Greygallows (5 page)

I sank into the nearest chair.

We had no company that day. My aunt had
decreed an early night, in anticipation of the ball next day. This was fortunate, for I doubt if I could have framed an intelligible sentence. I was dreaming of Fernando. (I had decided to call him Fernando; it sounded so much more romantic.) My aunt was too preoccupied to notice my state, except for a testy 'Drat the girl,' when I handed her her fan instead of the newspaper she had requested, and when I dreamily offered her a bowl of potpourri at tea. I was reliving that heavenly moment when his arms enfolded me; when his lips touched my cheek and moved slowly toward my mouth ... At that point a long, delicious shiver ran through me, and my aunt inquired suspiciously whether I was catching a chill.

Alone at last in my bed, I did not find my thoughts so pleasant. I needed no one to tell me that Our Love—for so I called it, in capital letters—was hopeless. Indeed, it required no imaginative effort to picture my aunt's face as it would look if she ever discovered what had happened; pop-eyed and purple-cheeked, she would probably have a seizure. 'A penniless music master and—ten thousand a year!' That hateful phrase!

Wealth meant nothing to me; with the inaccurate enthusiasm of youth, I saw myself cooking (I had never boiled a pot of water in my life) and ironing my husband's shirts—though I would not have recognized a flatiron if I had seen one. I had never seen poverty either, not with my eyes open and observing; but I was unaware of the ironies in my pretty picture of vine-covered cottages and dainty suppers. No, I told myself, I could endure poverty for
him,
but I could not
condemn my darling to a life of poverty for my sake. I was under age. My guardian could pursue us and tear us apart, with the help of that Law to which Mr. Beam was such a loyal servant.

I began to see some point in Mr. Jonathan's suggestion that I find out about my financial affairs. Not that it would do any good if I wished to find out, I thought despairingly; Mr. Beam would tolerate no such request. He was as cruel and worldly as my aunt; my love was doomed to die an untimely death.

With melancholy pleasure I decided to cry myself to sleep, but dropped off before I had done more than dampen the pillow. I was disgusted next morning to find there was no trace upon it of my tragic love. But my tears of the previous afternoon had left me looking as wan and languid as I felt, and my aunt's disapproval was openly expressed.

It was only noon, but she and Mary, my maid, were hard at work. The ball was an important affair; she had great hopes of it and was determined to spare no effort to make me look my best. I sat at my dressing table with the two of them hovering over me like vultures, patting and brushing and pushing me.

'Your eyes look like a pig's,' said my aunt, with her usual tact. 'Mary, get that little bottle of belladonna. And the box—you know the one—I keep in the locked drawer of my cupboard.'

I knew the box, too; it was an open secret in the house. Any observer of my aunt's suspiciously blooming cheeks would have known they did not come from nature.

'I don't want paint on my face,' I said sullenly. 'Nor the drops. Mrs. Brown says belladonna is bad
for the eyes.'

'You must soak them first, to reduce the puffiness,' said my aunt, ignoring my complaint. 'What is wrong with you? If I didn't know better, I would swear you had been bawling.'

Mary appeared with the required items, and my aunt turned to take them from her. As people will, they forgot I had a mirror before me, and I saw the glance they exchanged. My aunt raised an eyebrow inquiringly, nodding at me; Mary shrugged. For a moment they looked like sisters, their faces distorted by identical expressions of sly suspicion.

I had realized that though Mary was supposed to be my maid, she was more devoted to my aunt. But it had never occurred to me, until that moment, that she might be my aunt's spy. I had never, until then, had anything to hide.

That discovery put me into a state of sulky rage, and I did not cooperate at all as they buttoned me into my gown and painted me like a puppet. I must have looked well enough, for my aunt went off to her own toilette, admonishing me not to sit, lie down, eat, or otherwise disturb a single fold. I was still sulking when we set off; in the darkness of the coach I rubbed off all the paint my aunt had put on my cheeks and mouth.

