The Phantom Lover (29 page)

“I don't know, although Nell once suggested …” Roddy stopped himself awkwardly.

“What did she suggest?” Harry asked hopefully.

Roddy shook his head in self-disgust. “Nothing, really. I should not have mentioned it.”

“But you did. Go on, please.”

“She only said that gentlemen cry off all the time.”

“Did she say that? How odd! I've never heard of such things.”

“So I said to her. But she would only say that one does not hear of a gentleman crying off because it is made to look as if the
lady
had done it.”

“Ridiculous! The only way
that
can be done is by mutual consent, when
both
parties wish to terminate the betrothal. However, I suppose a gentleman could
encourage
a lady to … to …” and his voice trailed off as his eyes seemed to light up with an idea.

“To
what
, Harry?” Roddy asked eagerly.

“Just let me think …”

As Roddy watched, Harry sat lost in thought, his eyes fixed on the key which he absently continued to swing from its chain in a shaft of sunlight streaming in from the window. After a while, Harry's lips curled in a tiny smile, and his eyes gleamed with amusement. “Have you thought of something?” Roddy inquired hopefully.

“Perhaps …” Harry said slowly, his smile broadening. “I think … yes, I
believe
something may be contrived …”

It was not long afterward that Lord Thorne began to stumble. At first it occurred only in public places, like the crowded stairway leading to the boxes at the King's Theater, when the cause might be laid to the carelessness of the passers-by. The incidents tended to be a bit embarrassing for Lord Thorne and his party, for the passers-by always showed a great deal of concern. Lord Thorne had to give repeated assurance that he was indeed quite all right, and people tended to gather and gawk. These little scenes were usually unremarkable, and Lord Thorne and his party were soon able to put them out of their minds.

But when he stumbled in a dining room or at a private party, the incidents tended to be more embarrassing. Edwina, who was usually at his side, would have to support him until he'd regained his balance. He would always apologize profusely, thus drawing more attention to the incident than Edwina thought necessary. Once, when he stumbled, and she bent quickly to support him, he inadvertently moved the tip of his cane on the hem of her skirt. When she straightened, the hem ripped away from the skirt, leaving a great gaping hole in the bottom of her dress. Although she was very gracious in her insistence that it was a mere nothing, it was plain that her evening had been somewhat spoiled.

After the third such incident in as many days, Edwina decided that it was necessary to speak to Henry about the matter. “I would rather die than have you believe these incidents disturb me in the
least,
” she told him earnestly. “It is only my apprehension for your safety that makes me speak of the matter at all. You see, you had not seemed to have this difficulty before. You always seemed to manage so perfectly, one was hardly aware … that is, I could not help but wonder if perhaps you are not well …”

“It's this inadequate cane,” Henry said bluntly. “It's damnably difficult to manage and always has been. It was only vanity that made me take to it. If I'd used my crutch, none of this would have happened.”

“Then you must return to the use of the crutch,” she urged. “It will not make a particle of difference to
me
, I assure you, and if it means that you will be more comfortable and safe, we must not let your vanity stand in the way.”

But as the days went by, she found that she
did
mind the crutch. It seemed to distort his body, raising one shoulder above the other rather markedly, and she found that she did not like to watch him crossing a room. She found herself becoming a bit self-conscious when she was with him. Evidently there were others similarly affected, for the number of their invitations dwindled. Edwina began to feel edgy and cross, and her mother remarked that her usual serenity seemed to be deserting her.

One afternoon, when they had been invited to tea at the Milbankes', matters came to a climax. The Milbankes were mere acquaintances, but Edwina hoped that a strong friendship between the two families would develop. Hester Milbanke boasted two Dukes in her immediate family, and one of them was to attend the tea. Invitations to intimate gatherings with royalty were not at all to be despised, and Edwina had looked forward to the occasion with unusual eagerness. She dressed with the greatest care—a lovely, cream-colored “round gown” of the finest Alençon lace, with small, puffed sleeves and a deep flounce at the bottom. She would have been quite pleased with Henry's appearance, too, were it not for the crutch, for he wore an excellently cut coat of gray superfine, a striped satin waistcoat of the most subtle greens, and a pair of Hessians whose shine was unmarred by the slightest smudge or smear. With his white-streaked hair and his imposing height, he could have been the most handsome man in the room if he'd not had to carry the dreadful crutch under his arm.

