Carola Dunn (20 page)

 When she reached the bedchamber, Aimée was dressing. She swung round, her face agog with curiosity.

 “Don’t tell me you been out for a walk already,” she exclaimed, “and in the rain! You’re sopping wet.”

 “Just damp.” Prudence took off her brown cloak.

 “You’re crazy. Sera, what the deuce happened last night? Ffoliot was in a devilish temper and said he had to leave today, but he wouldn’t tell me why. Then a few minutes ago Lady Winkworth’s abigail brought that, for you.” She gestured at the dressing table.

 Thankfully, Prudence saw her green cloak, which she had feared might be gone for good. On top of it lay her handkerchief, a plain square of white cotton, washed, ironed, and neatly folded.

 “Your Ffoliot tried to compromise Lady Anne,” she said as she picked up the handkerchief to put it away. Beneath it was another, a dainty thing of finest linen, lace-edged, with a posy of violets embroidered in one corner. “Oh bother! Here’s one of her handkerchiefs. I shall have to return it.”

 “You caught them on the terrace and foiled his plan?” Aimée laughed. “Poor fellow, he’ll have to look elsewhere for a fortune.”

 Prudence nodded absently as she discovered, under the second handkerchief, a sealed letter and a tiny package, wrapped in tissue paper and tied with a scrap of ribbon. She opened the package first, and sat down on the dressing-table stool with a gasp. “A brooch,” she said blankly, staring down at a gold butterfly with amethyst eyes, its wings set with seed pearls.

 Aimée joined her. “Pretty. Looks like Lady Anne is proper grateful, which ain’t something you can count on with the nobs.”

 With her sewing scissors, Prudence slit the seal on the letter. Aimée was ready to paint her face so Prudence left the stool and moved to the bed to read Lady Anne’s hurried scrawl to herself.

 Miss Savage,

 I shall never forget what you did for me. Please accept the brooch as a token of my gratitude. We are leaving Easthaven today, but I hope we shall meet again so that I can thank you properly.

 I am very sorry I was rude to you down by the lake. I was angry, but I know now that you were right and that you saved me then, too, from a loveless marriage. Lord Rusholme would have hated me forever.

 If there is ever any way I can help you, please do not hesitate to call upon me.

 Your most humble, grateful well-wisher, Anne Winkworth.

 P.S. I think Rusholme is in love with you.

 Startled, Prudence reread the last line. What could have given Lady Anne such a notion? Rusholme had hoped to make her his mistress. Now he considered himself her friend. Never a word of love had been spoken.

 She wanted his love, she at last admitted sadly. She’d never be his mistress and friendship was not enough. Yet even if he loved her she could never be his wife.

 He was heir to Easthaven and she was—at best!—a governess.

* * * *

 Salamander gave Rusholme a reproachful look and snorted in disgust as they entered the stableyard. Rusholme laughed, feeling in his pocket for a lump of sugar.

 “That was not much of a ride, was it, old fellow! I’m sure Lady Estella will be delighted if we go out again later.”

 He turned his mount over to a groom and went on into the house, his step light, humming his tavern song. His irrepressible cheerfulness puzzled him somewhat. Prudence was an innocent. He ought to be disappointed that he could no longer justify seducing her, for he had not desired any particular woman so much since his first calf-love for a pretty opera dancer.

 Instead he was relieved, joyful even. As he approached the breakfast room he had to restrain himself from warbling out loud: “Toroddle, toroddle, toroll!”

 Not until after breakfast did Rushholme recollect that Hardcastle had declared New Year’s Day a holiday. No rehearsal. No excuse to see Prudence until tomorrow. And then only five days before she left Easthaven.

 If she were staying with the troupe, he might find some excuse for frequent trips to Cheltenham; he must have friends who lived in Gloucestershire. Not that it mattered. She was leaving the stage. She was going to be a governess, and therefore virtually inaccessible to anyone, especially a young, unmarried gentleman.

 Perhaps he could persuade one of his sisters to hire her. Then at least he’d see her when he stayed with Maria or Julia. What was more, they frequently reproached him for not visiting more often. But a few words sneaked in the schoolroom with his nieces and nephews all around was not what he wanted, nor could he bear the notion of Prudence as a servant to any of his family. Besides, it scarcely seemed fair even for her sake to deprive either Maria’s or Julia’s present governess of her position.