Though my heart was broken I felt it stir with excitement at the sight of S—, House, all aglow with lights in the darkening evening. Thousands of wax tapers illumined the house, giving the soft light that is of all things most becoming a lady's looks. Eagerly I stepped out of the carriage—and stopped, paralyzed by the sight before me.

Held back by liveried servants, a crowd of humble folk had come to watch the great ones
arrive. I could understand their desire to catch a glimpse of the festivities within, to gape at the lovely gowns and jewels and carriages. What I did not understand, or expect, was the way they looked.

The faces were like empty circles of paper, with black holes for eyes, staring, staring. Not a one of them smiled or called out; but there was a low, sullen, muttering sound, like the rumble of a distant storm. I had to force myself to pass along the narrow aisle between those dark waves of humanity; I had the queer fancy that they would swallow me up as the waves of the sea drowned the Egyptians who pursued Moses.

Once inside, I forgot the mob. The entrance hallway was larger than our drawing room at home, a vast expanse of marble floors, lit by glittering chandeliers. Hothouse flowers were everywhere, filling the air with perfume; in alcoves along the walls, life-sized statues posed—but with propriety for Lady S—, following the new fashion of modesty, had had her Greek goddesses
draped.

The stairs, their balustrades twined with vines and roses, swept up toward the ballroom. We mounted them slowly; I was so dazzled by the lights and sweet odors, by the flash of diamonds on white throats and wrists that I felt very small and insignificant. I was painfully conscious of my weak limb; the more I tried to control my limp, the worse it got.

An attendant at the top of the stairs bawled out our names; then we were within, in the ballroom. It was such a big room that it did not look crowded, though a vast number of people were already present. We made our way to the side of
the room, where there were entire trees in huge pots. Panting from the stairs and fanning herself vigorously, my aunt looked around the room, exclaiming as she recognized acquaintances and famous faces.

My eye was caught by a gentleman standing by the far wall. He was unusually tall and erect of bearing, with broad shoulders tapering down to a narrow waist. He was all in black save for the snowy expanse of his shirt front, and his own coloring echoed the somber shades of his dress. He was a striking figure; but it was not his appearance that caught my attention so much as his air. Even in the crowd he seemed apart, isolated.

As if he felt my rude stare, he turned his head, and our eyes met. An odd thrill ran through me.

Without doubt he was the handsomest man I had ever seen. His looks were not to my immediate taste, obsessed as I was by mild blue eyes and fair curls; but they were certainly remarkable. His eyes were as dark as his hair, and his features were coldly perfect: a straight Grecian nose and a beautifully shaped mouth, unmarred by moustaches or beard, and a broad white brow with one lock of black hair waving across to break its severity. His brows were perfect half-circles, his lashes as long and thick as a girl's.

One might wonder how I could make out these details at such a distance. I had, of course, later opportunity to learn his features well. But even at that first meeting I was aware of his slightest feature. I saw him as if through a glass that magnified face and figure. When, after a long interval, he turned his head, I felt as though I had been released from a physical grasp.

At the same moment my aunt's fingers grasped my arm, so hard that I winced.

'He saw you,' she hissed into my ear. 'He looked at you for a full half minute. Lud, who could have imagined such a thing, the very moment we arrived!'

'He looked, but did not seem to like what he saw,' I retorted, still shaken. 'He did not smile.'

'He seldom smiles; that is his nature. But you're a greater ninny than I take you for if you misunderstood his look.'

'You know him? Who is he?'

'I've not met him. But everyone knows him, he is one of the catches of the season. Edward, Baron Clare. He is not Irish, as you might suppose, but has vast estates in the north. His father died recently, and it is rumored that he is looking for a wife.'

The word made me shrink, somehow; it was as if that long, unsmiling look had awakened me to thoughts I had never before wished to contemplate. I must be someone's wife; and this man would be some woman's husband ... Mine? The thought was not wholly repulsive. I could only dream of Fernando, I could not be his; since I must belong to some man, this one ... It could be worse. I knew that, from the candidates who had been paraded before me. He was handsome, titled, older, but not too old...

