mean?”
“I reckon Lord Macklin wants to make something of me.” Tom’s grin widened. “Not going to work, howsomeever.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You ain’t alone in that. Do you like walking?”
“Walking?”
“Tramping about the countryside. I’m partial to it myself. Like company, too. You could come along.”
“I’m not allowed out by myself.” Much as it pained him, John had to admit it. He felt it simply wouldn’t be right to lie to this new intriguing acquaintance.
; “Well, you wouldn’t be. You’d be with me. You could tell that aunt of yours that I never get in trouble. I’m right careful. And we’d just be looking about, ye know. Reconnoitering, they call it.”
“It isn’t Aunt Fenella. It’s Wrayle.”
“Rail?”
“He’s my jailor.” John enjoyed saying it. Daring to say it.
“Eh?” said Tom.
“They call him a servant, but he isn’t really.” Now that he was launched, the words went faster. “My parents assigned him to watch me.”
“Why?”
There was something about Tom that made you want to be honest with him, John thought. He hoped they could be friends. He would like that very much. But Tom had to know the truth first. That was the only way it could be. And so, although his heart sank, John proceeded to tell it. “I like snakes,” he said. “They’re quite interesting. And when we were last in London, I found a shopkeeper who sells exotic animals. He had a boa constrictor!” John’s enthusiasm for his subject swelled. “A sailor brought it back from the Americas. Fed it on rats on the ship. It was a quite small specimen, really, and they’re not poisonous.”
“Boa constrictor,” repeated Tom as if interested in the sound of the words. “That’s a kind of snake?”
John nodded. “So I bought it and sneaked it home. To observe and learn, you know. But it got loose from its cage somehow and it…” He stopped, swallowed, and then rushed on. “It ate my little sister’s new kitten.” Here was the depth of his disgrace. John saw again the horror in his sisters’ eyes, heard the heartbroken weeping. He cringed.
“Yer joking.”
John looked for signs of disgust in Tom’s face, and found none. He shook his head.
“Ate it, you say? I’d think a kitten could outrun a snake.”
“Constrictors throw their coils around their prey and crush them before they swallow them.” The kitten’s tail, still protruding from his snake’s mouth, had been the terrible, irrefutable evidence that sealed both their fates.