The Moon by Night (53 page)

Victoria was sitting at Cheney's dressing table having her hair done when she saw the clock. “My goodness, Cheney, it's five-thirty, and Jauncy or Sketes hasn't called you once! How in the world are you managing this party without the usual last-minute panic?”

“I would imagine there is plenty of panic downstairs,” Cheney answered, pulling on her stockings. “But I have not had to do one single thing. My wonderful husband has done it all—with Sketes and Jauncy, of course.”

“Everything?” Victoria asked, astounded.

“From invitations to menu,” Cheney answered. “Shiloh engaged the musicians; he planned the dinner and the midnight buffet; he's done it all. That is, I think he has. Fiona, have you been working madly behind the scenes?”

“No, ma'am,” she answered. “I helped Sketes prepare some of the things ahead of time for the cooking, and I helped Jauncy polish the silver. But they, and Mr. Irons-Winslow, of course, seem to have it all very well planned. I did offer to do the centerpiece for the table, but that was easy once
Locke's Day Dream
brought in all those gorgeous poinsettias.”

The ship had returned from its West Indies run two days previously. Along with the paying cargo, Shiloh had ordered one hundred potted poinsettias from a plantation in Trinidad that grew the colorful plants like weeds and had sold them to Shiloh for a pittance. He also had ordered Captain Starnes to bring back all the fresh fruit he could find. The town house and Duvall Court were overrun with gorgeous poinsettias, plums, grapes, mangos, and papayas.

“Wait until you see the table, Victoria. It's breathtaking. Fiona did poinsettias, grapes, and white roses down the entire length. It's pure artistry.”

“Thank you, Miss Cheney,” Fiona said, blushing with pleasure.

Victoria grumbled, “I cannot believe you are having a party of twelve and you're sitting here eating cookies and taking hours getting dressed. And you'll probably have the entire evening go off beautifully, with only one husband and two servants. I have a staff of thirty-two servants, and when I give a dinner party, I work myself into a tizzy for three days beforehand. There is something missing in this scene, is there not?”

“You can't have my servants, Victoria,” Cheney warned. “Fiona, I know that as soon as my back is turned she will try to steal you. It will break my heart if she does.”

“Oh, Miss Cheney, you do tease,” Fiona scoffed.

“I would never try to steal your servants, Cheney,” Victoria said innocently. “I would try to bribe them. Anyway, Cheney, dear, I did understand you to say there would be twelve tonight? And has Mr. Bain Winslow responded?”

Fiona's eyes widened, and her hand faltered just a moment, dropping one of Victoria's silvery curls, but she quickly recovered, pinning it back into place. Her cheeks flushed a delicate rose.

Cheney didn't notice. “Oh, I suppose you might call it that. He came in on
Locke's Day Dream,
checked right into the Fifth Avenue Hotel, and sent a note by messenger notifying Shiloh where he was staying. He ended the note by saying, ‘I will see you Monday night.' Shiloh's been wearing himself out trying to decide whether to go call on him there or just to wait. I think he dithered so much he just exhausted himself and decided to wait. So I hope Bain will be here, for Shiloh's sake.”

Fiona finished Victoria's hair and sat Solange down to fix her thin blond hair. But Fiona truly was a miracle worker, and with the skillful use of a curling iron and a tiny bit of lilac-scented hair dressing, she soon had a pretty curly coiffure. Fiona was gathering up the hairdressing articles when Cheney suddenly asked, “Fiona, if you're not helping Sketes or Jauncy, what are you planning to do tonight? You are going to be here for the party, are you not?”

“Well, Miss Cheney, I did think I would ask about the children's care,” she said hesitantly. “I know Laura Blue is going to be here, and I was wondering, Mrs. Buchanan, about Dart and Lisette.”

“Oh, of course they're coming, and Mrs. Barentine is coming and bringing her own son, Alex, who is two years old. He and Dart are practically being brought up as brothers. But still, I'm sure that Mrs. Barentine would love for you to help her if you wish.”

“I would like that, ma'am.”

“Wait just a minute, young lady,” Cheney said. “If you're coming to the party, you must have a dress too. No, Fiona, you will not fade into a corner in dreary gray wool and apron. It's a party! Now let me see, what can I—”

“Actually, Miss Cheney, Sketes and I did just finish a dress for me,” she said eagerly. “It's for church, really, but I think I would like to wear it tonight if you wouldn't mind.”

