Authors: Cynthia Bailey Pratt
A Lady in Love (18 page)
Slowly, repeating a lesson learnt by heart, he counted again the reasons why Lillian Canfield was his ideal bride. Listening to the silence of the large house, decorated with a view toward bringing her into it, he tried to convince himself that happiness could be derived from contentment. Alaric strove to keep his thoughts on Lillian. But the girl with laughing grey eyes who held up an apple and asked, “Do you want a bite?” slipped past all his barricades.
That night, hours after they'd returned from the theater, Sarah woke to the sound of sobbing. She sat up. “Harmonia,” she whispered. “Are you awake?"
Her friend did not answer except by a loud gulp as of tears hastily swallowed. A bar of moonlight filtered in through the window beside her bed, shining across the carpet like a path. Sarah put one foot out from beneath the covers. The floor was freezing and her slippers were far underneath the bed.
"What's the matter?” she asked, stealing across to the other bed. Putting her hair back from her face with both hands, she leaned down to whisper, “Why are you crying?"
"I wasn't. Oh, yes. I was."
Sarah sat on the edge of the bed, her cold feet tucked up beneath her. “Why? Is it ... is it Mr. Atwood?"
All colors were washed away by the moonlight pouring in through the sheer curtains. Her friend's face seemed like something drowned without her own bright eyes and cheeks to lend vivid life. Harmonia nodded miserably, dragging up the sheet to mop her face. “How did you know?"
"You've been here a week and you've hardly mentioned him. ..."
"What could I say? I don't know anything. He never writes me. I've sent him letter on letter, and I don't receive anything in return. Not ever. I don't think I've gotten a letter from him since ... oh, since February. And that was only a brief note, hardly worth franking.” She sniffled.
"Have you asked him why he doesn't write more often?"
"I don't like to ask. I don't want him to think I'm the kind of girl who criticizes.” Drawing a quavering breath, she went on. “I'm so worried. What if something's happened to him?"
"The people who employ him would surely let you know."
Harmonia shook her head. “Maybe not. Harlow didn't let them know about me. He said it might jeopardize his position if they knew he could only stay a year."
"I see,” Sarah said, though she did not. “Write him again tomorrow, and ask him why he doesn't write back. Maybe he just never thought of it."
Harmonia grasped her friend's hand. “Do you think ... ? I will. I'll demand an accounting. Will you help—oh, I forgot. You're going riding with Harvey."
"Yes, he asked me to. But I'd much rather ..."
"No, no, you go. This is something I have to do alone.” She paused as if in thought, and then said, “Besides, you've not had a chance to ride your horse since you bought him. I can hardly believe Mrs. Whitsun let you do that."
"Russet was a bargain for such a love. And my aunt doesn't object. She told me yesterday that she thinks I should go for rides in the Row more often. But that first time out, there were too many other people riding to find out what she can do. Early in the morning, or so Harvey says, there aren't so many riders to get in the way."
"I don't know why you call your horse that. She's not red."
"No, I know. But she's the apple of my eye. Is there anything I can do for you, Harmonia? Would you like me to make you a cup of tea or chocolate? I know the cook won't mind my being in her kitchen.” She knew no such thing. Her aunt's cook was a tartar, who defended her stove and hearth like a demon.
"No, I don't care for anything. I just wish he'd write to me! Even a word would be welcome."
"I know. Try to sleep, Harmonia.” Feeling helpless, Sarah returned to her own bed. The girls had decided from the first to share a room, both for company and late-night gossips. Now that Sarah was awake, she could not go back to sleep. Not even the rhythmic breathing of her friend, finding slumber quickly through sheer exhaustion, could stop her thoughts from racing, despite how well she knew the track.
When Miss Canfield first suggested visiting the theater in her company, Mrs. Whitsun had taken her up at once. Not even Sarah's pleading the headache had dampened Mrs. Whitsun's enthusiasm for the plan. She had talked for an hour to Sarah about all the important people who would be there, about the eligible men who would fall in love with her, like Romeo and Juliet, admiring her in her balcony setting. But it was not until her aunt sighed, complaining that Lord Reyne would not be joining them, that Sarah's heartache dissipated.
She had even given in to Mrs. Whitsun's insistence that she sit up in front of the box, despite feeling like a bolt of cloth in a draper's window, because she could watch the play so much better from there. Though the high-flown language was a trifle difficult to follow, Sarah had enjoyed herself until the door opened and in walked Lord Reyne.
