The Exploits & Adventures of Miss Alethea Darcy (15 page)

Now she could appreciate Camilla's feelings; how well suited she and Wytton were in that respect. Her brother-in-law was an energetic soul with a curious, scholar's mind, eager always to be off to explore ancient sites in remote parts of the globe. How different from Napier, and at the mere thought of her husband, she shivered.

“Cold?” enquired Titus.

“No, merely an unpleasant thought that came into my mind,” said Alethea. She closed her eyes again, disinclined to enter into conversation with Mr. Manningtree, who had too much perception in his eyes for her liking.

Unpleasant thought? If only he were merely a thought, and not a man, flesh and blood and money and power. And her husband. She forced herself not to give in to the fear that flooded over her at the thought. She was out of his reach now, and would never return to that terrible house again.

The same dreamlike state overcame her, but this time she slipped back into the nightmare world that she had escaped from; escaped physically, that was, but with the months of her time with Napier scored deep into her soul.

And she was back in the drawing room at Dundon House, after dinner, waiting for the gentlemen to reappear. A young woman with soft brown hair and big, rather protuberant brown eyes came and sat beside Alethea. She was a good deal shorter than Alethea, with a neat figure and a voluptuous bosom, on which reposed a very fine pearl necklace. She introduced herself as Diana Gray, and complimented Alethea on her performance at the pianoforte. “I myself play the harp, but I cannot lay claim to half your accomplishment.”

“I do not regard music as an accomplishment,” Alethea said.

“Do you not? How strange. What is it then?”

“An art.”

“Oh, that is all above my head. I have nothing to do with art, I think it an unsuitable subject for young women to contemplate. I don't mean I don't dearly like to look at a picture, I much enjoy going to the London exhibitions of paintings. However, it is for the men to take that kind of thing seriously, do not you agree?”

“No,” said Alethea, disliking the way this girl was looking her up and down with such a complacent stare, and wishing that the men would come in and she could be with Penrose.

It hadn't turned out that way, with the odious Mrs. Youdall drawing that Miss Gray away to talk to her son.

“Miss Alethea, here is a gentleman who wishes to be introduced to you. Mr. Napier, Mr. Norris Napier.”

She smiled and nodded and said what was civil, and spoke a few words to him, hardly aware of his presence, how could she be, when Penrose was in the room?

Several of the gentlemen begged Alethea for a song, and Mr. Napier paid her the compliment of giving her performance his undivided attention, and afterwards, his praise was genuine and full of real enthusiasm and understanding. He talked well and sensibly about Mozart and Rossini, about French songs and about singers in London and Paris. He said he envied Penrose his ability to play the violin. “Alas, I never achieved more than a modicum of success upon any instrument, although it was not for want of trying.”

“I merely scrape,” Penrose said with a laugh, “although I confess I have great pleasure in playing with others. I am not in Miss Alethea's league, she is far beyond me when it comes to music.”

“You have acquired another beau,” Diana Gray remarked as they waited for the carriages. “We other young ladies are quite cast in the shade.”

“Another beau? What can you mean?”

“There is Mr. Youdall in constant attendance upon you, as all the world knows, and now Mr. Napier evidently takes great pleasure in your company.”

“Mr. Napier and I were talking of music.”

“Oh, is that what you have in common? And what do you discuss with Mr. Youdall?” This was said with a sly, knowing look that made Alethea flush with anger.

A tear slid unnoticed from beneath her closed lids as she stretched and turned, trying to blot out these painfully intrusive recollections.

Why, she asked herself, had Napier appeared so normal, so pleasant? Such a man should have had some mark of Cain about him to warn her that he was not to be trusted; some indication of his unnatural ways and the cruel spirit that lay hidden beneath the charm.

She shook herself awake, felt the dampness on her chin, remarked that the sun was making her eyes water and determined to doze no more. What was it about this unreal place of snow and ice, so far above the normal world, that brought these miserable thoughts into her head? She longed for the journey to be at an end, but was assured by Titus that they were no more than half way.

They travelled on the runners over the snow for nearly two hours, before the cavalcade once more came to a halt and the wheels were restored to the chaises. More hours passed, as they climbed higher and higher towards the summit. The sun was too dazzling to look out at, and Alethea was forced to close her eyes. She was determined to keep alert and in the present moment, but weariness overcame her and once again she drifted back into her uncomfortable half-doze.

This was the worst dream of all, a familiar one that often came stealing into the troubled hours of her sleep at Tyrrwhit House, increasing her wretchedness.

She was in the country this time, at Holtmere, the seat of Lord and Lady Miltown. She was with Fanny, come to join a considerable house party, and among her fellow guests was Penrose. Nothing and no one else mattered, as far as she was concerned; and she looked forward to the visit with unalloyed delight at the happiness of spending so many hours in his company.

He was in love with her, as she was with him. He hadn't proposed, but never for a moment did she imagine that he would not, and very soon, too. Attraction had deepened into love, and with that love went passion, physical passion. The sensations she felt in his presence and the heat of her blood when they snatched moments alone together made her dizzy. Her ardour matched his; no wonder she had heard one crotchety old dowager remark with the frankness of her generation that the sooner she and Penrose were man and wife and bedded together, the better.

“Youth will to it,” the dowager said to Fanny. “Push it forward, before their passions turn out to be stronger than their morals.”

Fanny, of a more mealy-mouthed generation, protested at any such idea. “Alethea has been very strictly raised, she knows just how she must behave, she would let neither Mr. Youdall nor any other man go beyond the line of what is acceptable.”

“Strictly raised, indeed, but all of that can fly out of the window in the case of a young woman with strong feelings. You heed my words, Lady Fanny, and see to it that the nuptial knot is tied before mischief is done.”

