Toblethorpe Manor (12 page)

“That would be most suitable, my dear. Richard, do you come?”

Richard was once more gazing moodily out of the window. “No, mama,” he said impatiently, “unless you particularly need my escort. I detest such affairs. I am engaged to dine with Tony and Sir Andrew Gibbons.”

“Very well, dear. I hope you will join us for Her Grace of Devonshire’s musicale tomorrow?”

“I would not miss it for the world. I hear she has engaged an entire orchestra to play some symphonies, instead of the usual caterwauling soprano or amateur hopefuls.” Richard was roused to enthusiasm. Lord Denham had spoken truer than he guessed when he suspected his friend’s chief enjoyment in London was the music.

“Yes, I believe they will play something by this Viennese, Beethoven is it not? Maria Allenby’s cousin was in Austria in 1802 and was most impressed by him. I wonder if we could find some music of his for the pianoforte that Lucy could play. She has been neglecting her practice shamefully since we left home.”

“Oh, do, mama. I should like something new to play. The waltz is from Vienna, is it not? Perhaps Monsieur Beethoven has written some waltzes.”

“Herr Beethoven, chucklehead. Indeed, I believe it is Herr van Beethoven. I am off now, mama. Enjoy your party, Lucy, if I do not see you before.”

The ladies went to change for their round of visits. In spite of the rain the streets were full of carriages, and they were far from being the only ones visiting either Aunt Blanche or Lady Cowper. While Lucy chattered with several young people at the latter’s house, Lady Annabel, mindful of Richard’s words, tried tactfully to find out something about Major Bowen.

“A dashing young man, is he not?” observed Lady Cowper. “I know little about him. I believe Sally Jersey gave him vouchers for Almack’s. She had ever a soft heart for a soldier, and Harry Graham introduced him. I suppose he is unexceptionable. He certainly seems a gentleman, though one never knows these days.”

Lady Annabel decided Richard would have to pump Lord Harry if he wanted any further information.

The dress party that evening was a great success, honoured by the description “a shocking squeeze,” than which no higher praise could be given. Lucy was lovely in a gown of the palest pink, relieved by knots of cherry ribbon. Her hand was solicited for every dance.

Lord Denham turned up in the middle of the evening, saying he would never forgive Richard for expecting him to play cards all night when there was an opportunity to waltz with his sister. He was very merry, and Lucy suspected he must be a little “on the go.” When he found out that Lucy was engaged for all the waltzes, he waxed very indignant and threatened to call out all her partners.

Lucy, giggling, offered to console him with a country dance, which he accepted with the proviso that they should sit it out.

“Not too steady on m’feet, y’know,” he confided. “Wouldn’t have drunk all that brandy if Richard had come clean a bit earlier. ‘Sides, wanna talk to you.”

When his turn came, he flirted outrageously with her. The alcohol did not seem to impaired his wit, and he kept her in fits of laughter for half an hour. Several people noticed them, and a rumour began to circulate that Lord Denham was dangling after Miss Carstairs.

“A chit just out of the schoolroom,” whispered envious mamas of hopeful daughters. “Much too young to marry. And he one of the most eligible bachelors. He never was in the petticoat line before. Maybe he has just decided to hang out for a wife. It might be worth…”

Lord Denham was indeed hanging out for a wife; but only one wife would suit him, and the lures cast his way went unheeded. He found himself uncharacteristically uncertain of the best course of action. Had he followed his heart, he would have asked for Lucy’s hand immediately. Though he could not doubt that her family would welcome him as a suitor, he was less certain of Lucy’s feelings. He rather thought she regarded him as an elder brother, and was at a loss how to act to dispel that image. He wished he had exerted himself more in the past in the pursuit of young ladies, and felt himself sadly in need of practice. In any case, he decided, it would be unfair to propose when she was so lately come to town. She should have a chance to meet more people before she had to choose.

So he postponed the matter, exerted himself to make her laugh, and took her to Gunther’s the next morning for an ice.

“Though why anyone should wish to eat ices in this weather is beyond me,” he frankly admitted to Richard.

