Learning to Waltz (16 page)

She rode happily across the moor, beautiful in its autumn adornment of gorse and heather, feeling at ease with Nugget, the sorrel mare Hartley had purchased for her use. Riding was still a new experience but one she loved; it was freeing, somehow, especially when one rode alone as she did now. She remembered the day clearly… except it had not been the Devon moors but the fields around Oxford, and Hartley had surely been with her. But now she was alone and free, and she took her time, allowing Nugget to choose her path and nibble as she liked while her rider gazed into the distance, or looked for the lark singing his heart out somewhere in the high blue sky, or watched the ground for the nests of ouzels.

Then it was time to make her way to the ball. Inexplicably, she wore a silk ball gown of dark teal—much the color of Lady Blythe’s riding habit—and inexplicably, Nugget stepped daintily from the autumn moors, through the church gate, and into the frosted high street in Whately, where Evan waited outside the inn to lift her from the saddle.

They danced, alone in the assembly rooms, no curious or sly or jeering faces to judge them from the periphery, their feet hardly touching the floor, no sound but the music, no feeling but exhilaration.

Then the room spun away and Evan was gone, and she was back on the moor, hanging on for dear life as Lady Blythe’s hunter, huge and black in the nighttime, pelted through a cold, driving rain to nowhere.

Lady Blythe looked up from whatever she was writing, her lips pulled back in a grimace. “The
brewer
?” she exclaimed. “Please, Miss Latimer, tell me you jest.”

“Oh no,” Miss Latimer replied. “Mr. Nutall is—”

“Don’t say the solicitor is coming as well?”

“Two solicitors, in fact.” Miss Latimer’s chin lifted in defiance. Alberta opened her mouth to speak, but Blythe had not finished.

“My God. It’s not enough that we must dine at five. We are also expected to dance with ale-makers at this so-called ball tomorrow. Who planned this tribute to social
egalité
?”

“Why, I did,” said Miss Latimer, “along with Lady Reston and several others.”

“Has England not just eliminated the revolutionist element in France? How ironic that we should so encourage the rabble here at home.”

“Not quite rabble,” murmured Alberta. Though she would never have expressed herself in such terms, her sympathies were largely with Lady Blythe.

Miss Latimer’s definitely were not. “Whately is a small community, my lady. If we restricted the guest list to those approved by you, we might perhaps manage a table of whist. As it is, we may expect upward of thirty couples on the dance floor.”

“Mushrooms and toad-eaters,” muttered Blythe, dipping her quill into the inkwell.

“Nonsense,” said Alberta. “It should be a delightful change of pace.” She might agree with Lady Blythe on this point, but she liked Miss Latimer much better. And she would welcome some entertainment other than parlor games.

“Yes, Blythe,” Lady Honora admonished her sister. “No one will oblige you to dance with anyone you do not deem worthy. If only out of courtesy to our hosts, I think you should refrain from such slurs on their neighbors.”

Lady Blythe rolled her eyes.

Alberta was tempted to do the same. But Theo strolled in at that moment with the other gentlemen, and she restricted herself to raising one eyebrow at him. He came to sit beside her on the brocade sofa.

“Have you had an enlightening hour, my dear?” he asked her.

“Grossly enlightening,” she replied. “And it was a most generous hour. The men look particularly merry this evening.”

“Latimer broke out some excellent port. Exhumed from some dungeon in Portugal after the war, to hear him tell it.”

Blythe spoke up in a voice that sounded mild yet carried across the room. “I suppose we shall all be consigned to another evening of charades and music. Unless we have exhausted your repertoire, Miss Moreton?”

“Oh no, my lady,” replied that naïve young woman, oblivious to the put-down. Her fiancé was off in the corner laughing with Evan and Viscount Latimer, paying no attention.

“Ah,” Blythe said, her voice very dry. “Well, then. Play away.” Miss Moreton moved to the pianoforte, and Blythe went on with her writing, chattering all the while with Captain Westwood.

“She could at least pretend to keep her voice down,” Alberta murmured.

“Wait until we get to the charades,” Theo replied. “She’s excellent.”

And Alberta had to admit, she was. She performed a pantomime depicting the Prince of “Whales”—hardly an original joke, but her delivery was superb. No one else could match her. She had a great deal of flair and no delicacy whatsoever.

So she had an eager audience when she announced, “I have a riddle. I’ve written out several copies—you may share.” She passed out the sheets she had been working on all evening.

But for the crackling of the fire and the clink of a teacup, the room fell silent as everyone started reading. A little unnerved by the smug little smile on Blythe’s face and the gleam in her eye, Alberta did the same:

A Widow lost her babe one day

And thought his fate was sealed;

But a Hero found the lad and bore

Him home upon his shield.

So Knight met Mother at her door

And to the gods appealed,

“What nectarous courtesan is this?

I’ll have ’er in the field!”

The Widow threw her mourning off

And to the Knight did yield—

’Tis no easy task, I vow

Keeping Knight and Dame concealed.

Alberta heard someone say “Oh, that’s—” and then a gasp.

Then little Miss Moreton chirped, “What does nectarous mean?” One of the gentlemen cleared his throat, and finally Captain Westwood burst into laughter. Sudbury followed suit.

From Evan, reading over her shoulder, she heard nothing at all. She turned toward him as he brushed past her, plucking Blythe’s riddle out of her hands and moving straight toward its author. His face was flushed, his jaw tight. Silent as a cat, he stalked his prey, gaze fixed on her as though nothing else existed. Except that he was really the prey, turning the tables on the predator, Alberta thought, a little hysterical.

She said his name and grabbed his arm. It felt like iron. But he paid her no heed at all, pulling her across the floor with him. Someone else took hold of his other arm, but by that time he had reached his target.

