Cynthia Bailey Pratt (16 page)

“Five hundred pounds,” she repeated in a different tone, shaking her head.

“Roughly that. Any of it...nay, all of it, is yours if you want it.”

“I already owe you too much.”

He held up his hand. “You forget. We are quits now. You need conjure no more gold out of the air and into my pockets.”

“I remember.” But, sealed once more into her stuffy box on poles, she knew it was not money she owed him. He brought with him into her life new excitement and new thoughts. For the first time, she was aware of the pleasure of being a woman, as well as the difficulties and prejudices a woman faced when alone in the world. And this feeling had nothing to do with her borrowed feathers. Carleton had not even noticed how she looked in them.

No, this bubble inside her was caused by his nearness, and it had been there even in the dusty environs of Godwin’s Books or the Gothic splendor of Bath Abbey. She tried to stifle the feeling. In a very few moments she would return to her usual attire, and when she did, she would forget the excitement of being near to Sir Carleton. He was only a gambler, after all, and she had no heart for losing.

New Bond Street was silent. Not a single shutter opened when the chairs deposited Sir Carleton and Danita before Number 15. She dashed upstairs to change. Impossible to resist, however, one last peek in the glass, to take away an image of a different Danita, who might return in dreams to cheer dreary hours of reading sermons or minding outrageous charges. Turning abruptly away from the lovely specter, Danita stripped and changed.

Yet even while her fingers were busy with ties and rearranging her hair, she wondered what Carleton would say to her when she came down. The servants had not yet returned. Surely, she could steal a few more minutes alone with him. Thinking back, she knew a sneaking hope that he might kiss her again, if only for luck.

Stopping in the center of the floor, Danita stared into middle space. Never had she wanted a man to kiss her before. Sometimes, hearing of some girlish escapade among her students, she had wondered at her lack of interest in men, thinking that perhaps she was made for business only and not for romance. Some women were that way, like the eldest Miss Massingham.

But, remembering now the way Carleton’s shoulders blocked out the light when he bent to touch her lips with his own, Danita knew she was only uninterested in
other
men. Sir Carleton was a different matter. Striving to curb these dizzying thoughts, she jumped when a knock sounded on the door.

“You’d better hurry,” Sir Carleton called from the hall. “Something is happening across the way.”

At the window, Danita saw what he meant. In the time it had taken her to go upstairs and change. Number 12 had come to life. Light reinvented the windows and figures passed back and forth, blurred by the curtains.

Danita glanced once more in the mirror, to be sure all was neat, and then she left the small white bedroom. Sir Carleton waited on the landing. “What happened?” she asked as she swung her cloak once more over her shoulders.

“I don’t know,” he said, leading the way downstairs. “I just this moment looked out the front door, to see if anyone was about. Your great-aunt and cousin must have returned already.”

“It’s not like Mrs. Clively to have so many lights brought for that.”

“Why do you call her ‘Mrs. Clively’ and not ‘Aunt’?”

“It is at her request.” Danita was not attending to his question. She waited for him to open the front door, but he only frowned at her, crossing his arms across his wide chest. “Good night, Sir Carleton,” she said, though inside she began to feel a pleasing sort of nervousness. “Sir Carleton, good night?”

“Eh? Oh, yes.” He reached out for the knob but still did not turn it. “Thank you again for accompanying me. I wouldn’t have won without you.”

“I think you would have. I think you’d win anything you wanted, if you wanted it enough.”

“Then why did you come with me? You could have laughed, called me a superstitious fool. I did. I do. Often.”

Danita had no answer, but she raised her eyes to his. The near-dark hall seemed far from silent. He half-lifted his hand as though to reach for her. Danita did not know how to cross the checkered floor. It was a vast distance from her side to his.

Then Sir Carleton opened the door, standing back out of her way to let her pass unhindered. She felt a sharp pang of disappointment at his allowing her to go without a word. With swift steps, Danita left his house.

She needed all her bravery to swiftly cross New Bond Street. This was no return to a sleeping household, no creeping in without awakening servant or mistress. Questions would be asked, demands made and threats of expulsion uttered. Her courage quailing, Danita turned her head to catch a last glimpse of Sir Carleton. But his door had already closed.

