What Lucinda Learned (13 page)

She was in truth a little shocked to find Patience proposing that they make such an expedition without chaperons and without telling anyone. If it were Belle, now, she would be suspicious. But Patience? It was impossible to imagine her doing anything disreputable. It must be a matter of the greatest urgency to persuade her to act with such disregard for propriety.

She went thoughtfully to find Mrs. Cleeson, who was trying on a rather dashing bonnet with blue silk roses.

“Ah, there you are, Lucinda. Be sure you take a wide-brimmed hat with you, as you will be looking up into the sun. You must not get freckles—especially since your ball is less than a week away.”

Lucinda stared at her cousin. “Are we going out, then?”

“Gracious heaven, child!” Mrs. Cleeson secured the hat with a large, pearl-topped pin. “It was your idea entirely. For you know I saw Lunardi’s first flight when I was younger than you and I do not think anything could equal the excitement of that.”

“Oh! The balloon ascent!” Lucinda said listlessly.

“If you’ve changed your mind, we need not go.”

“No, we might as well do that as anything. I shall fetch my hat.”

As Lucinda trailed off, Mrs. Cleeson gazed, astonished, after her.

It was another beautiful day with bright sun in a cloudless blue sky. Ideal for ballooning, Mrs. Cleeson had said knowledgeably.

Lucinda forced herself to look interested. After all, Mrs. Cleeson was right. She had pestered her duenna to view the balloon ascent. But that, she thought, sighing, had been before her promise to Patience. Now, apprehension about the coming evening had spoiled her enjoyment of the outing.

They had almost reached Moorfields when the carriage lurched suddenly, throwing Lucinda and Mrs. Cleeson into each other. As they struggled to sort themselves out, the coach came to a stop, tilting rather precariously to one side.

John Coachman rushed to open one door. “How be you, ladies?”

“We are unhurt, but what has happened?” Mrs. Cleeson clung to a strap with one hand and tried to right her hat with the other.

“It’s the axle, mum, cracked or I’m a dutchman.”

“Cracked! That sounds serious.”

“So it be. We’ll have to get someone to help us to a wheelwright.”

Gingerly, Mrs. Cleeson leaned out of the open door and looked about. “Ah, we are within walking distance of the Artillery Grounds. Do you, coachman, do whatever you can. Miss Neville and I shall take a hackney back.”

With the help of the coachman, Lucinda and her cousin descended from the disabled coach. They began to walk towards the grounds of the Honourable Artillery Company.

Almost immediately Lucinda was aware of the countrified atmosphere, so different from that of the crowded city. The houses were farther apart, with carefully tended gardens. Laundresses were laying snowy washing on the open green and she actually saw one small boy leading a goat out to pasture.

At any other time, Lucinda’s spirits would have risen, but now she regarded these sights with a lacklustre eye.

“There will be rather a crowd,” Mrs. Cleeson observed. “Many of them on foot like ourselves.”

There was indeed a considerable number of persons, all of them gaily dressed and in a holiday mood, moving in the same direction.

Once inside the grounds, Lucinda and cousin Ethelreda found a place in the circle about the balloon. Lucinda stared at it.

A number of men milled about what looked like an enormous basket, tethered by ropes, and seemingly built on a kind of platform. From there, some odd-looking cylinders protruded. Two men seemed to be filling them with something.

“Hydrogen,” Mrs. Cleeson told her. “They must be very careful with it.”

But most intriguing of all was what appeared to be a creased bundle of red, white and blue silk lying behind the basket, but attached to it by long, bright yellow cords.

“It will be very beautiful when inflated,” Ethelreda said. “The silk is oiled, you know.” She smiled reminiscently. “How I remember how we cheered when Lunardi lifted off. And what a handsome young man he was. I vow I dreamed about him for days afterwards.”

Lucinda didn’t think anyone would be dreaming about the present balloonist. He was a plump little man, with gold-rimmed spectacles. He was striding up and down in front of the balloon, pausing to confer with one of the workmen or to nod self-importantly at one of the crowd.

There seemed to be a hiatus in the preparations, so Lucinda took a closer look at the crowd. She saw a few slight acquaintances, but not many members of the haut ton.

“Ballooning has become quite an everyday thing now,” said Ethelreda, who was also scanning the crowd, “so people have rather tended to become blasé about it.” She waved her fan gently, then suddenly snapped it shut. “There! Was that not Belle’s maid—Mabel, is it not?”

Lucinda followed her gesture. But the crowd, restless at the delay, was constantly shifting. “I can see nothing of her, cousin.”

“I suppose there is no reason why Mabel should not attend an entertainment. Belle must have given her a holiday.”

Lucinda nodded, but she kept her eyes on the same spot. Mabel might be on holiday, but then again...

“Look! They are going to ignite the fuel.”

The crowd shifted in anticipation, and just for a second, Lucinda saw Belle. She was laughing, her head tilted flirtatiously towards the unmistakable figure of Miles Stratton. Stratton bent to speak to her and they were hidden from Lucinda again.

