Rakehell's Widow (4 page)

It was dusk when Alabeth’s carriage turned into Berkeley
Square, threading past the crowd of carriages outside
Gunter’s, where the
beau monde
was sampling the famous
ices and confectionery. The square was not square at all,
its east and west sides being much longer than the others,
and it sloped away, its center filled with young plane trees.
She gazed but at the trees as they rustled their spring
foliage in the slight breeze. She could remember them being planted thirteen years before, when she had been only ten; before then it had been very bare.

Outside each exclusive house there was a footman parading importantly up and down, waiting for guests to
call, and outside her father’s house there was also such a
footman, very splendid in Wallborough gray and cream, and he hurried forward immediately as the carriage came to a standstill. He opened the door and lowered the steps,
and she alighted, pausing for a while on the pavement. The perfume of the plane trees filled the air and she heard some
laughter from Gunter’s. She felt tired, not because the
journey from Charterleigh had been long, but because it had been broken by that trying confrontation with Piers
Castleton and because it would be ended with another,
similar confrontation, this time with Jillian. She looked up
at the house’s elegant facade, its windows bright with
lights and its front door approached by a flight of shallow
steps passing beneath a wrought-iron arch from which was
suspended a particularly beautiful lamp. Taking a deep
breath, she went up the steps, the door opening magically
before her as Sanderson, the butler, anticipated the
moment exactly.

The tiled vestibule was a cool green, lighted by an immense chandelier and made bright by a large bowl of spring flowers, brought fresh from Covent Garden market that morning. A long-case clock ticked steadily in the recess next to the Adam fireplace, and from the music
room several floors above echoed the soft notes of the pianoforte—Jillian was playing Scarlatti.

Alabeth turned to the butler. “Good evening, Sander
son.”

“Good evening, my lady. Welcome home.”

She smiled. “Is everything in order?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Did my father leave any further instructions for me?”

“No, my lady, but there are a number of cards and
invitations.” He brought a large silver salver from a table.

She glanced quickly through them, wondering how on
earth anyone could be expected to attend all of the func
tions which society seemed set upon this Season, for, to be sure, one would need the constitution of an ox. Among the
cards, she noticed that Sir Charles Allister had already
called. “When did Sir Charles call?” she asked.

“This afternoon, my lady, but there was no one at
home. Lady Jillian had gone to call upon Lady
Silchester.”

“And how is my aunt?”

“As well as can be expected, my lady, but I gather from
Lady Jillian that she is certainly well enough to find fault with everything.” The butler cleared his throat and sniffed
a little; he and Lady Silchester had never seen eye to eye, and he was of sufficient importance in the house to hint as much, having been with the Earl of Wallborough since the
Earl’s seafaring days in the Royal Navy.

Alabeth smiled. “Then I imagine that my aunt is well on
the road to recovery,” she remarked, removing the pins
from her hat and handing it to him.

“Indeed so, my lady.”

“I take it that that is my sister playing the pianoforte?”

“It is, my lady.”

“Then I will go to her.”

“Shall you require any refreshment, my lady?”

“A little cold supper, perhaps—and a glass of my fav
orite wine.”

“I have a bottle on ice, my lady.”

She mounted the black marble staircase which ascended
from the far end of the vestibule, her gloved hand sliding
easily on the polished mahogany rail and her shadow
moving across the wall beside her. The crystal drops of the
chandelier flashed and the light fell pleasingly over her
father’s prized collection of paintings by Canaletto. Tall Ionic columns guarded the head of the staircase, stretching
up into the darkness high above, and the music was louder
now, the rippling notes played with an exquisite touch.

She reached the second floor and walked along the
passage, passing the camphorwood chests with their
strange oriental perfume, and then at last she was at the door of the music room. Inside she could see her sister seated at the Broadwood pianoforte, her head bowed as
she played.

Lady Jillian Carstairs was very beautiful, and her golden
hair, a startling contrast to Alabeth’s dark red, was cut in
the short style known as the Titus, a boyish fashion which
emphasized the daintiness of her face. She wore a lilac
lawn gown, its low neckline made modest and becoming by
the insertion of a white tucker with three dainty frills at the throat. There was a golden locket resting on the tucker and
a small fob watch pinned beneath the gown’s very high
waistline. She looked quite exquisite, but there was a set to her mouth which told immediately that she was well aware
of her sister’s presence in the doorway, although the music
did not falter and she did not glance up for even a second.

At last the final notes died away and she removed her
hands from the keys. “Good evening, Alabeth.” The tone was not welcoming.

“Good evening, Jillian. I congratulate you upon your
playing, I have seldom heard better.”

“I don’t want your congratulations.”

“Jillian….”

“I don’t want to have to put up with you at all.”

“That’s quite enough.”

“Is it?” Jillian stood, her blue eyes flashing with a bitter
anger. “I don’t think it’s anywhere near enough. Why
should I have to do your bidding? Why should I be
obedient toward you, when in your time you obeyed no
one?”

“Did you give your word to Father that you would
accept this situation?”

Jillian looked away, her lips pressed stubbornly together.

“Well, did you?” pressed Alabeth.

“And if I did?”

“Then you must stand by that word…as I am doing.”

“I’ll warrant it pleases you immensely to be able to
order me about.”