Determined to depart forever before revealing where she’d been, Danita thrust open the door to Number 12 and made her entrance. Immediately, a basket-load of table linen was thrust into her arms by a passing maid. Startled, Danita had not time to ask what this meant for the maid was already disappearing behind the baize door.

From upstairs, Berenice wailed, “But I don’t want to go to Roselands!”

Danita only just recognized the girl’s voice. Hearing a rattling crash, she glanced into the dining salon to find an entire drawerful of silver scattered across the carpet. A maid knelt, swearing unconsciously in a terrible dialect, scooping up knives, forks and serving pieces.

“What is going on here?” Danita asked in amazement.

“Don’t ask
me!”
said the maid. “Take all that lot down to the kitchen, will you, miss? Damn and blast, I’ve cut meself.”

Berenice wailed on, though no words were decipherable except “Why?” repeated again and again. Wondering to herself, Danita carried the linen into the lower levels of the house.

“There it is,” said Mrs. Figgs, meeting her in the hall. “Give it here, miss. And could you ask Mrs. Clively if she thinks she’ll want that—ah, never you mind. I’ll ask her myself.” And the housekeeper dropped the linen basket and went out before Danita could ask a single one of the questions that thronged her mind.

Taking up the basket, Danita carried it into the kitchen. Only as she swung it onto the counter did she notice a brawny countryman sitting in his shirtsleeves at the table. “William Etter?’’ she asked, recognizing the messenger from Roselands.

“Yes, miss,” he said, touching his forehead but not rising.

“Is something amiss at home?”

“Not as I know. I came with a letter from the master, same as I ever did. That there Figgs took ‘em up and the next thing is screeching and a-yelping. I’m to wait for them to get the horses put to and then...back home.”

Danita stared at the man in amazement. Mrs. Clively was returning to Roselands? That explained Berenice’s crying, but came no closer to answering the “Why?” the young girl had posed. “I’d better help them. There’ll be a great deal to do.”

“Wait for a moment, there, miss.” The man stood up and lifted his leather coat off the back of the chair. “The master give me this for you.” He held out a letter, folded in on itself. Her name was scrawled on the back just above the blob of sealing wax that held it closed.

“Thank you, Mr. Etter. I’ll try to find out how long the packing is liable to take.”

“Don’t see why a body would leave in the middle of the night, any road. Daybreak is soon enough, I’d say. Take ‘em half the night to load all the clips and collops women need to travel.”

“No doubt,” Danita said, leaving the kitchen. It occurred to her that her great-uncle’s letter might hold the explanation for this sudden departure. She slid her finger beneath the seal.

“My dear niece,” Mr. Clively had written. Danita scanned the rest of the letter quickly, often tripping over his difficult handwriting, yet managing to make some sense of it. He liked the volumes she’d sent very much and looked forward to hearing her read them to him during the long winter evenings ahead. His overall tone was the one she’d come to expect from Lemuel Clively; pleasant, if slightly sad.

There was nothing in the letter, however, to require an urgent remove to Roselands. His health, he wrote, remained indifferent, but he did not seem in any danger of the kind that would send wife and grandchild  hastening homeward.

Entering the first room on the second floor, she began, “Berenice...”as she cast off her cloak.

“Oh, Danita! It’s the most terrible thing! Grandmamma says we are to return to Roselands at once!” A few more tears fell into the open trunk beside her bed. “I swore and swore to her that Mr. Newland and I only went to look for my lost glove. He never even touched my hand. He just said I reminded him of some wood-nymph or other and then we came back. We were gone for no more than...than five minutes.” Berenice dropped her head onto a pile of stockings and sobbed. “I don’t want to go home!”

No better testimony to the speed with which Mrs. Clively was acting could be found than the pathetic crown of flowers Berenice still wore twined in her soft Grecian knot. The expensive evening dress of silver net over white satin was sadly crushed from kneeling to pack the chest.

“Come, my dear,” said Danita, patting the heaving shoulder. “I’ll help you. You must do as your grandmother says. It probably isn’t your fault. William Etter says he delivered a letter here from your grandfather. Perhaps she’s simply heard about some business troubles or other.”

“Oh,” Berenice said, her countenance brightening. “Do you think that’s it?”