Blythe had retreated as he approached and stood stock-still, backed against the piano. Evan stopped not a foot away, his face thrust into hers. His voice was a growl, low and threatening. Probably no one but Alberta, and Amanda Latimer on his other side, heard his words. And Blythe herself, of course.

“I would like nothing better than to beat you to a bloody pulp. Having better manners than a toad, I won’t do it.” He held up her riddle, clenched in one fist, and shook it in her face. “But by God, ma’am, you’d best keep your distance from me and the other characters in this little farce of yours, or I’ll cut that malicious tongue out of your pretty head and feed it to the rats.”

Then he tore the paper across, dropped the pieces on the floor, and strode out of the room.

Alberta watched him go. Had he really said those things? She could hardly believe it was the same man, her younger brother whom she had seen evolve from a happy child to a mischievous schoolboy to a charming, thoughtful gentleman. When had she last seen him angry? She couldn’t remember. She realized her mouth was hanging open and closed it with a snap.

She turned to find Theo right behind her, one of the crowd surrounding Lady Blythe. She pulled him aside. “Did you hear what he said to her? Go find him, Theo.”

But Theo shook his head. “Best to leave him alone, Berta.”

Alberta huffed with impatience. But it was a sure bet Evan would not appreciate
her
intrusion. Besides which, she had another task to accomplish, even more unpleasant.

She made her way through the little throng. Someone had helped Blythe to a chair. She was very pale, and perspiration glinted on her forehead, but it looked like she was recovering nicely. Too nicely.

“He threatened me, Lowell,” she moaned, holding onto her brother’s arm. It looked far too artistic.

Sudbury patted her hand, but that seemed to be the extent of his sympathy. “I do believe you had it coming, my dear. It was very cleverly done, but—”

“Too clever by half,” growled Latimer. “Did you expect him to roll over and play dead?”

Alberta put on her most imperious manner and surveyed the assembled guests. “I believe we’ve had enough excitement for one evening. I will stay with Lady Blythe until she feels able to climb the stairs.”

As the door closed behind the last of them, Alberta turned back to Blythe.

“I suppose you want to lecture me,” Blythe said, rising to her feet. They were much the same height, and Alberta looked her straight in the eye.

“Not nearly as much as I want to, er, ‘beat you to a bloody pulp’, was it? If this were my home, I would—”

“What a violent family the Haverfields are, to be sure.” One graceful hand half-hid Blythe’s yawn. “It really is too much for me. I believe I’ll —”

“Not until I’ve had my say, young woman. You notice I do not say ‘lady’. In my book, you forfeited all right to the title with your little ploy this evening.”

“Isn’t it fortunate for me that you are not in charge of updating the rolls of the peerage,” Blythe retorted. “And you know, you have no standing to—”

“Blast my standing!” Alberta exclaimed. “As one woman to another, what on earth did you want to do? Humiliate a good man? Blacken the reputation of a woman you don’t even know? Did you get the results you expected? Are you happy, Blythe?” She could hear her voice rising and hoped there were no servants hanging about in the hall. But there probably were.

Much to her surprise, Blythe folded again into her chair, her arms folded protectively as though she were cold. “No,” she whispered. “It was supposed to be funny and a little bit… bawdy.”

Alberta forgot about keeping her voice down. “Bawdy? Try crude, foul, vulgar. Disgusting!”

Good God, are those tears? And are they real or just an act?
She watched, skeptical. When Blythe pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and blew her nose, she was convinced. It was not done delicately.

She sat down and took one of Blythe’s moist hands, patting it gently. “There, there. One of the nicest things about being high-born is that we get more chances than everyone else. But you must make what amends you can, dear. An apology to my brother, of course, and to your hostess. Can you do that?”

Blythe looked less contrite by the second. “I can think about it.” She sounded like a child again, stubborn and spoiled. Alberta dropped her hand and put the steel back in her voice.

“Thinking about it does not count. One thing we can do right now is burn all these copies. Or would you like to send one to the
Gazette
? Imagine what fun they could have with it, Blythe. Society loves bawdy jokes. Is that what you want for my brother? Public ridicule?”

Blythe sighed. “No.”

“Then help me collect them. How many did you make?”

By some miracle, they found all of them. Assuming Blythe was telling the truth. Alberta put them into Blythe’s hands and led her to the fire. They stood side by side and watched the pages burn to ash.

Alberta, Lady Witney

Whately Manor

31 December 1816

My dear Elizabeth,

I trust, dear sister, that your Christmas festivities proceed happily, with less intrigue than we have seen thus far at Whately. It’s a peculiar assortment of persons, and I do believe that Theo and I were invited mostly to stand chaperone. Truth to tell, it’s a daunting task. Sudbury is here with both his sisters; why did I never realize what a shameless hussy Blythe is? She seems desperate to snare a husband, which leads me to believe the rumors about their finances. The men enjoy her, of course; but none has yet offered to become her bridegroom. She has our Evan in her eye, but thankfully he seems immune—to Blythe, that is—and her tactics would be sufficient to scare any sane man away.

There is another woman in the picture, however. How wonderful, you say! Not so. Herein lies a tale, to be told briefly: Some few weeks before our arrival, Evan succeeded in finding a young lad (aged just five) who was lost. He restored him to his mother, victim to frostbite and an inflammation of the lungs, and by all accounts, helped nurse him back to health. How romantic, you say? Well, possibly. You would think she would be falling over herself in gratitude, would you not? There is no doubt she is a devoted mother, even a bit overprotective—but she is very reserved and seems to hold the world at arm’s length. She stands aloof even from Evan, which is curious. She uses no arts to attract, no flirtation or coquetry, and gives no indication that she might be on the catch for a wealthy husband, or even a protector—which speaks in her favor, of course.