Charlotte Louise Dolan (13 page)

Elizabeth checked the beginning of the article. “Oh, Dorie, he’s been promoted to major.”

Dorie immediately burst into tears. “Oh, Beth, I’m so sorry I gave you such a fright. I didn’t do it on purpose, I just saw his name and then I couldn’t see anything else.” She started hiccoughing, and Elizabeth put her arms around her and patted her back.

“There, there, my dear. I know you would never be deliberately cruel. But come now, wipe your eyes. We need to start making plans to go to London.” Inside she still felt weak and trembling from the scare she had received, but she did not want Dorie to feel more guilty than she did already.

“London?” her cousin looked very woebegone with her tear-streaked face.

Elizabeth handed her a clean handkerchief. “Yes, Nicholas will be in London for several days, and I, at least, think it will be marvelous to see him again. It has been over six months since he left for Spain, after all.”

“Oh, yes, and we can judge for ourselves how Florie is doing with her Season and see if her beaux are as handsome as she writes they are.”

“Oh, dear, I had completely forgotten that the Season has already started. Your mother is not going to welcome us with open arms, I am afraid.”

“Whyever not? Mama loves us both dearly.”

“You are forgetting my scar. She does not love that dearly.”

There was a moment of silence. “Well, it is very easy to forget,” Dorie said defensively. “It has faded so much it is scarcely noticeable. Although,” she added unwillingly, “Mama will undoubtedly notice. Perhaps she wouldn’t mind if you didn’t go out at all, or ... or perhaps you could wear a veil, so no one could see your face?”

“A St. John does not hide behind a veil like a coward,” Elizabeth intoned in a deep voice.

Dorie giggled. “It would appear that my cousin-in-law has already expressed his opinion on such things.”

“Yes, and having once been expressed, his opinions tend to stick in one’s mind. I do not think he would approve of my ‘hiding,’ as he would put it, in the house, either, but I shall certainly not make a spectacle of myself by going to parties and dances. I shall just call on one or two old friends, perhaps do the merest bit of shopping, and when Nicholas goes back to Spain, we shall retire gracefully back here to Somerset. It will only be for a few days, after all, so hopefully Aunt Theo won’t be too scandalized.”

* * * *

Florie was feeling quite pleased with herself. Sitting in the morning room drinking hot chocolate and nibbling on toast fingers was her idea of the proper way to start the day—especially since it was already one o’clock in the afternoon. What she saw in the newspaper only added to her feelings of self-satisfaction.

“Listen to this, Mama. ‘Miss Florabelle Donnithorne was lovely in a pale-blue gown shot with silver threads. Mrs. Theophila Donnithorne wore an elegant gown of burgundy satin with a matching turban.”

Beside her her mother slit open another envelope and perused the contents. “That’s nice, my dear.”

It was more than nice, it was a veritable triumph. Not every girl in her first Season who had been at the Manderbys’ ball the night before had received special mention in the society column. The majority were simply listed by name as having been in attendance.

“Oh, how lovely. Florie, my dear, we have received an invitation to the ball at Kirtland House on Thursday next.”

“I was expecting it, Mama. You know how Frederick is absolutely smitten with me.”

Her mother looked at her reprovingly. “Now, now, young girls must not be heard to gloat over their triumphs. It is quite off-putting, you know.”

Florie fixed a suitably contrite expression on her face. “I am truly sorry, Mama. It’s just that he did stand up with me twice at the Combertons’ ball and took me down to supper at the Grenvilles’ dance.” Although not precisely handsome, he
was
the eldest son and as such, stood to inherit his father’s titles and estates, Florie thought. Frederick was also a complete gentleman—each time they met he even enquired politely about her Cousin Elizabeth.

“Yes, yes, my dear, but one must not refine too much on such things. Oh, here is a letter from Nicholas. I hope the dear boy is taking proper care of himself over there in that nasty foreign country.... Why, this is wonderful. He writes that he will be here in London tomorrow or the next day.” She read a little farther. “He is not sure how long he can stay. Would it not be wonderful if he could escort us to the ball at Kirtland House.”

