Improper Ladies (15 page)

As they sat down there, out of the rain, he had a sudden idea as to what had brought on her odd behavior. “It was the cards, wasn’t it?” he said.

“What!” She drew away from him, looking at him with wide eyes. “The cards?”

“Yes. I knew Larry, remember? I know he had . . . difficulties controlling his card playing.”

“Oh.” She sat back again cautiously. “Perhaps that
was
it.”

Justin felt like an utter cad. He should have known that perhaps she disapproved of cards and gambling, even among friends.

And he wondered with a pang if her lovely face would cloud with disapproval if she ever found out what a rake he himself had been, so long ago.

 

 

He did not know!

For one agonizing instant, Caroline had feared he knew the truth. When he asked her if it was the cards that had bothered her, she had been sure he had guessed.

She had been very silly to get so caught up in the game. At the Golden Feather, winning had been her business, and she took her games there very seriously indeed. Today, for a brief while, she had forgotten that her life was different now. A friendly game of cards was just that.

She looked at Justin, at his handsome, worried, admiring face. It would be terrible to see that admiration turn to disgust at the truth.

She would not be so foolish as to forget herself again.

“Tell me more about this concert we are to attend on Saturday,” she forced herself to say lightly. “I am so looking forward to it.”

“ ‘When Nature made her chief work, Stella’s eyes, In color black, why wrapp’d she beams so bright? Would she in beamy black, like painter wise, Frame daintiest lustre, mix’d of shades and light?’ ”

As the soprano sang out, Justin looked down at the woman who sat beside him, her brown eyes cast down to read her program, and reflected that the words could have been written about her.

As indeed could all the songs, a cycle based on Sir Phillip Sidney’s
Astrophil and Stella.
Mrs. Aldritch was very like Stella, the star—beautiful, elegant, remote, and out of reach. Every time he thought he began to understand her, like at the picnic, she slid out of his grasp again. Like on the yacht.

She slowly raised her “beamy black” eyes to look at the soprano, and he was surprised to see that they were suspiciously bright. Her lips moved gently, molding around the words.

The program trembled in her gloved hands.

She was obviously in a world of her own, made of the beauty of the language and the imagery of perfect, elusive love.

“ ‘Both so and thus, she minding Love should be Placed ever there, gave him this mourning weed, To honor all their deaths, who for her bleed.’ ”

The soprano finished her song amid applause and stepped back for an intermission.

Mrs. Aldritch wiped quickly at her cheeks with the tips of her fingers and smiled at him. “Is the music not beautiful?”

“Exquisite,” he said, meaning more than just the music.

“I have never heard the poems set to music before, but it is very well done. It suits the words well.”

“You know
Astrophil and Stella,
then?”

“Oh, yes! I used to—” She broke off with a strange little laugh. “That is, when I was younger I had a great deal of time for reading. Sidney was a favorite.”

Justin grinned at her. “You mean you did not prefer
Henrietta’s Revenge,
as your sister does?”

She grinned back. “I fear not. I have tried to tell her that Shakespeare and Sidney are full of the things she loves to read about, but she does not believe me.”

“You mean revenge, curses, and star-crossed love?”

“Indeed. You are familiar with the Elizabethans, then, Lord Lyndon?”

“I will tell you a secret, Mrs. Aldritch. I read them at Cambridge, and adored them. But I did it secretly. It would never have done for the dons to know; it would have ruined my reputation as a n’erdo-well.”

She laughed. “Heaven forbid! Then, tell me, which of the
Astrophil
poems do you prefer? I like ‘Some lovers speak, when they their muses entertain.’ ”

Justin thought for a moment, then, gazing steadily into her eyes, quoted, “ ‘A strife is grown between Virtue and Love, While each pretends that Stella must be his: Her eyes, her lips, her all, saith Love, do this, Since they do wear his badge, most firmly prove.’ ”

She watched him with wide, dark eyes, and whispered, “ ‘But Virtue thus that title doth disprove, that Stella—’ ”

“ ‘O dear name that Stella is That virtuous soul, sure heir of heav‘nly bliss.’ ”

They looked at each other in silence, all the chatter and activity around them fading away, leaving them alone on an island of poetry and silence.