'Rich?'

I spoke the word aloud, and my aunt, pulling me across the floor, gave me a quick approving look.

'I don't know,' she admitted, with uncharacteristic candor. 'His estates are large, as I said, but there are rumors ... You'd best hope he
is not well off. The Clares are too highborn for the likes of us, but ten thousand—'

I pulled my arm away from her grasp; as always, that phrase infuriated me.

My aunt's frantic search for a mutual acquaintance who would present us to Baron Clare did not immediately bear fruit. When the dancing began I was claimed by a willowy young twig of the nobility whom I had met before ('Three elder brothers—you can do better'), and my aunt grudgingly let me go. The dance was a quadrille, which I could manage well enough; the quick country dances, naturally, were beyond my abilities, but for some reason my limp never bothered me a great deal when I danced.

During the quadrille I caught glimpses of my aunt and noted, with sour amusement, that she was accosting one lady after another, still in search of an introduction. I also noticed the Baron. He was not dancing. The arrogant tilt of his head, as he surveyed the passing couples, suggested a sultan inspecting the latest consignment of slaves; and the curl of his handsome mouth implied that he thought poorly of the lot.

After all, it was I who provided the desired introduction. A turn in the measure of the dance brought me face to face with someone I had never expected to see—a figure from out of the past. It was my old foe and later chum Margaret Montgomery, who had left Miss Plum's the year before I did. The exuberant nature which had prompted her to fling her cake at me had been subdued by time and Miss Plum, but it had not been obliterated; at the sight of me she stopped, with a cry of delight and her arms outflung. I
foresaw a deplorable disruption of the dance, but Margaret's partner, a chubby young man with a beaming face, seemed to know her well. He caught her wrist and twirled her back into step, with an apologetic smile at me. Laughing, she went with him; but as soon as the dance was over she rushed up to me.

'Who would have imagined meeting you?' she shrieked, flinging her arms around me. 'We must have a good long gossip. Frank—my cousin Francis, Lucy—do go and get us some punch, or smoke a cigar on the terrace—and take this gentleman with you—I must talk to Lucy, I have not seen her this age!'

Frank complied with an alacrity that told me much about Margaret's future. When I teased her about him she shrugged extravagantly, her fat brown curls bouncing.

'Yes, I expect we shall marry, in our family it is the custom for cousins to do so. We are such snobs, no one else is good enough for us! To be truthful, no one else of sufficiently good family has proposed for me! I cannot be a spinster, you know!'

We were joined then by my vigilant aunt, who demanded to be introduced to my friend. It was plain that she did not like seeing us together, and I could understand why; Margaret's pink cheeks and glossy chestnut curls always made me look insignificant. My aunt's face lengthened farther when, after a long catechism, she established Margaret's connections. She was indeed of an excellent family. Not until she discovered that Margaret was virtually engaged did my aunt begin to be civil.

'Oh, yes, Frank is well enough,' Margaret said carelessly.

'He seems to be very fond of you,' I said, chilled by her lack of enthusiasm.

Margaret burst into a loud, uninhibited laugh.

'But that has nothing to do with marriage,' she cried. 'Marriage is a practical matter. Do you remember, Lucy, our schoolgirl fancies about what husbands we would have? You wished yours to have a pretty little moustache like the Prince's, whereas I yearned for a dark, melancholy hero whose black eyes held a mysterious secret!'

Like her fancy taken bodily form, the tall dark man passed slowly through the crowd, not far from us. Seeing the direction of my gaze, Margaret turned. She laughed again, but this time there was a false note in her gaiety.

'Yes, precisely. Is he not the very image of my imaginary hero? And—if rumor be true—for once the image is not so distant from reality.'

My aunt turned, nose aquiver like a dog on a scent.

'You speak of Baron Clare? What rumors, pray, do you refer to? No doubt you are acquainted with him?'