“Let's see it,” Victoria said sternly. “And then we will dress ourselves while you do your own hair, Fiona. Certainly you deserve it!”

It was a red velveteen dress with demure white lace trim. Cheney contributed some white satin ribbon roses for a corsage at her wasp-thin waist, and Victoria very skillfully applied a light rice powder, a translucent pink rouge blush, and slight smudges of dark pencil at the outer corners of Fiona's eyes. She was a pretty girl, with a very fair complexion, dark brown eyes, and a modest Madonna face. The very slight highlighting of the cosmetics brightened her face considerably.

“Oh my, are you sure—” Fiona breathed, shocked, when she looked in the mirror.

“Yes, it enhances your lovely doe eyes,” Victoria said firmly.

“Yes, it gives you a completely natural pink blush,” Cheney said.

“Yes,” Solange said thoughtfully, “now you don't look like a sparrow either.”

****

By seven-twenty Cheney and Shiloh had eleven dinner guests gathered in the front parlor, talking, admiring the children and dogs, and drinking green China tea from tiny cups with no handles. “The Winslows' servants in Hawaii are all Chinese,” Cheney explained to Allan and Jane Anne Blue, Dr. Lawana White, Cleve Batson, and Minerva Wilcott. “They often drink a tiny cup of tea in the middle of the afternoon as a refresher. Shiloh and I both like China tea, and we've found that it warms you wonderfully when you come in from the cold.”

Across the room Shiloh was telling a funny story about Sean and Shannon to Richard and Irene and Dev and Victoria. He caught Cheney's eye, however, and a current of understanding passed between them.

I'm sorry about Bain.

I'm sorry too, but I'm not upset
…

“Jane Anne, I must say that Laura looks wonderful. Has she gained some weight?” Cheney asked.

“Yes, she has,” Jane Anne answered, “and I believe it's that wonderful Nestlé's Infant Milk Food. It's the first food she's ever seemed to like and hasn't eaten it for just two days and then rejected it indignantly….”

Richard was saying, “I never thought that Cheney would be so attached to dogs. Somehow I thought that if she had a pet at all, it would be a very beautiful, snobbish, standoffish cat.”

“I like cats,” Shiloh said, “and the doc—Would you excuse me, please?” He jumped up and hurried to the door. He hadn't heard a knock because the room was noisy, but out of the corner of his eye he had seen Jauncy pass by the parlor door and had felt the draft of cold air from the entryway.

He almost caught himself running toward the vestibule, slowed himself down to a decorous walk, rounded the corner, and almost sent Jauncy flying as the man stepped back from the open door.

Bain stood there.

Shiloh stared at him. Bain stared back.

He's gained some weight,
Shiloh thought.
He looks taller and stronger. He's tanned. His hair has those sun-blond streaks…. He doesn't look at all like he used to when he was such a night crawler—

“Locke, it is freezing out here, and I hate the cold,” Bain said in his cultured British voice. “Shall I produce my invitation?”

“Huh? Oh no. 'Course not, Bain. Come in,” Shiloh said hastily. “Here, let me take—I mean, Jauncy will take your coat.”

Bain shed his coat, hat, scarf, gloves, and walking stick. He was wearing the requisite black suit; Bain was always exquisitely tailored. He looked healthy, vigorous, as if he were growing younger instead of older.

Shiloh reached out his hand, and after a moment's hesitation Bain took it. Shiloh shook hands, hard. “I thought you weren't coming,” he said.

“Provincial Americans. I'm fashionably late, Locke. I did tell you I'd see you.”

“I know. I just—I'm just glad you're here. I'm glad to see you,” Shiloh said with such warmth and honesty that Bain looked disconcerted for a moment.

Cheney came up, smiling, and held out both her hands. Bain was a sophisticated, cultured man, and that was the sole reason he was able to greet her with equanimity. He took her hands, and Cheney, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, leaned up and lightly kissed him on his cheek. “Cousin, I'm so happy you have come. Please come with me. I want to introduce you.” She threaded her arm through his and led him into the parlor. She first introduced him to her parents, and as she knew they would, Richard and Irene treated him with kindness and respect. Her parents and Victoria and Dev knew about Bain's past, but the other guests did not. But from the sincere warmth of everyone's greetings, Bain might never have done the terrible things he had.

