A Chance Encounter (13 page)

Elizabeth did not lie down. She drew a chair to the window and sat looking out. Indeed, it would be madness to venture out, armed as she was only with a heavy pelisse and half-boots, And it would be equal madness to force Mr. Mainwaring to call out a closed carriage when it would get bogged down in the mud in no time at all. Yet even so, she felt wretchedly uncomfortable with her situation. She felt herself to be an intruder, and her ambivalent position as an employed lady did not help her confidence. However polite Mr. Mainwaring's guests might be, they must surely view her as a servant and feel that she did not really belong with them at the dinner table and in the drawing room afterward. To make matters worse, there was the presence of Hetherington. He hated and despised her. She almost knew by the look in his eyes earlier that he believed that she had maneuvered this visit. She was dreadfully embarrassed. She even considered sending a message at dinnertime to say that indeed she had caught cold and would prefer to stay in her room. But that might be construed as yet another attempt to focus attention on herself.

No, she must go down. She gazed in despair at the gown laid out on the bed. She must wear it. Her own clothes had been whisked away by a maid to be cleaned. Even if they were dry in time, they were not suitable for evening wear. And she could certainly not venture downstairs in the warm but ample dressing gown that she was currently wearing. It had been the plainest gown that Amelia Norris possessed, and she had been noticeably reluctant to lend even that. But its neckline was a great deal lower than anything Elizabeth had worn since she had made her comeout, its sleeves were short and puffed, and its hem was delicately scalloped. And it was of the palest primrose yellow. Mrs. Prosser had lent her a pair of gold slippers. They were a size too large, but Elizabeth was not planning to do much walking.

Finally, when the dresser came to see if she could be of any help, Elizabeth dressed herself. She blushed with mortification when she looked at herself in a mirror. She looked like a girl again, her delicately curved figure accented by the flimsy material of the gown. There was altogether too much bare flesh in evidence for her comfort. The skirt was slightly too long. She would have to hold it up whenever she was on her feet. Her hair still streamed down her back in thick chestnut waves. She hastily gathered together all her hairpins and grabbed a brush. Soon the hair had been tamed into a knot that sat even more severely on her neck than usual.

A tap at the door heralded the return of the dresser. She brought with her a pearl necklace and a warm white shawl from her mistress. Elizabeth was grateful for both. The pearls somehow made her neck and bosom seem less bare. The shawl was something to hide behind.

It took a great deal of courage to leave the room and descend the staircase to the drawing room. As fortune would have it, only Hetherington and Mr. Mainwaring were yet present, the former looking startlingly handsome in black. They both rose to their feet and stared at her as she timidly entered. Mr. Mainwaring crossed the room in a few long strides and took her hand in his. He smiled dazzlingly.

“I am delighted to see, ma'am, that you are none the worse for your ordeal this afternoon,” he said. “And please give me leave to say that you look quite beautiful.” He raised her hand to his lips. “Would you not agree, Robert?” he added.

Elizabeth had been aware ever since she entered the room of Hetherington standing with his back to the fire, his face pale, his lips tightly drawn together. He was watching her intently.

He lifted his glass now in a mock salute. “Charming,” he said, and raised one eyebrow.

“Do come to the fire, Miss Rossiter, and let me get you a drink,” Mr. Mainwaring said, apparently noticing nothing out of the ordinary in his friend's attitude.

He led her to a chair close to where Hetherington was standing, then crossed the room to a sideboard where an array of decanters and glasses had been set out.

“It is the hairstyle that is the real coup de grace,” Hetherington murmured, looking into the dark liquid in his glass.

“Thank you, my lord,” Elizabeth said sweetly. “I knew I might depend upon you to make me feel at home.”

“I thought you might be depended upon to do that for yourself, ma'am,” he muttered so that Elizabeth felt herself near to bursting with rage by the time a smiling Mr. Mainwaring put a glass into her hand.

Fortunately, the other two ladies entered the drawing room at that point, soon to be followed by Mr. Prosser. Conversation became general and the party adjourned to the dining room. Elizabeth, viewed kindly by at least three of her table companions, found that the meal was not such an ordeal as she had anticipated. She felt almost cheerful by the time Mrs. Prosser rose to lead the ladies into the drawing room.

Amelia Norris made no secret of the fact that she did not feel it her duty to entertain or socialize with a mere governess.

“Come, Bertha,” she said, “play for me while I sing.”

Mrs. Prosser groaned. “Must we?” she asked. “It seems we have done little else in a week. I was hoping to have a comfortable coze by the fire with Miss Rossiter.”

“There is nothing else to do,” Amelia snapped, “and you know that Robert likes to hear me sing.”

Mrs. Prosser sighed. “Will you excuse us?” she said to Elizabeth. “Do you sing or play, perhaps?”

“Only very indifferently,” Elizabeth replied, shaking her head. “I shall enjoy listening to you.”

When the gentlemen entered the drawing room a while later, it was to find Elizabeth sitting a little removed from the fire and the other two ladies at the piano at the other end of the large room.

“Ah, Henry,” his wife called, “I need you here to turn the pages of the music for me.”

He crossed the room amiably and stood behind his wife's stool. Hetherington too strolled across to the pianoforte and leaned an elbow on it while he watched Amelia singing.

“May I join you, ma'am?” Mr. Mainwaring asked, and seated himself beside her on the sofa.

They conversed about the recent weather, about common acquaintances, about the social activities they had both engaged in since his arrival. He told her about some changes he planned to make in the estate. In particular, he planned to extend the stables and to hire more gardeners to tame the general wildness that surrounded the house.

“Does this mean that you plan to make Femdale your frequent home, sir?” Elizabeth asked.

