A Lady in Love (21 page)

"Does he?"

"Yerss. An’ it's a shame. A nice ol’ lady like this ought get her meals regular and not be stinted on the oats.” He rubbed the mare's velvet nose, and Russet held her head still as if she enjoyed it.

"Thank you. It's very good of you.” She walked down to the street and Packer helped her mount, quite as if he'd never pointed a pistol at her in his life.

With an instinct she'd not known she possessed, Sarah did not tell Packer she'd inform her aunt about Hannay's inadequacies. It would make Mr. Packer feel badly if his information lost another man his job, though he must have known that would be the outcome. For the first time, Sarah became consciously aware that sometimes it felt better not to acknowledge what was perfectly plain.

She realized she'd been doing this herself for quite some time. If she once let herself think about the fact that Lord Reyne obviously felt no love for Miss Canfield, liking being something quite different, it would become impossible to keep from throwing her arms about his neck whenever he came near. She found it difficult enough to constrain her feelings as matters stood.

Mr. Packer behaved in every regard as the perfect groom during Sarah's ride. Though he never permitted her to leave his sight, he kept up so beautifully she hardly knew he was there. It was only on their return to Mrs. Whitsun's house that he once more dropped into his own personality. “There, miss, and ‘ow was that?"

"Heavenly, Mr. Packer."

"I know the horse liked it. Didn't you, old lady?” He helped Sarah down. “Now, about this feller ..."

"Hannay?"

He shook his head. “This other feller. The one what ‘as been ‘anging h'about the square. All white-faced ‘e is. Skinned to the nubbins, near enough. ‘Orrible-lookin'. I run ‘im off myself a couple times, but you just tell yer butler to look out sharpish for ‘im. An’ if ‘e comes h'around, t’ call the watch or send for me and my mates."

Sarah would have questioned Packer more about this mysterious person, who sounded rather like a character from one of Harmonia's favorite type of stories, but Mrs. Whitsun opened the drawing room window and said, “Sarah! Come in at once."

"Thank you, Mr. Packer,” Sarah said, turning to go.

"A pleasure, miss."

"Really, Sarah!” Mrs. Whitsun said, as soon as her great-niece entered. “Bandying words with a common groom in the street! Will you never grow sense?” She slit open a letter with her long paper-knife. “Another appeal from charity! Do these people think we are made of money?''

Even when Sarah told her aunt about the groom, Mrs. Whitsun pooh-poohed it. “Hannay has been with me for years. I'm not about to take the words of some stranger about him. And as for this loiterer, no doubt he and this groom are in collusion. I shall tell the servants to be on guard against
all
strange persons.” She shook open the next letter. “Oh, dear. Mrs. Lampert won't be able to come to supper. The catarrh again. Remind me to send her some jelly. Go and change, dear thing. You reek of horses."

As Sarah opened the double doors to go out, she heard her aunt give a vexed exclamation. “What is it? Is something the matter?"

"It's really too bad. You might as well know what consequences your actions have, Sarah. If you hadn't made such a cake of yourself over Lord Reyne at Amabelle's, we'd be able to attend this party at Miss Canfield's. Last year, her soiree was the hit of the Season. And you have that charming Aetherial blue crepe that would have been so suitable."

"But, surely, if Miss Canfield isn't scandalized by my actions .... After all. Lord Reyne is her betrothed. ..."

"Oh, she'd be putting a good face on it. I've known girls who'd throw a man over for that sort of behavior. Dancing with another the moment she'd retired! Men did not do that sort of thing when I was presented. You should have refused him, Sarah."

Sarah wanted to protest that she'd not known what she was doing that mad May Eve, but it would have been a lie. “Perhaps,” she said slowly, “perhaps Miss Canfield is wise to invite us. If we went, that might stop all this gossip, for it would show we are still friends."

"Well, it's certainly the only
new
invitation we've received today. Have you assurance enough to face all those people?"

Though she pretended not to hear, a little voice whispered that Lord Reyne would certainly be at an evening party given by his betrothed. That, naturally, was no factor in her decision. “Of course, I do."