How splendid he'd appeared in his evening dress, with the brilliant white linen throwing back the candlelight. And then, wonders of wonders, he'd come to her side. They'd talked for a time, and he'd smiled. But those moments had been too brief; he'd returned to Miss Canfield. Sarah had not the faintest notion what happened during the next two acts. She lived only for the moment when the curtain dropped down, and yet. Lord Reyne never came back.
Lying back against her pillows, Sarah decided to forget that he'd gone from her, that he'd not returned. She smiled in the darkness, remembering what it had been like to have his entire attention focused on her alone. She invented a thousand witticisms to keep him laughing, conveniently forgetting she'd never have the boldness in real life to deliver a one of them.
Early in the morning, noticing her niece was heavy-eyed and yawning, Mrs. Whitsun said, “It will be an early night for you, dear thing. We can't have you falling ill."
"I just had a difficult time sleeping. Aunt."
"Over-excitement. My, that habit was an excellent investment. There are not many girls who can carry that shade of pink.” Mrs. Whitsun gave the antique-colored lace at Sarah's throat a straightening pat. “Do be careful of that train; I know you are not used to it, and nothing looks worse than a girl tripping over her own clothes."
"Yes, Aunt.” Sarah heard a jingle as of harness and went to the morning room window to search the street. “It's Harvey, already. Doesn't he look fine? Those clothes must be new. Yes, they are. Look how proud he is of them."
The lanky young man stopped on the steps of Mrs. Whitsun's townhouse and inhaled a great draft of morning air. Then, suddenly somber, he painstakingly plucked a piece of invisible lint from his sleeve. With a word to the groom who held the two horses, Harvey rapped the knocker. Sarah was there to open the door before the sound had the chance to echo.
"Good,” he said, looking her over. “You're all ready then."
"Yes, I am. But I'm surprised you're so early. Harmonia said you'd be late.” She waved her riding crop to her aunt, still peering out the wide front window.
"What does she know?” Harvey asked, making a cradle of his hands so Sarah could stand on them to mount. “I hate girls who keep you waiting, on and off for an hour while they fuss. Especially with a restive beast like this under me.” The big bay, as rangy as his master, blew out his breath as though in agreement and danced, kicking his black feet. “That's not a bad animal you've got there, by the way.” They rode away, leaving the groom sitting on the steps.
Upon reaching the Park, Harvey, only in town a week, was busy greeting friends and nodding to his acquaintances. Sarah found that even at seven the rides were not empty as she'd hoped. A few of her admirers were out and her cheeks ached from smiling so much so early. She could feel beneath her the tense muscles of her mare and, as much as the horse, longed to go bounding over the empty expanses she knew existed beyond the Row. Yet, as Harvey had brought her, she felt compelled to remain beside him.
Harvey half-rose in his saddle, looking off into the distance. “Isn't that ... I believe it is!"
"Who? What is it?"
"That girl. Emma Dealford. And without her mother for once, by God!” Harvey gazed eagerly at the dim figure of a girl on a white horse. Then he slumped down and cast a sheepish glance at Sarah.
"What eyes you've got, Harvey. I can just see that is a horse. Do you want to greet her?"
"I don't want to leave you."
"Oh, I'll come with—” Sarah recognized the expression in Harvey's eyes. It was the same a dog she'd once owned would wear whenever someone went for a walk without him. At a word, Harvey's ears would no doubt prick up. “Go ahead, Harvey. I'll wait for you down this lane."
Quickly, before anyone noticed she was now alone, Sarah urged Russet to turn aside from the main thoroughfare. Not knowing the ground, she dared not let her mare entirely off the rein, but she could not resist moving up from the leisurely pace of the Row to a brisk trot. Though a few patches of mist still clung to the low spots on the path, a breeze stirred her hair as her heart beat freely for the first time in days.
Then, a small man appeared almost under Russet's hooves. Sarah pulled sharply at the reins. The horse, surprised, reared back. As Sarah fought to keep her seat, she glimpsed a long object of wood and steel in the man's hands. Shocked, she let go and fell off.
"Are you hurt. Miss?"
"No, I don't believe so.” For a moment, she thought she was back in her own woods, staring up into an autumn sky. But this man's eyes were brown. He was small and scrawny, his clothes patched together with dark squares and ragged threads. The object in his hand was definitely a pistol.