Cheney had barely finished introducing him when Jauncy appeared at the dining room door. “Dinner is served, madam,” he said in the reverent tones used by the most uppity British butlers.

Fiona, sitting with Mrs. Barentine on a settee by the front windows minding the children, watched Bain's every move, her dark eyes brilliant, her mouth tense. Solange crawled up in her lap and began talking to her, but Fiona answered absently. Once Bain glanced her way, and the light of recognition on his face made Fiona's heart pound so hard that it almost hurt. He made his greetings to everyone and seemed to be starting to come toward her when Jauncy made his announcement and Cheney took Bain's arm again to usher him into the dining room.

“Now, who exactly is that lovely young man?” Mrs. Barentine asked. “He looks like he's been out in the sun, someplace warm and nice.”

“So he has,” Fiona murmured. “His name is Bain Winslow. He's Mr. Irons-Winslow's first cousin. He lives on an island in the West Indies.”

Mrs. Barentine, who was a simple woman but was not deaf and blind, asked politely, “And do you know him well?”

“No, of course not,” Fiona said quickly, her cheeks blushing scarlet. “I mean, I-I was with Mr. Shiloh and Miss Cheney on their honeymoon, and we—I—” She was so obviously in distress that Mrs. Barentine, who at twenty years old was only one year older than Fiona but seemed to be much wiser, said, “It's all right, Miss Fiona, I understand. It's hard, isn't it? It never works out, you know. Them and us.”

Fiona dropped her head and murmured, “It's worked out very well with Mr. Shiloh and Miss Cheney.”

“Yes,” she agreed readily, “and that makes a total of one couple I've ever seen or heard of, and my family's been in service for three generations now. But still,” she went on cheerfully, “times are changing. And he did look at you with particular interest, I noted.”

Fiona's head snapped up. “Did you?”

Gently she said, “I did, Fiona. And though we haven't been together to be very close friends, I do like you. All I'll say is please try not to get hurt. Just that. Try very hard not to get yourself hurt.”

Too late,
a sad faint voice echoed in Fiona's head. But all she said was, “Of course not. We just knew each other in a very difficult time. I'm sure he's forgotten most of it. And so will I, I expect.”

In the dining room the dinner was going marvelously well. Shiloh was at the head of the table, with Cheney at the foot. After long consultation with Jauncy, Shiloh had agreed to having Irene at his right hand and Bain seated beside her, with Victoria on his other side.

“Considering the type of gentleman he is, sir, as you have described him, it is perfectly obvious that only Mrs. Duvall and Mrs. Buchanan would be suitable dinner partners for him. Surely you couldn't expect the other lovely young persons—Dr. White, Miss Wilcott, or Mrs. Blue to…to—”

“Box him in and keep him in his place?” Shiloh suggested dryly.

“I was about to say provide the kind of mature conversation that a man of the world such as your cousin is sure to enjoy,” Jauncy said prissily. “The seating arrangements for a dinner are of such paramount importance that these considerations must be weighed very carefully.”

“Jauncy, we've been talking about this for over an hour,” Shiloh said with exasperation. “Why don't I just take twelve playing cards, shuffle 'em, and deal?”

Jauncy sniffed. “An American joke, yes. Now, sir, for Mrs. Buchanan's other partner, I believe Dr. Batson…”

Shiloh was curious to hear the conversation between his mother-in-law and Bain, but as head of the table, he had obligations other than eavesdropping on two of his guests. One part of him was extremely happy that his cousin had made this gesture of conciliation—the first sign Bain had ever made that he might rejoin the Winslow family. Another part of Shiloh cringed as he wondered if his wild cousin might suddenly stand up, brandish the elaborate Boutet dueling pistols he and Cheney had given him, and shout, “Your money or your life! All jewels, cash, and coins on the table now, and let the women beware!”

As if Bain were reading his mind, Shiloh saw Bain watching him with a familiar expression of cool amusement on his face. “I was just telling Mrs. Duvall, Locke, about the gift that you and Mrs. Winslow so kindly gave me when last we were together. I don't believe I ever thanked you properly for the Boutet pistols.”

Shiloh was so discomfited by Bain's apparent mind reading that he just stared at him dumbly. Irene Duvall smoothly intervened. “Oh, so they are by Boutet? Such an interesting man, Boutet. He was Napoleon's armorer, which was undoubtedly a position for a dedicated warmonger, but yet he was such an artisan, one may almost say an artist, in his creations of personal armaments.”