“I promise you that it doesn’t please me at all and that
as I look at you right now, I wish with all my heart that I
had refused to have anything to do with this idiotic notion
of Father’s—but I agreed and so help me I will do my best.
Jillian, I don’t want to continue quarreling with you, for
you are my sister and until now we have always got on so
well together—”

“That was before you told tales about me to Father last
summer.”

“They weren’t ‘tales,’ and anyway, you left me no
choice.”

“You didn’t have to tell him anything.”

“Jillian, you were being very indiscreet, and with a man who could hardly claim to be a gentleman.”

“I loved him, and you ruined my chances of happiness
with him.”

“He omitted to tell you he had a wife.”

“Even if he had been single, your actions would have
been the same. Your only motive was a jealous spite, a
determination to deny me the sort of happiness you had known with Robert. You eloped with one of the most
notorious men in England, but you had the gall to tell
Father that I had taken a stroll with Captain Francis. It was
a despicable act, Alabeth, and I shall never forgive you.”

“I had to tell him, because I could see only too well what the good Captain’s intentions were. You were on the road
to ruin, Jillian, and I cared enough for you to do my
utmost to put a stop to it.”

“Oh, and you succeeded,” cried Jillian, quivering with
fury.

“Then you may thank your lucky stars,” said Alabeth,
remaining commendably calm in the face of such unjust
accusations, “for you came through it all unscathed, your
reputation intact.”

“Which can hardly be said of you,” replied Jillian, her glance and tone calculated to be as insolent and provocative as possible.

Alabeth took a deep breath. “At least Robert intended to marry me. Oh, Jillian, why are you like this? I admit
that I was disobedient, that I caused a scandal, but perhaps
it is
because
I did those things that I know what I’m talking
about. The pitfalls are there, they trapped me, and so I can
see them now—and I can warn you, see that you don’t
stumble into them.”

“You just want to deny me the sort of love and happi
ness you had. You’re a dog-in-the-manger, Alabeth, and I
hate you.”

Alabeth stared at her, “You don’t really mean that,”
she said incredulously, “for I simply will not believe it.”

“I don’t care what you believe. In fact, I don’t care anything about you.” Jillian’s chin was raised defiantly, her whole attitude challenging.

“Very well,” said Alabeth, “then I shall use the powers
at my disposal.”

“What powers?”

“The powers given to me by Father when he asked me to
take on this responsibility.
In loco parentis
, I believe the
phrase is. Now, then, are you going to undertake to be
agreeable?”

“No.”

“Very well, you must go to your room.”

Jillian stared at her. “Go to my room?”

“I am not about to put up with your present behavior—of that you may be certain—and until I see some signifi
cant improvement, I shall refuse to begin your Season.”

“But you can’t—”

“Oh, yes, I can. I am not prepared to launch you upon
society when I cannot be sure if you will behave yourself.
Can you imagine my taking you to Carlton House, fearing
all the time that you might make a scene? Oh, no, Jillian
Carstairs, I am not that much of a fool and so shall not
stick my neck out at all to suit you. Nor will I be obliging in
any way, so you may certainly forget any notion you have
of receiving tuition from Count Adam Zaleski.”

“You cannot mean that!” Jillian gasped, obviously hor
rified to realize the full extent of Alabeth’s control over
her.

“I mean every word, Jillian—unless, of course, you are
prepared to stand by your promise to Father.”

Jillian turned away, biting her lip. Until this moment she
had believed that she could continue with the feud, speak
as she pleased and behave as she saw fit; now it seemed
that such conduct would punish not Alabeth, but herself.

Alabeth hated being so authoritarian, for it was not in
her character, but she knew that unless she took a stand
now, the situation would become intolerable. Jillian was
like a stranger, so very different from the sweet, vivacious
girl she had known before the advent of Captain Francis
the previous year. Until he had arrived in Wallborough
Castle they had always been so close, sharing laughter and
secrets, but not anymore. Jillian was now cold and
distant, seeming really to hate her. And all because of a
man who did not merit even a second thought….

Jillian turned back toward her at last. “Very well,” she said in a low voice, “I have no choice but to agree, but I
will only do as I have to, and no more.”

“That will do to be going on with, for I will put up with
what I have to, and no more.” Alabeth walked from the
room, pausing in the doorway to look back. “Jillian, I
truly don’t wish to go on in this vein, for I love you very
much.

Jillian looked at her without saying a word, and at last Alabeth walked on out. She was shaking as she descended the staircase, for the meeting had been worse than she had imagined. In fact, everything was worse than she had
imagined, for she must also endure Piers Castleton’s
presence in Town. Oh, how she wished she was back in the
seclusion of Charterleigh!

The following morning Jillian decided very pointedly to
take her breakfast in her room, thus avoiding facing
Alabeth across the table. Alabeth did not know whether to
be relieved or dismayed, for while it spared her the
immediate prospect of another unpleasant meeting, it also prolonged the agony, for they must meet again sooner or
later. She sat alone in the sun-drenched morning room,
toying with her coffee and staring at the butter nestling in its dish of ice. Outside, the tiny rear garden was filled with spring color, from the daffodils and tulips in the beds to
the almond blossom and forsythia above, but it was
robbed of any true atmosphere because it was walled in, reminding her forcibly that this was the heart of Mayfair,
not the heart of Kent.

“My lady?” Sanderson appeared at her elbow.

“Yes?”

“The Duchess of Seaham has called.”

Alabeth was taken aback, for nobody called before
eleven o’clock in the morning. “Very well, show her in.”