Elisabeth Fairchild (11 page)

“Will Miss Defoe not find it odd that I come to talk to you about another woman?”

“Oh!” He flung up his hands. The pony shied. “You must make up some frippery excuse. Tell me you wish to dance.”

“I do wish to dance.”

“Patience!”

He was not so handsome when he frowned at her, when he grew impatient and did not get his way.

“And do you mean to dance with this woman in red?” she pressed. “Under the nose of your fiancée? I do not think it at all kind of you, Pip.”

He took her by the shoulders and gave her an urgent little shake, the sun blinding her in flashes, his silhouette throwing a welcome shadow. “You would not have me marry her, not knowing for sure if she is the one, would you?” How intently he looked into her eyes as he spoke. How tight his fingers’ clasp upon her arm. “Do you not wish me to know if there is someone I am better suited to?”

Was there hope for her in the way he looked at her? In the very fact that he asked?

She could not say no. It would be hypocritical to say no. What she wanted was for him to realize that she herself was better suited to him than Miss Defoe.

With a sigh she agreed to go to the card room, agreed to inform him if the woman in red was present. After all, she could not say him nay if she wished to take advantage of every opportunity to change his mind about marrying another, and yet she did not like what he asked of her, nor did she like herself for agreeing.

Chapter Fourteen

Patience fretted over her promise as soon as it was made. False promise. Futile promise. It felt dishonest. It felt wrong.

Pip waved to the stable lad. The pony was brought running.

“Let me lead him,” Pip suggested. “He must be willing to follow my lead to suit my needs.”

The lad handed over the reins.

“I’ll be back to bid on him,” Pip said when the pony walked to its stall without protest.

“Very good,” the lad said.

They turned to go, only to find the doorway, the light pouring into the stalls, blocked by a walleyed bay. The horse seemed more interested in kicking down the doorway than in entering.

A large horse, it reared high, lifting the stable lad who held its halter completely off his feet, and then shaking him off with a vigorous toss of his head. With several swift jabs behind it, the animal cleared the opening of those who followed, and with a disgruntled whinny it charged toward Pip and Patience, the whites of its eyes clearly visible.

Patience froze, but Pip responded at once, and quite heroically, stepping in front of her, his arms encircling her for a moment as he shoved her out of the way. Indeed, her heart, already racing, sped a little faster to see the fleeting look of concern in his eyes as he whirled to face the oncoming animal.

It seemed to fill up much more of the run between the stalls as it skittishly cavorted and buck-hopped toward them, mane flying, hooves crashing, fore and aft, into the stall doors along the way, sending all of the horses who leaned heads from their boxes snorting back inside.

Pip stepped fearlessly into the center of the run, pulling the paisley belcher from his coat pocket in a silken flutter. Patience gasped. The bay reared, head tossing, the muscles of haunch and rump rippling, his height suddenly doubled, hooves striking air. The clarion call of his whinny was unbearably loud, as much a threat as his flashing yellow teeth. The enormous hooves seemed destined to cut Pip down. Designed for it.

Patience tensed, legs poised to run, and yet she could not go. She must be there to distract the animal if Pip went down.

As though he and the animal danced, Pip moved in swiftly, gracefully, pressing himself to the bay’s satiny neck, reaching high for the halter’s cheek strap as the horse came down. In a swift, almost magical movement he slid the blindfold over the horse’s eyes, all the while crooning, “There, there now. No need for histrionics.”

Nostrils flaring, head bobbing, the bay halfheartedly reared a second time, swinging his head round in an uncertain jerk. Pip had firm hold of the halter.

“Ho, now,” he murmured. “None of that.” He ran his free hand in a calming manner along the animal’s lathered back and shoulder. The horse made no more attempt to kick or rear, merely stood trembling, head down.

The stable lad squeezed past the horse’s sweat-stained rump, while Pip murmured, “No need to be alarmed, old boy. What you need is a quiet corner and a nice rubdown.”

The stable lad, hat in hand, apologized profusely to Pip for “letting go the beast,” as he led the horse away.

“Pip!” Patience knew better than to startle the horse with a loud cry, but she could not stop herself. She threw herself into his arms. “You might have been killed!”

Pip held her close but a moment in the warmest, most cherished of embraces, his heart beating so hard she could feel the thump of it against her breast, where her own heart thudded in memory of their close call and his brave rescue of her.

“You are all right?” he said softly into her hair, and his hands ran along her arms as he asked, “He did not catch you in any way with those flashing hooves, now, did he?”

“No. No. I am quite all right,” she said, and lifted her face to the sweet radiance of his concern.