“But, Mama, he is only twenty-one, a mere child.” He was three years older than herself, but that meant nothing, as women matured so much earlier than boys did.

“Still, he is tall enough and so handsome in his uniform ...” Florie’s mother suddenly stopped reading and screamed hysterically, then began stuttering incoherently.

“Mama, what is wrong? Mama ...” Florie began patting her mother’s hand. “Mama, tell me what has overset you.”

Her mother, who by this time could do nothing but gasp for breath, continued to stare at the letter with horrified eyes.

Taking it from her, Florie skimmed it until she reached the line that was undoubtedly the cause of her mother’s distress: “I have written to Elizabeth and asked her to meet me in London as I will not have time to visit her in Somerset.”

For a moment Florie considered having the vapors herself. Nothing must be allowed to damage her chances of making an elegant match this Season—
nothing
—and a cousin with a scarred face would certainly add nothing to a girl’s cachet.

She was about to inform her mother that she would have to write Cousin Elizabeth immediately and politely—but firmly— hint her off, when suddenly she remembered a conversation she had overheard at a dance the week before. Having torn her flounce, she was mending it in the anteroom set aside for such purposes, when two other women entered, too deep in conversation to pay any attention to her.

The subject of their talk had been her own Cousin Elizabeth and the chances of her becoming a duchess. One of them had tentatively mentioned the scar, but the other woman had made it quite clear that whereas a major’s wife was one thing, a duchess was an entirely different kettle of fish. One would not, after all, wish to do anything to offend a duchess.

In fact, the second woman had said, just in case the child was a girl, it might not be a bad idea to write a note to Mrs. St. John now, politely inquiring after her health and adding a few lines about how much she was missed in London this Season. If the child turned out to be a boy, then the connection could be easily broken, of course, but if it was a girl, then surely the new duchess would remember which friends had stuck by her in her time of distress.

Florie had thought the women ridiculous and had immediately put their conversation out of her mind, but it now occurred to her that the women might have had a point. “Mama ...” She shook her mother violently. “Mama, when is the baby due? The Duchess of Colthurst’s baby?”

The gasping stopped almost at once, and the expression on her mother’s face became so serene, it was hard to believe she had moments before been hysterical. It was certainly an advantage to have a mother who was awake on every suit, thought Florie, and she pitied the girls whose mothers were not quite up to snuff.

“The blessed event should occur in about three weeks, if not sooner.” Mrs. Donnithorne eyed her daughter for a moment, then said calmly, “Tell the housekeeper to fix the yellow room for dear Elizabeth, and since Dorie will undoubtedly be coming with her, see that her room is readied also.”

Florie delayed carrying out these instructions only long enough to remark, “Elizabeth will probably not wish to do much socializing, do you think?” It was more a suggestion than a question.

“I think not, considering her husband’s cousin is so recently deceased. She will probably want to restrict her social activities ... at least for three more weeks.” Smiling, her mother picked up the next envelope and slit it open.

Her mind awhirl with possibilities, Florie went to talk to the housekeeper about the expected company.

* * * *

“Everyone is wagering on whether the child will be a boy or a girl.”

Elizabeth stared at her brother in dismay. “Who do you mean by everyone?”

Nicholas turned away from the French doors and dropped down onto the settee beside her. “At the clubs there is little talk of anything else. They say that Lord Braybourne has even wagered ten thousand guineas that it will be a girl. He claims it is a safe bet, because the line has always run to girls. Be that as it may, vast amounts of money will change hands when this child is born. Even at the War Office there have been several pools organized.”

Elizabeth did not care about any Lord Braybourne, whoever he was, or about any of the others so foolish as to throw their money away gambling. She wanted to know about her husband. Between her aunt, her two cousins, and Nicholas’s meetings at the War Office, this was the first time in three days that she had had a chance for a private conversation with her brother.

“What does Darius think about his chances of becoming a duke?”

Nicholas gave a hoot of laughter. “He’s so mad he can scarcely talk about it.”

“Mad? Why would he be mad?”

“ ‘Cause he don’t want to be a duke, of course.”

