Quiet Meg (9 page)

“Bertram, you’d best get on at once to Meakin at the inn.
Make certain no one else is lurking about and most of all
that no one departs without our knowledge. We don’t want
Sutcliffe to learn anything’s amiss. He’s apt to send reinforcements. And have that big fellow Finch come from the
stables to lend Nichols a hand”

Bertie helped Nichols secure their captive, then quickly
mounted and raced away.

“Now Cabot,” Sir Eustace said, turning back at last to
face them. “I thank you for a good morning’s work. I’ve no doubt Jefferies will deal with this fellow creditably. But I
must ask one more favor of you-that you join my family
for breakfast.”

Cabot smiled as he bowed. Then he offered his arm to
escort Meg into the house.

“Your father is enjoying this,” he said to her.

“Yes” Meg was surprised to find she was trembling. “He
likes to arrange things.”

“The magistrate will no doubt help reveal the man’s purpose,” Cabot said, as though to reassure her.

“I know his purpose, Mr. Cabot” As she laid her gloves
and hat on the table in the hall her fingers were still unsteady. “What I do not understand is Lord Sutcliffe’s persistence. He has had years now … to forget. Yet he cannot
let me live as I wish. Even here at my home. Quietly..

“Quietly?” Cabot repeated the word, with such disbelief
she was compelled to turn to him. “You cannot live quietly.
Even if Sutcliffe had never existed you could not have lived
quietly. The idea is preposterous” He eyed her impatiently,
as though frustrated by her incomprehension. “Perhaps it’s
time, before your departure for town, that you realize just
what you are. You were not put on this earth to live quietly,
Miss Lawrence. You were created to cause havoc. You
should heed those who recognize it, for there will always
be a Sutcliffe” His words were uncompromising, strangely
bitter, and struck Meg as entirely unwarranted. She would
have welcomed his comfort. But his attack seemed a betrayal.

“You overstep, sir,” she said coldly, holding his grim
gaze. “What do you know of my situation, of my behavior?
And what can you possibly know of Lord Sutcliffe? I’m obliged to heed my father, out of affection and duty, but I
am not obliged to mind the presumptuous rants … of a
gardener.”

“Margaret!” Her father’s unexpected roar chased her up
the stairs.

Lucy had accused her of woolgathering. For three
weeks-through the packing and removal to town, through
the first mad days of settling in at Aunt Pru’s town home, and
through Lucy’s ecstatic introduction to the modiste, the
milliner, the theater, museums, musicales, dinners, parties
and picnics-Meg’s mind had indeed been almost entirely
elsewhere. Even tonight, awaiting Lucy’s debut at Almack’s,
Meg found herself sitting alone in her darkening room.

She had wanted to apologize. But at the last moment
her courage had failed her. And she had not seen Cabot
since.

Meg had watched him, surreptitiously, for much of the
day following her outburst. She had watched him ride out
early to the lake, with one of his wagons of greenery. She
had watched him order the removal of the stakes in the
north lawn. And she had watched him at last out in the sun
with a crew of workmen, installing the path to the knoll. He had thrown himself into that labor as though he were one of
the menials, as eager as they to finish a rough and tiring
job. Indeed, he had removed his coat; Meg had even seen
him wielding a shovel, with a strong and practiced economy
and seeming resolution to flaunt his ability. Such disrespect
for his standing was not proper. It was not done. He had
known it was not done and had not cared. It was a deliberate
reprimand. When he had walked back toward the stables,
across the front courtyard, Meg had rushed to the hall,
intending to call to him. But she had stood silent.

He had continued past the open door-and her. He who
had always proved the gentleman had discarded his usual
attentions; his boots and breeches were spotted with soil,
his shirt clung damply to his chest, a simple broad-brimmed
hat shaded his face. As she waited and watched him walk
by, she might have thought he did not even see her. He had
not looked toward the doorway. But at the last moment he
had acknowledged her, by touching the brim of his hat. The
pride in the gesture had been unmistakable. He had not,
at the last, found it within his power to be quite as rude to
her as she had been to him. He had passed on without her
response.