Two hours later, all was done. Berenice and Danita, clothed for travel, stood in the hall waiting for Mrs. Clively. It seemed years since eight o’clock, when Danita had first stolen down the steps on her way to meet Sir Carleton. Now, there was not even a moment to bid him adieu. In the morning, he would look out his window and see only an empty house. Danita wondered if he would miss her, but could not have answered whether she would miss him. A strange ache in her chest, just below her left collarbone, felt like a strange foreboding that she would.

Mrs. Clively appeared at the head of the stairs. Coming down, she shot questions at the servants. “Is the silver packed? What about the hamper? And the objets d’art? If anything is missing when we arrive at Roselands, I shall write the landlord. Your wages are paid till the end of the month.”

As Mrs. Clively reached the floor, her eye lit upon Danita. The tall girl drew herself up, waiting to hear a demand for an explanation regarding her whereabouts earlier in the evening. But the older woman only nodded her head and said, “Good. I am glad to see you did not dawdle. Is Berenice ready to travel?”

“I believe so,” Danita answered.

“Very well.” Mrs. Clively advanced, and Mr. Figgs opened the door for her. “I’m pleased with the service you’ve...now where
is
the traveling chariot? How I loathe unpunctuality.” The small foot tapped beneath the hem of the luxuriously padded carriage dress, far too warm for a night in late July. “Ah, here it is ... what in the name of all that’s holy?”

Looking past Mrs. Clively’s bonnet, Danita saw a two-wheeled gig appear at the door. The horse, lathered all over, blew out its breath heavily. The gig was deep in mud. A female figure, her pelisse dusty and bonnet askew, leapt down and staggered to the door. Mrs. Clively fell back, letting the newcomer in.

As the strange woman stepped over the threshold, Danita noticed a pinched, gray face with something familiar about its lines and shape. Concentrating, Danita remembered where she’d seen the woman before. She was Mrs. Clively’s maid, left behind at Roselands.

“Get some brandy,” Mrs. Clively ordered, over her shoulder. “Simmins,” she said. “Simmins, what is it? I received your letter. Has my husband sent for...?”

The maid shook her head. Figgs stepped forward with a small glass filled with a red-amber fluid. Simmins tossed back the alcohol in a single practiced gulp. “I’m sorry, madam,” she said huskily, raising her eyes to her mistress. “Mr. Clively is dead.”

Chapter Nine

“Dead?” Mrs. Clively grabbed at the newel post of the stair for support. One hand fluttered toward her heart as all the natural color drained from her face, leaving only the harsh rouge. The hand lifted higher, fumbling for the closure of her carriage robe as though she could not breathe.

Danita told Figgs, “More brandy.” Stepping forward, she hesitated, at a loss. “Please, ma’am,” she began, then stopped, recalling vividly all the useless words of comfort she’d heard at the funeral of her parents, dead within hours of each other. There was no point in words now. Action was the thing. Danita took the glass the butler brought. “Drink this, now,” she said.

Mrs. Clively only stared at her, dull eyes huge with shock. Danita held the glass to her great-aunt’s colorless lips. “Drink,” she urged.

“Maybe a vinaigrette?” Berenice ventured, only to answer her own question. “No, they’re packed. There’s sure to be one in her reticule, though.” The young girl sank to her knees to root through the bag her grandmother had dropped.

“No!” Mrs. Clively said, surprising everyone. “Leave it, lamb. Never mind. I’m perfectly recovered. Take this brandy away, Danita. What are you thinking of? I never touch spirituous liquors.”

With a nod toward Miss Lucy Massingham, Danita said, “For medicinal reasons only, ma’am.”

“Very well.” Mrs. Clively drank. Her color grew better, though she coughed and spluttered. “Nasty stuff. How do you stand it, Simmins?’’ As her eye fell on the travel-stained maid, her still-pale lips began to tremble. With an effort that was visible, she mastered her emotions. “How...how did it happen?”

“Easy, madam. Easy as falling asleep. Mr. Grant found him slumped over at his desk in the library. They figured he no sooner handed his letters over to William Etter than he went back, felt queer, and ...” The maid moved her hand in a gentle gesture more expressive than words. She advanced, and put her arm about her mistress’s waist. “Come on, I’ll see you up to your bed. There’s no reason to go back now. I came as quick as ever I could, but they’ll have buried him by day after tomorrow.”