Sarah sat up, her hand on her head. The universe still gyrated. She took her hand away and the reeling slowed. “Where's my hat?"
He searched around with his eyes. “ ‘Ere you go,” he said, bending to pick up a squashed and dented object. Handing it to her, he stepped back and leveled his pistol once more. “Give me ... yer money and ah ... yer jewels."
Rising, Sarah found she rather towered over the man. He wore a tattered cap on his greying brown hair. “I'm afraid I haven't anything. I'm riding this morning, not going to Court."
"Ain't it my luck?” The man lowered his pistol, shaking his head as though he'd never expected any better success.
"I'm sorry to disappoint you,” Sarah said. “Aren't you going to shoot me?"
"No, miss. I can't hurt nothing, after being in the wars."
"Oh, were you a soldier?"
"Yes, miss. With the Army of the Peninsula."
"Were you? Maybe you knew a friend of mine—his name's ..."
Hearing a rumble of hoofbeats, they turned to see a huge black stallion galloping down the lane. The rider shouted, “What the devil ... ?” as his horse nearly trampled the would-be hedge-robber. The little man threw up his arms and the pistol went off with a puff of smoke and a bang.
Lord Reyne hurled himself from the saddle, landing on the man. He gathered up the filthy neckcloth in one fist and brought the other around in a swing. “Packer?"
” ‘Allo, Capt'n. Don't hit me, if you please, sir."
"Do you know him?” Sarah asked, coming to stand beside Lord Reyne. His stallion moved over to become acquainted with Russet.
"Miss East? It is you! I thought ... What is going on here?"
"Oh, do let go. He's turning blue.” Alaric opened his hand and Packer fell backward, gasping for breath. “It's very interesting,” Sarah said, coming around to help him up. “I've never been robbed before."
"He robbed you?"
"Oh, no. I don't have anything worth stealing. It was very gallant of you to rescue me, all the same. Just like the play, except there the highwayman saved Lady Anne from the lecherous Lord Lunge. Of course, you wouldn't remember that.” She brushed the hair out of her eyes and dared to glance at Lord Reyne. He'd pushed his own hat back on his head and rubbed his forehead.
"No, I don't recall much about the play."
"I suppose you had rather a lot to drink at your club. Are you feeling better, Mr. Packet?” The robber coughed and rubbed his throat, while nodding his head.
"His name's Packer, Sarah. He was in my regiment, one of those who carried me behind the lines when I was wounded."
"It were no trouble to me, Capt'n."
"What brought you to this?” Alaric asked, stunned by the difference between a uniformed soldier and a ragged robber.
"These are ‘ard times. Captain. Terrible ‘ard, and my health h'ain't so good. That there mal-aria. But I know you ain't no choice in the matter but putting me down on the charge sheet, Capt'n. I'll go ‘long quiet-like. Guessed I'd come to this any road."
Alaric's eyes met Sarah's, her hand still on Packer's thin shoulder. “I can't help them all,” he murmured, hoping to see understanding. She nodded sadly, and somehow that seemed worse than any indifference would have been. Sarah, he felt, shouldn't know anything about the limitations of one person's charity.
"Look, Packer,” he said. “You go to my house. Ragnor Square, number ten. You used to be a fair man with horses; tell Barton ... do you remember him? Tell him I said to put you onto something. And get a meal. But look here! You're taken on conditionally; this is no sinecure. Cock up and you're out!"
"Yes, sir, Captain, sir,” Packer said, sketching a salute. “Number ten, Ragnor. Good old Barton.” He picked up his pistol and stood a moment, polishing it up with the corner of his coat.
"You can't walk about London carrying that. Give it to me."
"Yes, sir. It's yours, anyway. I found it on the field, but I couldn't never get up with you after you'd been carted off."
Alaric took the pistol. Though the metal was scarred, his enshielded arms were still incised in the butt. “By heavens, I've the mate of this at home. I'm glad to have them both again; the one looks so lonely in its case. Thank you, Packer."
When the little man had gone, Sarah stepped up shyly to Lord Reyne's elbow and looked at the long pistol that he still held in his hand. He turned it so she could see. But though she seemed to be examining it intently, in reality she was filling her senses with his nearness. The brief struggle caused a line of sweat to trickle from the close-cut hair beside his ear. Her height made them equals, and she could study every feature of his face from beneath her lowered lashes.