“He doesn’t?”

Nicholas gave her an exasperated look. “ ‘Course not. If he’s the duke, he’ll have to resign his commission and come home.”

“And he does not
want
to come home?” In spite of her efforts to hide the hurt she was feeling, evidently her voice betrayed her, because Nicholas reached over and put his arm around her shoulders and gave her a brief hug.

“It’s not you, Beth. Any man would want to come home to you. It’s just that Darius would rather be an officer than a duke.”

“I see.” She looked down at her lap. She had not realized she was twisting her fingers together tightly. Deliberately she relaxed her hands and smoothed her skirt.

“No, I don’t think you do see.” Her brother stood up and wandered back to the French doors and stood looking out into the garden. “It’s hard to explain such things to a woman, even one as intelligent as you are.” He turned back to face her. “Women have a different way of looking at things than men do. They like all this folderol in London—shopping and gossiping and staying out all night at parties.”

“I believe there are one or two men who also like the Season. At least they seem to find plenty here to amuse themselves, such as wagering on whether an unborn child will be a boy or a girl.” Her voice sounded bitter even to her own ears. “I am sorry, I should not get angry about such things.”

“It’s my fault. I seem to be making a mull out of this rather than explaining.” He paused, then finally spoke again. “It’s not that any of us enjoys the fighting, or even the marching. And we definitely don’t like living in a mud wallow or being blown about by that cursed wind. But what we are doing is so important, and in comparison life in London seems downright silly.”

“And this is what my husband thinks?”

“He more than anyone I have ever met. Most of us, including me, will be more than happy to hang up our swords once Boney is whipped, but Darius is a soldier to the core.”

She remembered what her husband had said to Simon that summer day that now seemed so long ago—that if one sought honor, it was to be found on the battlefield. With what Darius had told her about his mother and sisters, it was no wonder he preferred facing death rather than exposing himself to the pettiness and maliciousness of the
haut ton.

“And is he a good soldier?” She knew what the answer had to be, but she had a compulsion to hear the actual words.

“Oh, he is the best. His men would follow him to the gates of hell and back, and he is much respected by his superiors also. I would not hesitate to lay my money on the line that he will some day be a general.”

“If the child is not a girl.”

“Yes, there’s that.”

Elizabeth looked down at her lap, where her fingers were once more tightly entwined. She knew that she should not ask the next question, that the answer might not be what she wanted to hear, but she still had to know.

“Are you sure that he will resign his commission if he becomes the duke? He might still continue in the army, mightn’t he? There is no law, is there, that says a man can’t be a duke and an officer?”

“Lord, no. But the only men I know who are in such a position have virtually no responsibilities in their role as duke. Take the Duke of York, for example—if he weren’t an officer, he’d just be a useless drain on the royal treasury, like his brother, the Prince of Wales. On the other hand, the Duke of Colthurst, whoever he turns out to be, owns something in the neighborhood or eleven or twelve estates, and I am not sure anyone even knows how many hundreds of people are dependent upon him for their living.

“Darius once told me about ... Well, I forget which one of his great-greats it was, but one of them was a fribble, a real do-nothing. Almost ran the estates into the ground by sheer neglect. Took a couple of generations to set everything to rights again. Darius has a very strong disgust for men who shirk their responsibilities, and being duke is not all hunting parties and dances, you know. No, if Darius becomes duke, he most assuredly will come home and manage the estates personally.”

Unless, of course, he does not survive long enough to come home, thought Elizabeth. “Does he take any risks?”

There was dead silence, and she looked up to see her brother staring mutely at her with sadness in his eyes. She sighed. “As you have said, we women have a different way of looking at things. If I had my wishes, you and Darius would both stay well behind the lines and not expose yourselves in the slightest way.”

“He does not take foolish risks, Beth, nor does he deliberately court danger in order to reap glory. He does what he has to do.”

She remembered how she had felt when Dorie had mistakenly thought Darius’s name was on a casualty list. The next time it might not be a simple error. “And I must do what I must do, which is sit at home and write cheerful letters with no hint of my fears in them.”