Charles Cabot, gardener, had continued on as though he
were master of Selbourne.

She might easily have summoned him, but guilt had restrained her, and now she had her silence as well to regret.
She had, in effect, cut him. He had left the next morning for
the southeast and Kent, and had not returned to Selbourne
before their own departure for town.

Lucy burst into the room only to halt abruptly in the unexpected dimness.

“Why Meg, what are you doing here in the dark? We’re
leaving shortly. Are you ready? I wanted to ask you about
my hair.”

Meg rose from her seat and walked toward the hall.

I am ready, Lucy pet, just gathering my courage.”

“Your-oh, Meg, I hadn’t thought! I suppose you
think-you think Sutcliffe might be there?”

Meg shook her head. She had been tossing all Sutcliffe’s
gifts and flowers away.

“I shouldn’t think he would. It was never his preferred
venue. I imagine it even less so now. No, I was just remembering all those people. It is quite a crush. But you, my darling sister, shall stand out like a beacon. You look lovely,
Lucy.”

“My hair-do you think it will do?” Lucy spun around before Meg, her fresh white gown, trimmed in blue ribbon,
floating about her, her blond curls caught up in an intricate
arrangement of tiny white silk flower buds.

“You know it will. Peters has an expert’s eye and hand
with such arrangements.”

“We will be late, Meg, if you don’t come down with me
now. Are you quite ready? Don’t forget your dance card.”

Meg would happily have forgotten it. She did not look
forward to the ogling gazes and hot press of hands she
would associate forever with Almack’s. But for her sister’s
sake she would make efforts to enjoy it.

“The dress suits you very well,” Lucy remarked as Meg
moved into the hall. “I am glad I insisted you have it done up
with this gorgeous emerald trim and sash. Just don’tplease do not stand next to me all the evening.”
“

“And why is that, you minx?”

“Because you are so very beautiful, Meg, that I should
never have a chance”

Meg kissed Lucy on the cheek.

“No one will spend two seconds looking at an old spinster like your sister-and I’ll wager you will be on the
dance floor all the evening in any event. If you were any
more popular than you are, Lucy, doorways and drawing
rooms all over town would have to be widened to accommodate your followers.”

Lucy laughed.

“I am having such fun! I pray that it will never end. I
think Aunt Pru shall have to have me for years and years
and years”

Which would rather defeat the purpose, Meg thought as
they descended the stairs. Just because she herself had
been so notoriously unsuccessful was no reason for Lucy
to believe such solitude preferable to a happy match.

“Father would want you home,” she said instead.

“And why should father want that?” Sir Eustace asked
from the drawing room door. “Ah! Well you do both scrub
up nicely, though if I am not mistaken, Lucy, you have a
smudge of cocoa on your chin” As Lucy raised her fingers
to remove the nonexistent smudge, Sir Eustace winked at
Meg. “It’s gone now, poppet. Must’ve been a trick of my
eyes. You look a treat. The young men won’t know what
they are about”

“But Papa, I think I do want them to know what they are
about!”

“‘Twas just a figure of speech, child.”

Louisa and Ferrell came to the door of the drawing room
to admire Lucy’s dress. Bertie was just starting down the stairs with Aunt Pru, a process that required some patience,
as she had grown rather plump and insisted on leaning on
Bertie’s arm much more heavily than on the banister.

Meg was watching the two of them fondly when her father drew her attention.

“Margaret, I would wish you to remember something tonight.” He nodded toward the large portrait in the hall.
Painted eight years earlier, it showed Louisa, Meg, and
Lucy with their mother. Meg had always loved the portrait
of her mother, but after her death, Sir Eustace had wanted
the reminder away from Selboume. Aunt Pru had claimed
her sister’s image for her town home. “You are still a young
woman, only twenty. And to me you will always be
younger.” Again he looked to the portrait. “Do not be too
eager to dismiss a youth you have hardly experienced. If
you are not happy, my child, what has everything been for?”