Saturday evening came at last, and Lady Exeter’s ball. It was to be Lucy’s first grand private ball, and she told herself that was why she felt so fluttery. After all, she thought, if he cared for her he would have found a way to see her. Three whole days! Well, she admitted, two and a half, and he said he would be very busy.
Don’t be bacon-brained,
she scolded herself vulgarly,
you have known him only a week. He has forgotten you by now.

She could not decide which gown to wear. No fewer than three nosegays had arrived, two yellow and one pink. One was primroses from Lord Denham, with a clever message involving “Wednesday,” “waltz” and “charming.”

“I cannot wear my pink dress again so soon,” she said crossly to her abigail, “and I do not feel like either of the yellow ones. How silly people are, thinking one must forever wear the same colors.”

There was a knock at the door. Molly went to it, and returned with yet another bouquet.

“Ooh, look, Miss Lucy,” she cried. “This ‘un’s purple. How’d anyone find violets this early?”

Lucy took the flowers and slowly opened the accompanying card, heart in mouth. Then suddenly she was all gaiety.

“Molly, I shall wear the lilac taffeta with the cream silk underdress. Hurry, I shall be late.”

Lucy danced on air that night. The first thing she saw when they arrived at Exeter House was a tan face with startlingly blue eyes that filled with joy as they noted her bouquet. So great was the press of bodies that she could not come near the major for some time, and then only to exchange a hurried word.

“I missed you,” she said simply.

“You are wearing my flowers.” His look was full of gratitude.

Partner after partner came up to claim her. She danced in a dream, unaware of whose hand held hers, answering at random. At last came the waltz she had saved for him, and he appeared at her side.

Major Bowen’s dancing could not be compared with Lord Denham’s elegant precision. He was a soldier, and India had held little opportunity for balls and routs. But Lucy noticed only the strong arm supporting her, the blue eyes looking down so warmly into hers.

Due to her careful planning, their waltz was followed immediately by the supper dance. They were joined at their table by a gay group, and Lucy talked and laughed with the rest, yet she could not afterward have named one of them, and Lady Exeter’s chef would have been shockingly insulted had he known how little interest she had in the delicacies the major set before her. That is not to say that she did not eat. It would have taken more than love to destroy Lucy’s appetite after three hours of dancing. But she did not notice whether she was consuming lobster patties or
crème aux fraises
, strawberries smuggled in from Spain at vast expense, and her favorite dessert. The only thing she was conscious of was that he held her hand under the table. As for him, he quite forgot to eat.

At last she saw her next partner bearing down on her. “Shall I see you tomorrow?” she whispered.

He shook his head gravely, and winced at her puzzled look. “I must attend the Chapel Royal,” he explained, “and then I am to see His Majesty to describe the fighting in India. And on Monday I expect to be all day with my lawyer. I have not yet had time to begin on my private business, and it cannot in conscience be put off longer. Are you engaged Monday night?”

“We go to the play,” she pouted.

“I shall try to be there. In any case, I will call on Tuesday morning. Will you walk with me if it is fine?”

“Of course.” Lucy melted at his anxious look. “I shall try to understand that you are a busy man. I do not mean to tease.”

He kissed her hand. “Until Tuesday, then.” He bowed, unsmiling, to the Tulip who was waiting to lead her out, and left the ball.

Walking to his lodgings, he began to think seriously about selling out of the army. He tried to put out of his mind the thought that he could not ask Lucy to become a soldier’s wife. After all, perhaps she was merely flirting with him.

He dismissed that idea at once. Yet she was very young and he had every reason to suppose that he would not meet her family’s approval. From all he had heard, they were a very toplofty lot, and though he had sufficient fortune to support her in comfort, and a good-sized estate in Northumberland, they might well object to his birth. His mother had been a baronet’s daughter; but his paternal grandfather had worked for his fortune, and he knew all too well how the whiff of trade sent the
haut ton
scurrying.      

Thinking of his family, he wondered, not for the first time, why he had not had a reply from his Cousin Rosalind to the letter he had sent on his arrival in England, two weeks earlier. In India he had never been surprised by the dilatory, or even disappearing, mail. Surely in England in the nineteenth century he might expect better service. He was torn. Should he post up to Northumberland to assure himself that all was well? It would mean an absence upward of a week, and even if Lucy would forgive him, he doubted that the Minister for War would do so. He decided to wait. For all he knew, the county might be under six feet of snow.