Then she broke the spell by giving a small smile, and saying, “Oh, my. You
do
have hidden depths, Lord Lyndon.”

“I could say the same of you, Mrs. Aldritch,” he answered.

“Indeed you could,” she murmured, looking back down at the program. “Indeed you could.”

Justin’s mother leaned over, from where she sat on Justin’s other side. “My dears,” she said, “do tell me what is meant when the song says ‘Till that good god make church and churchmen starve.’ It sounds most unpleasant.”

Mrs. Aldritch also leaned forward and launched into a most erudite explanation of Neoplatonic theory. But he heard not a word of it. Her hair brushed against his throat as she leaned forward, and a scent, sweet and exotic at the same time, floated up to him. Jasmine, he thought, breathing it in deeply.

How it reminded him of India! Of warm, thick nights, filled with the rich scent of this same flower and dry earth, and with the sounds of music and chanting.

It suited her perfectly.

 

 

Caroline tried to pay strict attention to the singer when the music resumed, but although the song was lovely, her mind kept drifting.

To the man beside her.

His warmth seemed to reach out and curl around her; the scent of his soap was clean and spicy. Every once in a while, as he turned over a page in his program or leaned to whisper a word to his mother, his arm and shoulder would brush against her. The superfine of his sleeve touched, just barely, the half inch of bare skin between her glove and her puffed muslin sleeve; then it slid away.

Caroline opened her painted silk fan and waved it in front of her face, disarranging her carefully made curls. Really, they should ventilate the concert rooms better!

And she should stop mooning over Lord Lyndon. She was far too old to be behaving like a love-struck schoolgirl; she had more important things to concern herself with.

Such as Phoebe. She looked about until she found her sister, seated at the end of the row with Harry and Sarah. The three of them were whispering and giggling, obviously paying no attention to the music or anything else.

As Caroline watched, Phoebe peeked up at Harry from beneath her lashes and gave him a flirtatious little smile. Harry blushed and grinned.

Caroline frowned.

When she had hoped for a match for Phoebe in Wycombe, Harry Seward was not at all what she had in mind. Far from being a quiet, respectable vicar or squire, Harry was young and wild. She remembered the fight on her last night at the Golden Feather, and grimaced.

Life with Harry would not be the secure one Caroline wanted for her sister.

But then, Phoebe was not exactly quiet herself. Perhaps no calm squire would have her.

“You are frowning, Mrs. Aldritch,” Lord Lyndon whispered in her ear, his warm breath stirring the curls at her temple. “Do you disapprove of the song?”

“Not at all,” Caroline answered, with one last glance at Phoebe. Then she turned back to smile at him. “It is quite fine.”

“But you feel you must keep a stern eye on your sister.”

“Can you blame me?”

“Not at all. I have also been watching Harry. But I think we need not fear that they will run away to the shore again. Not after the scoldings we gave them.”

“Indeed not! Phoebe was all that was contrite.”

Lord Lyndon gave a small sigh. “As was Harry. But it is very wearing, is it not, Mrs. Aldritch, to always have to be the responsible adult?”

Indeed it was. Caroline reflected that if she were still the reckless, romantic girl she had been before she wed Lawrence, she would not be sitting here so quietly. She would be trying to lure Lord Lyndon to the shore.

But that girl was no more. She was buried under the weight of the years of a difficult marriage and the Golden Feather. She had to make certain that Phoebe did not follow the same reckless path she had, and that was all that was important now.

So she just nodded and smiled sympathetically.

The next several days passed in an idyllic whirl. Caroline and Phoebe spent a great deal of time with the Sewards and the Bellweathers, but they also met many other people in Wycombe for the summer. There were venetian breakfasts, teas, more card parties, a play, a dance, and another, sunnier boating party. There were also warm, convivial afternoons bathing in the sea, and mornings looking in the shops.