 Of course, he’d be able to see Prudence in London while she sought a new post. Rusholme brightened at the recollection. Then he began to worry about whether she had enough money to keep herself in Town. She would never accept a penny from him, of that he was quite sure. She had too much pride, and he had no right to insist on taking care of her.

 “It’s stopped raining.” David’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “Coming for a gallop, Garth?”

 Kept busy entertaining the guests all day, Rusholme had no opportunity for further reflection. Having scarcely closed his eyes the previous night, he fell asleep the instant he climbed into bed. He awoke late, and had only just time for breakfast before the rehearsal was upon him.

 In the fifth act Tony Lumpkin and Constance Neville appeared together only at the very end. Rusholme took Prudence’s hand, pleased to see her smile at him without the withdrawal he had always sensed before when they had to touch on stage.

 “‘I, Anthony Lumpkin, Esquire, of Blank Place,’“ he said, “‘refuse you, Constantia Neville, of no place at all, for my true and lawful wife.’“

 He fancied a fleeting sadness crossed her face, but she quickly turned away to give both hands to her faithful Hastings. Hardcastle joined Kate’s and Marlow’s hands likewise, and the play reached its happy ending.

 Hardcastle had a list of scenes in need of practice before they would be ready to run through the whole play from beginning to end. They worked hard and Rusholme stayed to take luncheon with them in the gallery so as not to lose time. The flirting scenes with Prudence went smoothly now that she was comfortable with him, knowing he’d not take advantage. Also, the director was much pleased with his improvement in the scenes with Mrs. Hardcastle.

 “I followed your suggestion,” Rusholme told Prudence when they both took a break at the same moment. “I pretended I was speaking to Henry Ffoliot.”

 She chuckled. “I hope you are properly grateful to him. He has done me a favour, too, in providing another new friend, if I may be so bold as to call her so.”

 “Who?” he asked, intrigued, as she pulled a much folded sheet of paper from her reticule.

 “Lady Anne. I want you to read the note she wrote me. I know you don’t care for her—”

 “Don’t care for her!”

 “Oh, very well, you positively dislike her, and with reason, I admit. But I hope this will prove to you she is not so disagreeable after all.” Her cheeks a trifle pinker than usual, she added, “Only, pray don’t read the last line—you see I have folded it over. It is personal.”

 What a sweet nature she had, to wish him to think well of Lady Anne! He took the letter, read it, and nodded. “She appears to repent of her determination to become Countess of Rusholme and Marchioness of Easthaven. That’s enough for me. She’s forgiven.”

 As he handed the paper back to her, Hardcastle called, “Miss Savage, your first scene once more, if you please, and we’ll see if Miss Orlando can remember her words at last.”

 Distracted, Prudence dropped the letter. Rusholme bent to pick it up. The bottom of the sheet had come unfolded and, his eye drawn by his name, he had read the single line written there before he could stop himself.

 “P.S. I think Rusholme is in love with you.”

 In a daze, he handed the letter to Prudence. Her attention already on the stage, she noticed nothing amiss but took it with a word of thanks and hurried off.

 
“P.S. I think Rusholme is in love with you.”

 How the devil had Lady Anne guessed, when until that moment he hadn’t even realized it himself?

Chapter 10

 Snow. All evening big, soft, fluffy flakes drifted down, and nervous guests spoke of leaving while the roads were passable.

The marquis fretted: half his audience liable to disappear and the other half perhaps unable to arrive. His wife and son soothed him. Most guests had no objection to being snowbound amid the luxuries of Easthaven. As for the neighbours, in three days who could guess what the weather might be doing?

 In the morning, a pale sun shone on a blanket of sparkling white. On his way to the stables before breakfast, Rusholme was waylaid by his nieces and nephews.

 “A snowman!” they cried. “We need you to help us build a snowman. We’ll have a snowball fight, too.”

 Rusholme promptly sent a footman running to request Prudence’s attendance. She came, a little anxious, wrapped in her green cloak.

 “I don’t think I ought....”

 “I need your help with these brats,” he informed her as Sophie took her hand and William restrained his enthusiasm long enough to bow. “And I’m going to want someone on my side when it comes to a snowball fight.”