“A lucky thing,” he said, and clasped her close in a sudden rib-straining embrace before he put her from him with a lively exuberance that spoke of his appreciation for his own strength, for the power of their moment of survival.

She did not want to let go of his coat lapel. Did not want him to make light of this incredibly stirring moment. “You saved my life.”

His eyes met hers at last in a heated moment of mutual understanding of how close they had come to real danger. In his unswerving, gleeful gaze she watched his affection for her surface in a manner she had never before observed, saw the warmth in his eyes bloom, as if he saw her afresh.

The cant of his head changed, the tilt of his chin, and he tilted forward on the balls of his feet as if he meant to kiss her. She was sure he meant to kiss her. She could feel the inevitability of it all the way to her toes.

“Yes. Nicely done, Pip.”

Richard’s voice.

It stopped them, turned their heads, made them fall away from each other self-consciously.

Richard stood calm and quiet, as was his way—and yet shockingly pale—in the same spot where the horse had reared, with the look of a man who had been kicked. He seemed, Patience thought, more rattled than Pip. Indeed, his coat was rumpled, his stock askew, and his hair far more tousled than she could ever remember having seen it.

“Are you all right?” she asked, and went to him, Pip right beside her, equally curious.

Richard’s concerned gaze flitted from her to Pip and back again. “I should be asking you. Your situation looked a bit dicey from what I could see on the rump side of the beast. Poor animal. I did warn the lad. He has been frightfully skittish since the accident.”

“Accident?” Patience blurted. Had Richard been in an accident?

“One of Chase’s team, is he not?” Pip asked.

Richard’s lips pursed. He gave a curt nod, a dark lock of hair drifting between bloodshot eyes. He looked tired, poor Richard, tired and defeated. “Ruined the team, actually. The other horse had to be shot.”

Patience gasped.

“The race?” Pip asked.

What race?

Richard frowned. “You knew?”

Pip nodded. “Heard mention of it at my club a few days ago. Hampstead Heath, was it not?”

Richard nodded. “Begged him not to. Told him more than once . . .” He sighed and flung up his hands to rake them through already tousled locks.

“Is he injured?” Patience feared the worst. She could see by the pinched lines about Richard’s mouth that something was wrong, terribly wrong.

He rubbed at the bridge of his nose, and for a moment his mouth twisted in a way she had never seen before. He cleared his throat, then said gruffly, “Chase overturned the phaeton. He may never walk again.”

“Oh, dear!” How inadequate the words, how ineffectual the hand with which she reached out to him. What did one say or do in the face of such a declaration?

“Anything we can do?” Pip offered.

Richard’s mouth twisted again. He shook his head. “A prayer might help. Other than that, I do not know that Chase would accept anything. He is all out of sorts. Refuses the maid’s entry, has ordered the last two physicians out after they told him what he refuses to hear, and he has no patience with the pity his friends come to offer.”

How dark the circles under Richard’s eyes. How fragile and windblown his great, unshakable frame.

“Would he care to play cards, or a game of backgammon?” she ventured. It seemed a silly thing, really, to offer cards at such a moment, and yet she must say something, must let him know she wished to help.

Richard gave the idea more thought than Patience believed it merited. He said at last, rather hesitantly, “I think it is a splendid idea, though he might toss you out on your ear as soon as thank you.”

Patience smiled. Dear Richard—he was looking more himself again.

“Chase has always been rather brusque,” she reminded him.

Pip snorted. “That’s putting it mildly.”

Patience shot him a warning frown. It seemed most ill-timed of Pip to mention Chase’s failings now. She gave Richard’s shoulder an affectionate squeeze. “I will not take it too much to heart if he orders me gone.”

Richard clasped her hand a moment. His eyes warmed, the worried look easing ever so slightly. “Then do come. Please. Time passes hard for him.” He stood a little straighter and clapped Pip on the shoulder, saying, “And now I must see to the horse Chase blames for all his ills. He insisted I shoot it. It did not seem fair, or fiscally prudent. I’m hoping the poor beast will find a happier fate at auction.”

They watched him walk away.

And as Pip took Patience’s hand in his and led her out of the stables, he said, “Chase never was one to be fair or fiscally prudent. I cannot think what possessed you, Patience, to offer to spend time with him.”

“I did not do it for Chase’s sake,” she said quietly.

“No. I did not suppose you did. Are you in love with him?”

His word caught her completely off guard. With a bit of a choking noise she said, “Who? Richard?”

“Of course, Richard, unless you harbor an inconceivable affection for Chase.”