His thoughts returned to Lucy, and he prayed that it might be fine on Tuesday.

It rained all day Sunday and it rained all day Monday. Richard nearly put off his intended departure for Yorkshire, but filled with an impatience he could not explain he held to his original plan to leave on Tuesday.

“I told Aunt Florence I should arrive on Wednesday,” he told his mother. “I do not dare be late.”

“What a bubble! Richard, can you really make it in two days? You will have the travelling carriage, you know, not your light chaise.”

“The new carriage is to be delivered today. I am sure it will be much faster than the old. I shall leave early, and the evenings are lighter now, so I can travel longer. Do not fret, mama.”

“You will not expect Miss Fell to make the journey at such a speed!”

“What do you take me for, mama, a slave driver? We shall spend Sunday at Arnden and from there make three easy stages. You may look for us early on the first Wednesday in April.”

Richard bade Lady Annabel and Lucy farewell that night after the theatre. Willett woke him at dawn the next day, and in the early light he could see that the skies had miraculously cleared. Thinking of the new team he had purchased in honour of the new coach, prime cattle if he knew his horses, he was sure he would have no trouble in reaching Toblethorpe the following day. He set off as the sun rose, whistling merrily in an ungentlemanlike way that had servant girls, busy scrubbing steps, gaping at him in surprise.

Lucy was no less pleased to see the sun. She put on her walking dress immediately, making her mother protest at her appearance at breakfast.

“I beg your pardon, mama. I know I should have worn a morning gown, but I get so tired of changing clothes all the time. I am to go walking early, you see.” She hoped the major would arrive before the inevitable stream of visitors who turned up rain or shine.

After breakfast, she sat down at the pianoforte. She found herself quite unable to concentrate on Herr van Beethoven’s sonata. In a very few minutes the knocker was heard, and she listened with bated breath as the firm tread ascended the stair.

“Major Bowen, my lady,” announced Bell.

For the next week, Lucy’s busy life became hectic. The major was occupied every morning but was with her every afternoon for as long as Lady Annabel would spare her. Lord Denham, roused from his comfortable lethargy by the appearance of a rival, danced attendance on her every moment that she was not otherwise engaged. It was rumoured that Lord Alvanley, wagering odds on the Carstairs chit being married before the Season’s end, had found no takers. He was also willing to sport his blunt on Lord Denham being the lucky man, and there he found one or two gentlemen willing to take him on. However, the general opinion was with him.

“Devil take it,” he said, “you can’t expect her to turn down a title and fortune for some unknown redcoat, even if she does make sheep’s eyes at him. My lord had best watch out though, once he’s tied the knot. She’s a lively one!”

Word of the wagers came to Lord Denham’s ear and encouraged him. Alvanley’s devilish lucky, he thought, and he thinks I’ll win Lucy. Yet, he ‘had his misgivings. He resolved to ask Richard’s permission to address her as soon as his friend returned from the wilds.

Major Bowen was not a member of White’s, and the rumours did not reach him. They would hardly have disturbed his bliss in any case. Lucy had confessed, on that memorable if muddy Tuesday, that she held him in high regard. Unable to restrain himself, he had avowed his love. She had reciprocated, and they had plighted their troth with a chaste kiss, while Molly tactfully flirted with an errant groom. Afterward he felt, guiltily, that he had taken advantage of her innocence. He knew he should have spoken to her brother first. However, Lucy seemed to have no qualms, so he cast his doubts to the winds and rejoiced in every sweet moment he could spend with her. He went about his morning duties walking on air, and sadly neglected his lawyer, who called on him several times, always finding him from home.

The weather changed abruptly the day before Richard’s return. Overnight, yellowish clouds and an icy wind replaced blue skies and gentle breezes. Lucy and the major, now “Charles” in private, spent a shivering half-hour walking briskly in the park. It began to snow, so they gave up and returned to Cavendish Square. Lucy loved snow in the country, but in London it was grey before it landed and dirty brown five minutes later.

“Ugh!” she exclaimed. “You wouldn’t think it was the same stuff.

“Charles,” she went on seriously, “pray do not speak to Richard for a few days. He is so starchy sometimes, though he is the dearest of brothers, and he will be tired from travelling. Besides, I want to prepare him first.”