 “Please come, ma’am,” William begged. “It’ll be fun.”

 It was fun. Prudence soon forget her qualms and ran and shouted with the rest. Rosy-cheeked and laughing, she said as she walked beside Rusholme back to the house, “I’ve been behaving disgracefully childishly, I fear. I haven’t enjoyed myself so much since...oh, forever!”

 With difficulty he refrained from kissing her on the spot and promising she should enjoy herself a great deal in future.

 They parted, she to the gallery, the children to the nursery, Rusholme to the breakfast room. There Samuel brought him a summons from his mother.

 In her private sitting room, surrounded by the Chinese black lacquer and scarlet silk, Lady Easthaven wore lemon-yellow with her eternal green and pink shawl. Rusholme was too intent on preparing his arguments to wince.

 As usual his mother came straight to the point. “Must you spend so much time with the actors, Garth? Our guests scarcely set eyes on you yesterday.”

 “I have to rehearse my part, Mama. I don’t want to let Father down.”

 “No one will expect a gentleman to attain a professional standard of acting. If you are attempting to prove to me your lack of interest in the young ladies invited for your benefit, there is no need. I have relinquished all hope of seeing you wed.”

 “Unnecessary. I spend time with the actors because I wish to marry, not because I don’t.”

 The marchioness raised her eyebrows. “Then it is true,” she said caustically, “as my dresser informed me, that you invited one of the actresses to join you with the children this morning? I told her she was certainly mistaken. You would not expose your sisters’ children to a female of that sort.”

 “But I did. My future wife is fit company for anyone.”

 “Warrenders of Easthaven do not marry actresses.”

 “She’s not really an actress, Mama. She has only been on the stage a few months and intends to quit after Twelfth Night.”

 “Naturally, if she supposes you will marry her.”

 “She doesn’t know that,” Rusholme said softly, “and I’m by no means sure she’ll have me.”

 “Come now, you cannot imagine an actress is in the least likely to refuse an earl!”

 “Prudence might. And she’s not an actress. She was a governess for many years.”

 “A governess? Scarcely more suitable for a Warrender.”

 “She’s not really a governess, either.” He grinned at his mother’s baffled face. “She left her last post months ago and has not yet applied for another. She is a clergyman’s daughter and a guest at Easthaven.”

 “That tale will not serve for those who spent Christmas here, nor for those who have seen her on the stage!”

 “She has been on the stage only at Cheltenham, thus seen, I have no doubt, only by provincial nobodies. As for our guests, when she appeared in the mummery she wore that odd medieval headdress concealing her hair, and for She Stoops to Conquer she’ll have on a wig as well as a cap. Her hair is her most distinctive feature by far—if you disregard her character.”

 “And what, precisely, is her character?” Lady Easthaven enquired with a hint of sarcasm.

 “Don’t ask,” Rusholme advised, “unless you wish me to go into raptures. Suffice it that she is every inch a lady.”

 “Supposing I believe you, what of her relatives? You cannot wish to ally your family to a common clergyman who probably possesses hordes of still commoner, even vulgar relatives.”

 “She has no family living. Mama, I—”

 “My dear!” The marquis burst in. “Essex insists on leaving, although it has stopped snowing, and he’s taking the Duchess and Lady Estella with him.”

 “In the present circumstances,” said his wife tartly, “it scarcely signifies. Pray speak to your son, Easthaven. He has an answer for everything. I wash my hands of him.”

 “Hello, Garth, you here? Told your mother you’re not coming up to scratch, have you?”

 “Not with Lady Estella, sir. I have another bride in mind.”

 “Splendid, my boy. The Wallace chit?”

 “No, sir, Miss...er...Neville.”

 “Constance Neville, hey? A respectable young woman, though she did think of running off with Hastings.”

 “Easthaven, she is an actress!” the marchioness pointed out.

 “No, she is not.” Rusholme went through all his arguments again.

 “By Jove, you’re right, my dear,” cried the marquis. “Garth has an answer for everything. We’d best have Miss Neville up and welcome her to the family.”

 While his mother raised her eyes to heaven with an exasperated sigh, Rusholme shook his father’s hand vigorously. “Just two things I ought to mention, sir,” he said. “I haven’t actually asked her yet, so you’ll have to postpone welcoming her to the family. And her name isn’t really Neville.”