It was with a blessed sense of relief that she saw him lean the crutch against an unoccupied chair beside him when they took their places around the tea table. While seated, Henry was the most imposing gentleman in the room. The conversation was very pleasant, and Edwina noted with pride that Henry had made three witty remarks which had caused the Duke to laugh uproariously. When Hester Milbanke leaned over to Henry and engaged his complete attention for more than a quarter of an hour, Edwina felt more than satisfied with Henry, with herself and with the success of the afternoon. Everything was going so well. Suddenly Henry, laughing at a quip Hester had whispered in his ear, leaned back; his arm pressed against the upper part of the crutch, swinging the lower end up into the air. As it flew up, it struck the edge of the silver tea tray and caused it to overturn. The silver tea pot slid to the floor, spilling its contents as it fell. Edwina saw with horror a tea stain spreading down the front of her lovely gown. Cups and plates crashed to the floor with a horrid, smashing noise, splattering their contents over the clothing of everyone seated nearby. Edwina, her famous composure completely deserting her, screamed.

The Milbankes looked nonplussed for only a few seconds, but soon they laughed aside Lord Thorne's profuse apologies. The butler and two serving maids quickly swept away the debris. Another tray was hastily brought in, and a semblance of order was restored, but Edwina's color remained high and she was unable to say a single word. She sat unmoving, staring mutely at the shocking stain that marred the entire front of her dress, not even attempting to do her part to ease the tension in the room.

As soon as possible, Henry rose and offered her his arm. Stiffly, she acquiesced and the two bid their hosts good day. Mrs. Milbanke walked with them to the door, repeatedly assuring them that the accident had been a mere trifle and they were not to trouble themselves about it. Lord Thorne turned to thank her again, tripped on his crutch and fell flat on his face. Edwina, completely unnerved by this last horror, put her hand to her forehead and swooned.

To Edwina, the half-hour following had the atmosphere of a nightmare. Somehow they were helped into their carriage, somehow they arrived at her home, somehow she was led trembling to her bedroom. There, in the privacy of her room, and with only her mother and father to witness it, she gave way to the most hysterical outburst of her life.

In the library below, Henry waited to receive word of her condition. He had not expected his little plot to reap so dramatic a result. He paced the room guiltily, wondering if perhaps he'd gone too far. At last, Sir Edward and Lady Clara came in. “Sit down, my boy,” Sir Edward said nervously. “Do sit down.”

“I hope you are not going to tell me that Edwina is ill!” Henry said worriedly.

“Oh, no, not at all,” Lady Clara assured him. “She is merely a little overset. A mere nothing, but …”

“But?” Henry asked interestedly.

Lady Clara looked at her husband helplessly. “Don't look at
me,
” Sir Edward said testily. “I want nothing to do with this. Female foolishness, I call it. Makes a man ashamed he has a daughter.”

Lord Thorne looked from one to the other quizzically. “Is something wrong?”

Lady Clara, biting her underlip nervously, sat down on the sofa and tugged at Henry's arm. “Sit here beside me, Henry dear. I don't know quite how to tell you this …”

Henry obligingly sat beside her. She took his hand in both of hers. “Edwina is quite shaken by the events of this afternoon—” she began.

“As well she might be,” Henry said humbly.

“Nonsense, boy!” Sir Edward barked. “Can't think where these women get their frippery notions. No one with a grain of sense could blame you for—” He shook his head, unable to go on.

“What is it you're trying to tell me?” Henry asked encouragingly.

“Edwina feels—although I'm certain it's only a momentary feeling—that she cannot go on with … with …” Lady Clara colored, stammered and looked miserably at the floor.

“With our wedding plans?” Henry prompted.

Lady Clara nodded. “She's been such an indulged child,” she mumbled shamefacedly. “She always had everything just as she's wanted it—so easy, so perfect, so beautiful. She doesn't know how to cope with …”

“With imperfection,” Henry supplied.