“Oh, yes,” he replied. “I like it here very much. My estates in Scotland and northern England are rather too remote for frequent visits, and London is rather too busy and too superficial for my tastes. I believe I shall spend a large part of each year in residence here.”

Elizabeth smiled. “I am sure your neighbors will be very happy to have Ferndale occupied again,” she said.

He looked at her intently. “And you, ma'am?” he asked. “Will you be happy to have me live here?”

“I?” she said. “Why, yes, sir, I value your acquaintance.”

Hetherington had moved back across the room and sat now in the chair closest to the fire with his book. He propped one foot against the hearth rail and appeared to become immediately absorbed in its pages. Elizabeth judged that he was out of earshot of their conversation unless he made a deliberate attempt to listen.

“Will I be speaking out of turn, ma'am,” Mr. Mainwaring continued, “if I say that you are one of the main reasons why I have decided to make Ferndale my principal home?”

Elizabeth looked at him, troubled. “It is perhaps unwise to allow one person to influence one's decisions,” she said. “People can disappoint us, you know.”

He was silent for a while, watching her. “May I hope, Elizabeth?” he asked.

She was distressed. She eyed Hetherington uneasily, but he seemed to be engrossed in his book. “For friendship, yes, sir,” she replied hesitantly

“But not for anything more?”

“I do not believe so, sir,” she said.

He continued to gaze at her. “Does your position as a paid companion make you hesitate?” he asked. “It need not, you know. Your breeding proclaims you every inch a lady, and I find nothing shameful in being forced to work for a living.”

“I am not ashamed either,” she replied.

“There is someone else, then?” he asked. “Your affections are engaged elsewhere?”

How could she reply? Elizabeth gazed at her hands, which were twisting uncomfortably in her lap.

“Pardon me, ma'am,” he said, reaching out and touching her hands briefly. “The question was impertinent. Please do not distress yourself. I believe Bertha and Amelia have tired of their music. Shall we set up a card table?”

He had risen to his feet. The last words were spoken more loudly. Elizabeth gratefully allowed herself to be drawn into the evening's activities. She escaped to her room as soon as she decently could, having avoided any more private conversation with Mr. Mainwaring and without having given Hetherington any further opportunity to cut her with words. She lay down half an hour later, hoping fervently that the weather would have changed by the morning so that there would be no possible obstacle to her going home early.

“I
must see him for myself,” Elizabeth was saying. “I cannot believe it. I will not. He loves me. There is some terrible mistake.”

“There is no mistake, love.” John's voice was very gentle but equally firm. He was kneeling on the floor in front of her chair. He seemed always to be kneeling before her. “I have talked to Papa and there is no mistake. The man is an out-and-out scoundrel.”

“No!” she said, covering her ears with her hands. “No.”

The tears were flowing again. She was powerless to resist them. She had lost all pride.

“Love, you must get up from there. You must go outside. You must eat,” John coaxed.

“No,” she said dully. “No.”

“What can I do for you?” he asked, genuine pain in his voice. “I cannot be a substitute for that damned Denning —Hetherington, I should say—but let me comfort you, Elizabeth. Lean on me for a while. You have done enough for me in the last years.”

“I must see him,” she said dully. “I must see him. I must hear it from him.”

“He refuses to have any further contact with you, love. Get angry, Elizabeth. Curse him. Yell. But don't keep on grieving like this. Please, love.”

Elizabeth sobbed painfully into her hands again.

He gathered her into his arms and rocked her like a child. “It will be all right,” he crooned. “Everything will be all right.”

“No,” she wailed. ~

She was sweating and struggling, fighting for breath. When she opened her eyes against the darkness, she continued to struggle, completely disoriented. It took a while to understand the strangeness of her surroundings. She was in a guest bedroom at Ferndale. She lay still, listening tensely for a while. Had she said anything aloud? Her nightmares had been noisy at first. Many times she had awoken to find John shaking her by the shoulders, telling her over and over that it was just a bad dream and that everything would be all right. No one at Mr. Rowe's house had ever mentioned hearing her call out in her sleep, though several times she had awoken from the nightmare, her face still wet from the tears.

Damn him! Damn Robert Denning, Marquess of Hetherington. How could she be expected to sleep peacefully knowing that he was under the same roof? Was he sleeping dreamlessly? Or was he restless too, troubled perhaps by his conscience? He did not appear to have one, but perhaps it troubled him in his sleep. The thought was somehow comforting.

Elizabeth pushed back the bedcovers impatiently and crossed the room in her bare feet to the window. She pulled back the heavy curtains and stared out into the darkness. It was still raining, though with less force than during the evening. The sky seemed lighter. There seemed even to be some thinner patches in the clouds, though it might have been wishful thinking that made her imagine it.

She shivered. The room felt chilly and damp now that the fire that had been lit earlier in the day had died down. Elizabeth pulled around her shoulders the dressing gown that Mrs. Prosser had lent her, climbed back into the high bed, and sat upright, the bedcovers pulled to her waist, her arms clasped around her knees.

She relived again those few blissful weeks, the best in their courtship, when they had visited Robert's grandmother frequently and had a chance to get to know each other and brief minutes to touch and embrace. Even at the time Elizabeth had wanted those days to go on forever. Two people had contrived to put a stop to their happiness.

Elizabeth had been surprised one evening at a large ball to have her hand solicited for a dance by Robert's uncle. She had seen him before, had even been introduced to him, but she had never seen him dance, had never seen him pay any attention whatsoever to young women. He was a man of enormous wealth and had a great sense of his own importance. As brother to the Marquess of Hetherington, he felt himself far removed from the common touch. He was generally disliked, Elizabeth had heard. She was terrified of him, though Robert felt a deep respect, even affection, for his uncle. When he asked her to dance, Elizabeth's amazed reaction was that he must be putting his public stamp of approval on his nephew's courtship of her. She could not have been more wrong.