She needed all the confidence she could muster or the gold-trimmed chemise robe could lend. Entering the pink-and-cream ballroom was daunting enough to make her face pale, for every head swiveled to observe her. She'd grown used, during these weeks in London, to being looked at, but always before she could feel the approval in the air. Now, the faces frowned and voices whispered behind raised fans. Sarah knew that every pair of eyes, aided and unaided, watched as she approached Lillian Canfield. Harmonia, guided by Mrs. Whitsun's hand on her arm, fell back to let Sarah go on alone.

Her garlanded head held high, Sarah waited for Miss Canfield to notice her.

"Miss East!” her hostess said, holding out both hands with a warmth more vibrant than that offered to her other guests. “I'm so very happy you could come. What a charming gown! And you must show me that style of hair. So pretty! Come, you must meet all my friends. Alaric isn't come yet. He's bound to be late; he always is."

Sarah blushed then, at the kind greeting. The pressure of all those gazes suddenly seemed an intolerable burden. If Lillian had not been so determined to make Sarah known to her friends, Sarah might have committed the error of apologizing for her mistake in dancing with Miss Canfield's husband-to-be. She realized just in time, however, that by continuing to be stubbornly unaware that any solecism had been committed, Lillian Canfield could avoid the worse burden of the pity of all her large acquaintance.

Lord Reyne arrived before eleven o'clock. Despite the crowd of people, for Miss Canfield's ball was to be given that highest accolade, “a sad crush,” Sarah knew the moment he entered. She faced her partner a little more squarely and spoke to him a trifle more gaily than she had a moment before. So emboldened was he by her increased interest that he dared ask her for a third dance. Sarah was on the point of agreeing, though she knew she'd find herself in further trouble with her aunt, when a male cough sounded at her elbow.

"Miss East, I believe this is our dance,” Lord Reyne said.

"Is it, sir? I don't believe so.” Mrs. Whitsun had warned her that any expression other than polite boredom would be taken to mean she was eating her heart out for him. “If he's fool enough to notice you,” her aunt had said, “don't compound his folly by encouraging his attentions. Be cold, be distant, be uninterested."

Lord Reyne did not seem taken aback by her impoliteness. With a second bow, he said, “I am but obeying the orders of our hostess."

"In that case, I cannot refuse you.” She curtsied to her former partner. Touching his arm as little as she could, Sarah strolled off with Lord Reyne.

"I don't know. Miss East. This floor appears rather slick. Perhaps I should abrade the soles of your shoes so you do not slip.” He smiled down on her, and Sarah felt her heart give an impetuous bound. She sternly called it to heel.

"I don't think that will be necessary.” The music began. A country dance, thank God, she thought. To be held by him after their temporary madness would be more than she could have stood.

As their fingertips touched in passing, he said, “I'm sorry I have no orange to offer you."

"Do you want oranges? There are some by the refreshments."

"Ah, but they are too ripe for cricket."

"I suppose they must be.” Sarah chewed the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling back. If only Aunt Whitsun had told her
how
to behave with the necessary aloofness. Try as she might to make her eyes hard and cold, Sarah greatly feared their expression told more of her feelings than her unsmiling lips.

Though the first dance of the set kept them apart, the second made the exchange of confidence easy. Though not a waltz, the dance involved a good deal of touching and standing by with arms entwined while other couples sashayed down the line.

"Miss East ... Sarah, how have I offended you?” His voice was intense, sending a shiver of response down the back of her neck.

"You have not."

"Obviously, there's something I've done to hurt you. Please believe my intentions were never ..."

"Our turn,” she said, and smiled brightly while passing beneath the linked arms of the other couples, swinging in and out with Lord Reyne. Though she met the eyes of strangers, she felt nothing save his fingers locked with hers. So soon they'd slip away for ever. She couldn't remember how the dance ended, only that he never again used that particular tone when speaking to her.

Then it was done, and Mrs. Whitsun was nodding approval from across the room. Sarah went to stand beside her aunt, feeling more drained than after an entire day in the summer sun. She sipped from a cold glass as someone called for silence. With the rest, Sarah turned to see what was happening.

"Friends,” Mr. Canfield said, raising his arms in his tight coat like a successful prize-fighter. “I'm a lucky man tonight. I've been told the one thing I've been longing to hear, and that is that my girl will be married before the end of August!"