Alethea, whose hearing was acute, had overheard this conversation as she sat in the window embrasure of the gallery where the ladies were gathered for the hour before the men returned from shooting. Her cheeks blazed, from temper as much as embarrassment, and she had to suppress an urge to tell the dowager to keep her unwanted opinions to herself.

There was a wildness in Penrose that evening, a recklessness that made her catch her breath and feel a glow. When he stole a kiss by lingering in the shadows as the company gathered to say their goodbyes, he surprised her by the hard urgency of his lips. His voice was rough as he whispered in her ear, “Alethea, my love, my only love.”

That night, he stole into her room. Only Figgins, her maid, saw him come and go, and she, although uneasy, knowing as she did what men were, and what trouble they could cause, also knew how to keep her mouth shut.

For Alethea, there was no unease, no uncertainty. Nor any maidenly hesitation or modesty. Her feelings for Penrose were too strong and it was with rapture mingled with curiosity that she sank into his embrace, secure in his love and with only a moment's concern about anticipating their wedding night. What could it matter? They would be married very soon, and this passionate coming together was the seal of their love. There might have been some awkwardness of coming to what the country folk called the right true end of love, but not with Penrose, not with the passion he aroused in her.

“Like music,” she said drowsily to Penrose as he slipped out of her bed when the light of dawn began to trickle round the shutters at the window of her chamber.

The dowager gave her a very sharp look when the ladies met for nuncheon and pursed her lips in an irritatingly knowing way. Alethea raised her chin and refused to look at her. What did all these dull women know about love, had any of them ever found the perfect delight and rapture that she had experienced in the intimacy of her night with Penrose? She was very sure they had not.

Another night, another day with no proposal. Indeed, she saw much less of Penrose than she had expected. A loud woman, one Mrs. Gray, the mother of the little brown girl with the bosom, claimed his attention. Instead, she spent time with Norris Napier, who found her out in the music room and charmed away the afternoon by playing for her to sing and joining her in some
duetti
that they found lying on the pianoforte. There was an old harpsichord in there as well, and he tuned it so that they might amuse themselves with some of the airs of an earlier age.

The mere thought of Penrose was enough to keep Alethea happy, and so she was well able to enjoy the complex music and take pleasure, of a different kind, in another man's company.

Which earned her a smilingly spiteful remark from Diana Gray, who fixed her large brown eyes on Alethea and Napier as they played to the company after dinner.

“You've certainly made a conquest,” she said afterwards as she and Alethea stood together at the tea table. “He is rich, Mr. Napier, and on the look-out for a wife, they say.”

“I am not on the look-out for a husband, however,” Alethea flashed back.

Miss Gray raised her eyebrows. She had a smug look about her this evening, a cat-that-had-licked-
up-the-cream expression on her rather uninspiring countenance.

“Perhaps that is as well,” she said enigmatically, and went off to join her mother, who still had Penrose pinned to her side.

The next day was to bring the break-up of the party. Alethea rose late, after a night alone; Penrose had no doubt stayed up late playing cards and had not liked to disturb her in the early hours. She came yawning into the morning parlour, where the dowager sat in solitary state amid a majestic collection of silver pots and jugs, drinking her coffee.

“You are late up, Miss Alethea,” she said. “Several of the guests have departed and you have missed the excitement of the news of an engagement.”

Alethea stretched out her hand for an apple. She was not especially interested in the gossipy goings-on of her world. “An engagement?”

“Yes, for Mr. Penrose Youdall is to marry Miss Gray.”

The dowager watched as the colour fled from Alethea's cheeks and she dropped the apple with a little thud on to the table.

It couldn't be true. This malicious woman was playing a joke on her. Penrose and Diana Gray?

“Their mothers have arranged the match, of course. There is land to be considered, the two estates border one another, and she is her father's only child; it will be a substantial inheritance apart from her fortune, which is eighty thousand pounds.”

The dowager's vulture eyes were on her face, but try as she might, Alethea couldn't keep a calm countenance. It was impossible. Penrose was in love with her, not with Miss Gray.

“I don't believe it, you are mistaken, ma'am.”

“No, child, I'm not mistaken. It is you who has been mistaken, and so I warned Lady Fanny, she should have taken better care of you. I'm doing you a kindness to tell you this in private, to allow you to comport yourself in a proper way and to take your leave without anyone suspecting your heart is broken. As I dare say it is. However, hearts mend, let me tell you. The poets say women only fall in love once, and after that it is mere repetition and habit. I wouldn't know how it is with you young creatures, so full of romantic notions and sensibility as you are. I can assure you that you will recover, and marry some excellent man, and also that Penrose Youdall, whom I have known from his cradle, is no proper match for you; he is not up to your weight.”

A cry of protest broke from Alethea's lips before she could prevent it.

“Keep such histrionics to yourself, is my advice. You aren't the first young lady to find yourself in such a predicament, and you most assuredly won't be the last. If you don't wish to be an object of pity and conjecture as well as gossip, for that can't be avoided, then you must show a serene and indifferent face to the world. I don't say Penrose isn't in love with you,” she added with a touch of what might even have been kindness in her voice. “However, he is not a strong character, and his mama has long been plotting for him to marry Miss Gray. You may have won his heart, but she has his hand and will have the wedding ring on her finger; there is nothing to be done or said about that.”

The dowager departed in a rustle of silk skirts. Alethea sat alone in the parlour, her nerves frozen, unable to think or feel or do anything. The shock was so great that she could hardly breathe; she was winded by this news.

Thoughts began to dart through her mind. It was false. The dreadful old woman had made it up, to make her betray herself. Then recollections crowded in upon her; Penrose's odd behaviour these last few days, the smug cattiness of Diana Gray, the hostility Mrs. Youdall had always shown towards her.