How could he be so thickheaded? So blind to her feelings for him—him!—not Richard.

“Whatever possessed you of such a notion?” she asked.

“Is it so far-fetched?” he asked in a teasing fashion, and playfully tweaked one of her curls. “Melanie has half convinced me you are in love with our childhood friend.”

“Has she?” Patience stopped abruptly, stopping his progress as well. She tilted her head to glance at him speculatively, thinking of the moment in which he had almost kissed her, wondering if they would ever recapture such a moment. “Has she, indeed? How interesting.”

“How so?

Patience shrugged, miffed that in this moment, too, Richard stood between them. “Perhaps it is jealousy speaking.”

“Jealousy?”

“Yes,” she snapped. “I am half-convinced Lady Wilmington is in love with Richard, herself.”

Pip laughed, giving her arm a playful shove, as he had when they were children. “Preposterous!” he said merrily. “On that score I am convinced you are entirely mistaken.”

Chapter Fifteen

The ill-fated race to Hampstead Heath was the talk of the town.

Patience pitied poor Chase. She pitied Richard. They filled her mind, made her heart ache.

This was love, as Pip had insisted, just not the sort of love he believed it to be.

The arrival of Pip’s exquisite crested coach on Wednesday evening proved a welcome diversion. If anyone could make her forget, it was Pip. This carefully orchestrated excursion to Almack’s—the thought of dancing with him before the evening was out—brightened her spirits immeasurably. Dear Pip. Handsome Pip, standing nonchalantly at the foot of the stairs, in formal white knee breeches, a crisp white neckcloth, and a beautifully tailored, midnight black jacket with tails. He was distracting indeed! He had but to smile and her heart turned somersaults.

“You are splendid!” she blurted, winning a flash of even, white teeth as he turned to look up at her, dimples winking.

“Not half so splendid as you!”

He sounded surprised—looked surprised, too, his eyes lighting up at the sight of her.

She preened, thrilled with his words, for she was feeling splendid in her new ball gown with its white flounces and white quilling, and cherry ribbons and rosettes, with her hair dressed high, much like Lady Wilmington’s—Melanie’s—had been at the gardens. The style made her look years older, and she had practiced using her new white silk, mother-of-pearl fan to advantage, so that she might reveal only her eyes above it if she wanted, hiding her mouth, which gave away so much of her emotion at moments when she did not want it to.

As she came down the stairs he said, “Lord! You are a vision! Your skirt looks like a windblown white rose.” He grinned impishly. “Makes me long to throw myself under it.”

Her cheeks flushed warmly. “You remember that?”

He chuckled. “How could I forget?”

Her blushes deepened, which, had she but known it, made her look all the prettier, and gave fresh sparkle to her eyes as she fanned away the heat in her cheeks.

“Will not your fiancée think it strange if I arrive on your arm this evening?” she asked.

“Not at all.” He winked at her. “She knows nothing of my having been beneath your skirts.”

His gaze still gratified her every vanity in roving over her from head to toe, but she flung up her hand in warning, and said, “Shhh! Pip! Mama will hear.”

“Hear what?” her mother asked as she came rustling down the stairs, looking quite marvelous in her best blue flounced silk.

Patience was struck speechless by the timing of her arrival.

Not Pip. He answered at once, completely unruffled, “Miss Sophie Defoe will be there tonight. She always goes to Almack’s with one of her brothers.”

“Ah! Miss Sophie Defoe. How does your fiancée? Her name is forever on Patience’s lips. But what is there in that, that I must not hear?”

Patience quailed, but again Pip replied with aplomb. “I have made a point of telling her all about your arrival here in London, and how very long we have been friends. She begs to meet both of you. Patience wished it to be a surprise.”

“I see. I am sorry to have spoiled your surprise, my dear.”

Patience plied her fan rather vigorously and tried not to laugh at Pip’s sudden grin. “Shall we go then?” she asked.

“By all means.” Pip threw open the door for them, and insisted on helping Patience into the carriage. And as he took her elbow he leaned close enough to whisper, “Just what have you had to say about my fiancée, dear Patience?”

There was no time to answer, no way to explain once the three of them had crowded into the carriage, and Patience was hard put not to grin too broadly at Pip’s teasing sideways glances.

Traffic was heavy. The line of carriages waiting in King Street seemed to stretch on forever. Movement forward was necessarily at a snail’s pace as each carriage carefully deposited its ball gown–draped treasures before the staid pedimented doorway. Patience craned her neck to look upward at the second story of six tall arched windows, where candlelight glowed golden, and the flash of gracefully whirling gowns and coattails gave promise of the evening’s entertainments.