Lady Clara, her eyes spilling over with tears, looked at him gratefully. “Yes, that's it. I s-so d-dislike to give you p-pain …”

Henry stood up. “Don't cry, Lady Clara. I quite understand. Please assure Edwina that I wish her every happiness—”

“Listen, my boy,” Sir Edward said affectionately, coming up to him and clapping him on the shoulder, “don't take this too badly. Chances are she'll come to her senses in a day or two. Bound to, you know. I've never before known the girl to behave so stupidly.”

“Thank you, sir, but Edwina is quite right. She deserves perfection. I've known from the first that I'm not good enough for her.”

He went quickly and unstumblingly to the door. Before he had closed it behind him, he heard Sir Edward mutter angrily, “Not good enough for her,
balderdash!
That fellow is
far
too good for your shatterbrained daughter, and so I intend to tell her before the day is out! The silly chit has tossed away her best chance!”

Chapter Twenty-one

S
PRING IN CORNWALL
can be a breathtaking surprise to someone who has seen it only in winter. Nell, who had fled to Thorndene to hide in her bedroom and weep, found herself drawn inexorably to the out-of-doors. At first it was a quality of the sunlight which drew her—it sparkled on the sea with glittering patches of gold which seemed to reflect themselves in the very air. She walked every morning along the cliffs, through air that seemed to glimmer with light. Merely to breathe was a joy. When her eyes became accustomed to the brightness of the sea-sparkled daylight, she began to notice how the landscape had lost its brooding, wintry grayness. Green seemed to be bursting forth everywhere. The woodlands along the estuary were vibrant with life. Dark-leaved rhododendrons of tremendous size had burst into blatantly brilliant bloom. Primroses and violets peeped out, waving their little flags of color in the breeze. She found her eyes drawn as often to the land as to the sea.

It was difficult to maintain her feeling of desolation in the midst of such joyous signs of rebirth and hope. Nature's annual miracle had a remarkably healing effect on her spirits, and she spent her days in almost cheerful tranquillity. She helped Mrs. Penloe and Gwinnys clean and freshen the rooms for the coming season. She set about, with the help of Will and Jemmy, to clear the gardens of their tangle of overgrowth and winter destruction. She rode the little mare along the path near the cliffs, with the spring breezes whipping her hair and brightening her cheeks. It was only late at night (when she couldn't control her thoughts) or during the cold evenings (when she sought the warmth of the kitchen fireplace and the company of the Penloes) that she permitted herself to think of Harry.

She had been welcomed by the Penloes with all the warmth that had been lacking when she'd arrived the first time. If they wondered at her pallor or her tendency to fall into pensive silences at unexpected times, they gave no sign of curiosity. But Mrs. Penloe was insatiable in her desire for news of “Master Harry,” and Nell's tales of his London successes and his impending marriage filled her with delight. Nell's account of his triumphant entrance on the night of the Mannings' rout-party pleased Mrs. Penloe so much that she asked to hear the details over and over. Repeatedly Nell was asked to describe what he wore, how he'd looked, the fine folk to whom he'd spoken, how he'd crossed the entrance hall, how he'd gone up the stairs, how Miss Manning had greeted him, and how he'd become as admired and sought-after as he deserved to be.

Nell enjoyed relating the stories as much as the Penloes enjoyed hearing them, but as the days passed and June came near, her awareness of the swift approach of Harry's wedding day gave her increasing pain. Some nights, when sleep was slow in coming, she would remember the night in London when she'd gone to his room and they had clung together in despair. “If only I could tell you—” he whispered. Tell her what? That he loved her? She had believed it to be true, for a while. But if it were true, how could he permit himself to drift into a marriage with Edwina Manning? Roddy had spoken of honor, but even a gentleman of honor could find a way to cry off if he truly wished to.

She had not had the temerity to suggest to him that he could, if he chose, find a way out of his predicament. But she
had
sent him the key. It had been a foolish, impulsive act which now made her writhe in anguish and shame. He had not doubt found in it more evidence that she was brazen and vulgar. He didn't really love her. Those words he'd whispered into her ear probably had some other significance. She had been here for almost a month, and he'd not followed. He had sent no message to inquire about her whereabouts or her safety. Her dreams that he would come riding to her rescue were nothing but childish imaginings. She tried to school herself to push them aside.