She moved to place her hand on his shoulder, where he
clasped it. He had noticed her mood; she had not explained
to him her remorse over her treatment of Cabot. But tonight was a night for festivity. If nothing else, her father’s
comment reminded her to make more of an effort.

“I am happy, father. I am simply-nervous. I want everything to go well for Lucy.”

“You know Joe Coachman will have three riders with the
carriage. Nothing will occur.”

“I know that. I am easy in my mind about that, father.
You needn’t fret “

“I do not fret, my girl.”

“Yes, I know,” she actually laughed. “You are usually
too busy with your preparations to fret “

“Off with you, then,” he grumbled. “I wish to have some peace. Bertram, Ferrell-I expect a report regarding the
ladies’ conduct.”

“Do not carry on so, Eustace,” Aunt Pru chided him as
they donned their wraps. She favored her late sister in spirit
if not in looks. “Anyone would think you were in truth itching to accompany us”

“Of all the hare-brained notions,” he muttered as they
left the hall. “Such trouble for a glass of ratafia!”

It was a tight fit for the six of them in the carriage and an
even tighter fit outside Almack’s, where all the early arrivals appeared to have converged at once. Meg smothered
her flutters as they passed through the initial greetings and
perusals with the patronesses, thanking the two most directly responsible for their attendance, thanking all of them
for their kindness and indulgence. Lucy’s manner, Meg
noted, was confident and engaging-she would pass with
warm approvals. Meg’s relief for her sister did not extend
to her own ordeal.

“We have not seen you in London for some time, Miss
Lawrence” Sally Jersey’s gaze was boldly assessing. “Have
you been abroad?”

“I have been in the country, milady.”

“‘Tis a long time to rusticate, Miss Lawrence. Much has
changed here in town” She eyed Meg’s gown as though it
could not possibly be the latest fashion, which in fact it
was. “I do hope you enjoy yourself. I believe Lord Sutcliffe
attends tonight.”

Meg stiffened. But she thanked her and moved on, thinking that some fixtures of town-waspish Lady Jersey, for
example-had not changed one whit.

“She is odious,” Louisa whispered. “And as much of a gossip as ever. Do not mind her. She envies you rather too
obviously, Meg. Ferrell believes she will spill state secrets
and be banished to the Continent.” As Meg smiled they
made their way through the crush of people to the dancing
hall.

Meg still remembered what was most attractive about
Almack’s: the cavernous, mirrored long hall, reflecting the
light of a host of lanterns, and the exceptional music,
pleasing even when the company was not. She felt again
the impolite stares, heard the trail of whispers. The appraisals were almost a weight upon her. But she continued
to smile.

They moved closer to the roped off area where Aunt Pru
could find a seat. Louisa also took a seat, claiming, to
Meg’s surprise, that she did not feel in the least like dancing, but she turned with such energy and enthusiasm to
speak with some of her acquaintance that Meg had to wonder at the decision.

“She thinks herself noble,” Ferrell told her. “By freeing
my time to circulate on business. But do not worry-I shall
lure her on to the floor at some point. Now Meg, you must
allow me to lead you out for the first two dances. And Lucy,
you must permit me at least one following. Miss Burke,” he
acknowledged Lucy’s friend, who had come up to them
immediately, “would you be kind enough to grant me an
early dance?”

Amanda Burke blushed, but nodded an assent.

Bertie claimed the very first dance with Lucy, even as a
number of admirers in fancy coats and cravats presented
themselves as potential partners. Lucy was busy scribbling names on to her dance card as one darkly handsome young
man turned from her to Meg.

“Miss Meg-do you remember me? Harris Wembly.”
He bowed.

“Oh, Harry! Of course-how are you? How is your
family?”