For a moment, most disconcertingly, she was reminded of the flash of horse’s hooves, the look of defeat in Richard’s eyes. He had seen them, seen it all, knew Pip had been about to kiss her.

“Shall we not get out and walk?” she asked, anxious to participate in that giddy whirl, anxious to forget the look in his eyes.

“You wear white, my dear!” her mother objected. “I have every concern you may soil the hem of your gown if we climb down now.”

Pip endeared himself to her mother in saying, “I must agree, Patience. Only demonstrate a little of that for which you are named and we shall be there in no time.”

Lady Ballard favored him with a rare smile.

Patience made a face at him behind her mother’s back, and Pip was hard put not to burst out laughing.

Patience did not feel like laughing. Richard would have agreed with her. She knew he would. No sense languishing in the carriage when they all had perfectly healthy legs in good walking order.
Legs!
Oh, dear, how inappropriate to think of healthy legs when Richard’s brother Chase no longer had the use of his. Bared legs under a tree in a public park no longer seemed worthy of her thoughts. No. How changed the world seemed in considering an absence of legs—or at the very least, the use of them. How precious the very act of stepping from the carriage. Much more so the idea of dancing—an evening of dancing. Chase would never again have the pleasure.

Nose pressed to the pane, she gazed longingly out the window as they inched forward another coach length, and said, “Imagine if we should be unable to dance.”

“The doors close precisely at eleven, my dear.” Her mother checked the little watch pin she wore low on her shoulder. “It is only now just gone a quarter past eight. I do not think it will take so very long for us to arrive.”

Patience sighed. “No, Mama. I meant never. Only imagine how dreadful it must be
never
to dance again.”

“Dreadful thought,” her mother scolded.

Pip understood. “Mmm,” he muttered. “Dreadful fate.”

“Do you think there is any chance we shall see Richard tonight?” she asked him, and again she thought of the moment Pip had almost kissed her, of the sound of Richard’s voice as he had interrupted them.

“Dear boy,” her mother said. “I do begin to pine for a glimpse of him.”

“I doubt it,” Pip said.

“Does he not care for dancing?” her mother asked.

Pip frowned. “He has . . .” His frown deepened. He looked away. “. . . always been turned down for vouchers in the past.”

“What?” Patience was astounded.

“Whatever for?” Her mother bristled. “Surely there is nothing objectionable in Richard’s behavior or social standing.”

Pip pressed his lips together in a grim line. “Not Richard. His brother. Chase has been blackballed, you see, for . . . numerous reasons.”

“Yes, but what has that to do with Richard?”

Pip shrugged. “The patronesses use any excuse to eliminate those whom they consider unworthy. Chase’s scandalous behavior has always given them reason enough to refuse Richard, who, as his younger brother, has been dispossessed of both his good name and any chance of an inheritance—until now.”

“How unfortunate,” Patience cried, “if his brother’s ill fortune should be the making of his.”

“I have tried to reason with them,” Pip said. “Lord knows Sefton has had his share of bad luck in placing bets.” He threw up his hands.

“I do not know if I wish to patronize an establishment that will not allow Richard entry,” Patience said.

“Too late, my dear,” her mother announced. “We have at last arrived.”

And with that Pip threw open the door and helped them down, and Patience allowed herself to be led past an immaculately clad gentleman Pip identified as the owner, Mr. Willis.

They ascended the stairway, music from the ballrooms leading them upward, and again Patience thought of poor Chase, who would never climb stairs again.

Patience asked Pip, “Would you care to go with me to Cavendish Manor on Friday?”

“All the way to the manor? Whatever for? Is this for the games you promised Richard you would entertain Chase with?”

She nodded.

He laughed. “No, thank you. I’ve not the slightest desire to have my head bitten off by the rudest, most thoughtless, stingy, and uncaring gentleman of my acquaintance.”

“Pip!” She was shocked by his hard-hearted honesty.

“It’s true.” He laughed, and she halfheartedly joined in. It was Pip’s way to laugh at everything.

“Not even for Richard’s sake?” she persisted.

Pip shook his head vehemently, golden curls catching the light, teeth gleaming as he teased, “No, my dear. This is your errant move, and now you must play through to the end. Chase is completely undeserving of my sympathy, and I will never give it.”

And in your steadfast refusal you begin to resemble him
, Patience thought, though to think such a thing seemed disloyal, and cruel, and surely far too harsh.

Pip, her dear Pip, was nothing like Chase Cavendish.

Was he?