"How vulgar!” Mrs. Whitsun whispered, though she joined in the gasp of surprise and the polite applause that greeted this unusual announcement. The snap of the breaking stem of Sarah's glass went unheard amidst the noise.

"Now, then, lift up your glasses and drink to the happy couple.” Mr. Canfield took his daughter's right hand, joining it forcefully with Lord Reyne's left. There was some laughter at the expressions of surprise on the happy couple's faces. The toast was drunk willingly, the wilder spirits calling out jests.

"I have the headache,” Sarah said, bending to whisper beneath the edge of her aunt's silver turban.

"What? Don't be ridiculous."

"I'm going to send for the carriage and go home. I'll give orders the driver is to return at once. Don't disturb yourself, Aunt."

Mrs. Whitsun stood up, gripping Sarah's arm strongly. Though she smiled and kept her voice low, the outrage in her tone came through clearly. “Don't you understand anything, you silly fool? If you go home now, after that announcement, don't you know what people will think? They'll think you're heartbroken, going home to cry because you can't face the fact that he's marrying another. If you go home now, you daren't show your face to the
ton
again. Then what good will your beauty do you?"

Sarah freed her arm, not roughly or with strength, but as easily as if no bond existed. “Let them think what they like,” she said, without lowering her voice. “It's true, anyway."

She had to stand for some little time in the marble-lined entrance, as Mrs. Whitsun's carriage was lost behind a myriad of others. If anyone looked upon her, Sarah was not aware of it. At last, the carriage came. After pulling across the curtains, she sat with her head in her hands. Her fingers felt comfortingly cool over her hot eyes. She did not cry, not yet.

A few sentences to the yawning butler explained the ostensible excuse for her early return. Dismissing her aunt's maid, Sarah removed her clothes and clambered into an old nightdress, not fine like her others but darned by her mother's loving hands. Getting into bed, Sarah sat up, looking at the mountains and valleys of the rumpled white blanket.

As squarely as she could, Sarah faced facts. There'd never really been any grounds for hope. Alaric had been betrothed before he'd ever met her. If he did not love Miss Canfield, how much less likely it was that he should ever love her.

Sarah decided she never would marry now. Her great-aunt's lessons, carefully instilled, had as their main point the fact that any girl who transgressed the rules of society would have no chance at marriage. It had been Sarah's responsibility to find herself a suitable husband during this sojourn in London. She'd failed, not through lack of beauty, charm, or dowry, but by daydreaming over someone who could never be hers. Even if she'd not ruined all further opportunities by her bad behavior, Sarah could not stomach the idea of finding another man. The whole process of charming a stranger left her feeling completely exhausted.

A clattering as of rain outside her window reminded her of the lateness of the hour. She slid beneath the covers, leaving only her forehead exposed. Once the rain began in earnest, she promised herself a good cry. The noise of the downpour would hide any sobs she would make, and then she'd not have to explain her mood to Harmonia, who had enough troubles of her own.

The rattle at the windowpane repeated, and Sarah came upright. That did not sound like rain. It sounded like ... She recalled the frequent summons of gravel against the glass. If she opened the window, would she find herself in a dream of Harold and Harcourt, and the laughing days of long-ago?

Sarah turned the brass handle and leaned out over the sill. In the street below, a man stood, half-illuminated by the flickering lantern light. A long cloak muffled his figure. Seeing her, he raised up on tiptoe and waved something white at her. It did not flutter like a handkerchief. It was square and stiff like a sealed letter. “Harmonia?” he called. “It is I. Harlow."

"Mr. Atwood? What in the ... ? Stay there; I'll be down directly."

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Cautioning him to be silent, Sarah led Mr. Atwood through the hall to Mrs. Whitsun's morning room, their path lit only by the candlestick she'd picked up from the console table. The breeze through a window, opened a scant inch, set the flame to flickering. The huge shadows cast on the grey-blue wall behind them bowed and swayed as if in an evil dance. The color, chosen to flatter an aging complexion, did nothing to improve Mr. Atwood's sallow face. After putting down the candlestick, Sarah shut the heavy door. “We can talk now,” she said.

"You're ... you're looking very well. Miss East."