There was scarcely time to pause for thought.

But when Caroline
would
have a quiet moment, when bathing or dressing or in bed about to fall asleep, she would think of Justin.

He had been very attentive, sitting beside her at suppers or playing cards at the same table with her (fortunately, there were no more flashbacks to card-playing days at the Golden Feather!). Justin was a charming companion, funny and interesting and always polite.

But he was that way with everyone, from the littlest Bellweather girl to the ancient Lady Ryce. She felt rather foolish wishing, hoping, that his attentions were a mark of admiration for her specifically. Even if they were, she could scarcely afford to encourage them.

That did not mean, though, that she could not dream and imagine, all alone in her room.

And wonder if he would ask her to dance with him at the grand assembly.

 

 

The evening of the grand assembly was a very warm one. All the windows in the high-ceilinged assembly rooms were open to admit what little breeze there was, but still the mingled scent of perfumes, flowers, and warm people hung heavy in the air.

Caroline stood close to one of the windows, fanning herself and wishing that her gray silk gown was a little less weighty. She watched as Phoebe, partnered with Harry, moved blithely through the figures of the dance, seemingly immune to the heat in her bright yellow muslin gown. Phoebe’s curls, piled fetchingly atop her head and caught with ivory combs, were still crisp, while Caroline feared that her own locks were quite wilted beneath her opal and seed pearl bandeau.

She supposed she really ought to move about, greet the many people she had met under the auspices of Lady Lyndon these last weeks. But the heat, combined with her sleepless night and the thoughts of Justin that caused it, made her feet feel leaden in their satin slippers. Her mind was dull and languid.

She leaned back against the window frame and wished she could go outside and search for some fresh air.

“Would you care for some lemonade, Mrs. Aldritch?” a familiar voice said. The voice that had echoed in her mind all the night before, keeping her awake.

Caroline turned to see Justin standing there, two glasses of the pale yellow liquid in his hands.

He smiled at her tentatively. “I do hope I didn’t startle you.”

“Oh, no. I was just . . . thinking,” she answered, managing to summon up a small smile in return. She took the offered glass and sipped at the cool lemonade gratefully. The tang of it seemed to help clear her mind a bit. “Thank you. This is delicious.”

He leaned against the wall beside her, drinking from his own glass. “I always thought that the seaside was meant to be cool. But if I closed my eyes now, I might almost imagine myself in India again.”

“It does seem rather foolish of us to truss ourselves up in silk and go out dancing on such an evening,” Caroline said with a laugh.

“I do not see you dancing,” Justin teased.

“Nor I you. It must be because we are too sensible.”

“Unlike our siblings, you mean?”

They watched as Harry and Phoebe skipped down the line of the dance, ending their set with a bow and a curtsy. Phoebe was quickly claimed by her next partner, and Harry went off to sit with his mother and watch Phoebe. The music for the next set, an old-fashioned minuet, struck up.

“I suppose, then,” Justin continued, “that since we are so sensible, it would be futile for me to ask you to dance.”

Actually, despite the heat, Caroline could think of nothing she would like better. To feel his hand on hers, his grasp at her waist, would be everything she longed for.

Well . . . almost everything.

And it would be so dangerous.

“I fear I must decline,” she answered, hoping her tone was light and teasing. “Not that you would make such a poor partner, I’m sure! But I can summon little enthusiasm for the exercise this evening.”

“How about a stroll on the terrace, then? Perhaps we could find a breeze out there.”

The thought of fresh air, not to mention the thought of Justin at her side, almost alone, was too much temptation to bear.

She gave in to that temptation and nodded. “I would like that, thank you.”

Justin placed their empty glasses on a table and offered her his arm. Caroline glanced over to make certain Phoebe was well-occupied, then slid her hand over the soft cloth of his sleeve. She seemed to have no control over her feet; the satin slippers led her inexorably out the doors into the night, even as she told them how foolish they were being, in light of her feelings for Lyndon. It seemed the height of folly to be alone with him in the night.