***

Melanie—Lady Wilmington insisted Patience call her that—leaned close to whisper, fan spread, “Sophie Defoe has arrived with her stepbrother, Will.”

“Where?” Patience asked at once.

They stood at the far end of the dance floor, backs to the dining room and the card rooms. They faced the raised dais for the musicians, a crowded if elegant little affair uplifted on five slender white columns, with a white trellis edging that half hid the musicians and their music stands so that the dance floor might not be interrupted, and so that a row of lyre-backed chairs might be arranged beneath its overhang for the resting of dance-wearied feet and the clustering of tittering wallflowers.

The painted and gilded ballroom was ablaze with candles: reflected in tiered crystal chandeliers, the light glittering from the many facets of cut glass, and in mirrored sconces all along the walls, and from the bright eyes, flashing smiles, and winking jewelry of a roomful of beautiful women.

Patience had never felt so intimidated, so doubtful of her chances with Pip, who circulated about the room with a smile, a bow, a tip of the head for every one of those pretty faces. Would he behave any differently, she wondered, now that Sophie Defoe had arrived?

“There.” Melanie closed her fan with a snap. “By the door. She wears jonquil yellow, and he looks bored beyond words.”

Patience gazed upon her nemesis and her bored companion, fear and anticipation seizing her, squeezing the breath from her.

Silhouetted as she was against the darkness of the doorway, Sophie Defoe’s fair hair, pulled into dangling knots of curls above each ear, gleamed bright as aged brass. Her skin glowed with the pale luminescence of a pearl. She had stately posture and perfect teeth. Her demeanor was remote, perhaps more than a little proud, as if most of the people in the room did not interest her, indeed met with her disdain, and yet, when Pip moved in her direction a marked fixedness possessed her sky blue eyes, and her lower lip pinched in a little.

She reminded Patience at once of her sister’s childhood spaniel, a dog that had eyes for none but her mistress. There was in Miss Defoe’s dangling curls some semblance of silken ears that trembled as Pip drew near.

She wondered if Pip had ever noticed the likeness, wondered if she dared mention it to him. He was sure to laugh, and yet she could not bring herself to voice the idea to Lady Wilmington.
Too cruel
, she could almost hear Richard scold.

And with the thought came a pang of anguish that Richard, usually so dependable, was not here with them—with her—in this, her moment of greatest need, for she did not want Sophie Defoe to bring out the worst in her, as Chase’s hardship had just demonstrated the worst in Pip. She did, in fact, pity the young woman a little, for she was not convinced Pip loved her. In fact, she wondered if he married her for any reasons other than her title, reputation, and dowry. It seemed a very cruel game he played if that was true.

“Is Pip really to marry her?” she asked Lady Wilmington in an undervoice, her skepticism too unvarnished for such polite company. Heat flared in her cheeks. She amended her tone. “The truth of it still sinks in.”

“Life is full of surprises, my dear—disappointments, dashed dreams. Expectations unmet.” So smooth Melanie’s voice, Patience thought, so pleasant the smile that lifted her lips, and yet there was a spark of kinship in her eyes, an understanding.

Had Lady Wilmington’s marriage proven just such a surprise, disappointment, and dashed dream? As if in answer to her thoughts, Melanie’s gaze drifted toward her husband, who sat beneath the orchestra dais, jowls swaying as he talked to Pip—golden, glorious Pip, who had turned toward the doorway, toward Sophie, as a flower turns to the sun.

Melanie sighed and eyed the pair in the doorway, the neat coil of her hair no less glossy or golden, the graceful arch of her neck no less youthful than Sophie Defoe’s.

“Sometimes what we think we want,” she said wistfully, “what we long for above all else, ends up ours, and proves the greatest surprise of all, for it does not match expectation.” She took a deep breath and tilted her head, the deep honey gold of her hair, the dark emerald of her eyes catching the light. “What we women have most control over is how we choose to meet such moments. I have made a game of it, you know. If I can find something pleasant and wonderful even in my deepest disappointments, why, then, I have won. Care to play?”

Patience laughed and linked arms with her new friend, perhaps the most remarkable young woman she had ever met, and longed to blurt out to her that she knew who it was Melanie longed for. There was something pleasant and wonderful to be found in knowing that dear Richard’s feelings matched her friend’s, and yet it was not her place to interfere.

“Take me to her,” she said instead. “I promise to look for all that is pleasant and wonderful in our meeting one another.”

“You are a fine player, my dear.” Lady Wilmington gave her hand a pat. “I lay odds that in the end, no matter what luck the game of life throws your way, you will come out ahead.”