There was a sudden sharp bang and when she looked at the balloon again, the silk had begun to rise. Slowly it unfolded itself, stretched into a great curve and hung above the basket. Lucinda saw that it, too, was now floating, held to earth only by four thick ropes.

The plump gentleman stood in the gondola, his pocket watch in his hand, the other raised. The hand fell; there was a shout, the crack of a pistol and four men sprang forward and cut the cords.

The crowd shouted wildly and many waved their hats. The balloon rose straight in the air. For a moment it hung there like some great, brilliantly coloured bird. Then it took the air currents and began to move more quickly, climbing higher in an easterly direction.

For a moment, Lucinda’s heart rose with it. Then her troubles came rushing back upon her. She sighed and turned to her cousin.

“So lovely,” murmured Mrs. Cleeson, still gazing after the rapidly diminishing balloon. “I declare it quite makes one want to venture up oneself.”

“I completely agree with you, Mrs. Cleeson. But what says Miss Neville?”

Lucinda swung round and found herself staring at Beau Devereux. She dropped her eyes in immediate confusion.

“Well, Miss Neville?” he repeated in a rallying tone. “Do you share your cousin’s ambition to be a balloonist?”

Lucinda peeped up at him under her long lashes. Well, if he could greet her in such a manner after their last encounter, then she, too, could master her feelings. She lifted her chin. “Why, yes, sir,” she said with admirable composure, “I believe I should like to essay such a mode of travel.”

She glanced up at the now tiny black speck in the sky. A note of wistfulness entered her voice. “It must be wonderful to rise above the earth like that, to leave all one’s cares behind one...”

Dev looked quickly down at her, but before he could speak, cousin Ethelreda clasped a hand to her forehead.

“Speaking of cares—I had quite forgotten our coach problem. We must hurry if we are to get a hackney in this crowd.” She turned to Dev. “I wonder if I may trespass upon your kindness, Mr. Devereux. Our carriage sustained a breakdown on our journey here and I wonder if I might prevail upon you to call a cab for us.”

“I’ll do more than that,” he replied promptly. “I came in my own curricle and I should be more than pleased to drive you home.”

“Why, that would be most obliging in you. We shall be most grateful, shall we not, Lucinda?” Mrs. Cleeson nudged her charge encouragingly.

“Oh! Oh, yes! Of course! Most grateful,” Lucinda stuttered. But her heart sank at the thought of a long journey with that very disturbing gentleman.

Dev’s tiger had been looking after the horses at a nearby inn. When he saw Mr. Devereux, he handed him the ribbons with a cheery salute and hopped up onto a perch at the rear of the vehicle.

“Will you sit beside me while I drive, Miss Neville? These chestnuts are not the equal of our Castor and Pollux, but I think they have their points nonetheless.”

“Yes, do, Lucinda. I shall be glad to have some time to go over my lists again. What with the ball and other things, there seems so much to do these past few days.”

Giving her cousin a dark look, Lucinda reluctantly climbed up front.

For a while, Mr. Devereux was occupied in threading a way through the pedestrians and other vehicles. But when the traffic was moving smoothly he turned to Lucinda.

“So your ball is to be in three days, Miss Neville? You must be quite excited about that.”

“Yes,” said Lucinda hollowly. Then, feeling that this sounded rather bald, she added, “Very.”

Dev gave his attention to the road again. There was silence. As though he had just made up his mind, he said suddenly “Miss Neville, I have been wanting an opportunity to speak with you since—”

“Oh, hush, sir! I pray you, hush!” She cast an agonized glance behind her, but Mrs. Cleeson was murmuring happily over her lists.

“That brooch—I must explain to you—”

“No! No!” Lucinda held up an arm as though to ward off a blow. She could not bear to hear Mr. Devereux declare his love for Chloris, to hear his voice soften with affection as he spoke of the love-token—the very token Chloris had so carelessly discarded. If his love was untrue, he would not hear it from her. “I beg you, sir,” she said in a choked voice, “to let it be. You owe me no explanation whatsoever. Pray believe that I have no desire to meddle in your private affairs. Let us say no more of this.”

Dev was silent for a few moments. Then his shoulders lifted slightly and he shook the reins. “As you wish, Miss Neville,” he said in a colourless voice. “Let us talk of the balloon ascent.”

“Are you—” Lucinda swallowed and with a great effort mastered her own tones “—are you much interested in such matters?”

“I was much interested in this one, for there were certain modifications in the balloon’s design that I wished to observe in action. If you noticed the hydrogen containers, you will have observed that they...”

Miserably, Lucinda listened as his voice ran on, explaining weights and wind drift and other such technical matters. The sun was at its afternoon height, but she felt cold.

She ran her hands over her bare arms and tried to concentrate on what he was saying. She made the appropriate responses, but ever afterwards she could not remember what she had said.

But at last the nightmarish journey ended. Richard handed down both his passengers, but refused Mrs. Cleeson’s offer of refreshment. He took his leave in a punctilious but utterly impersonal manner.

In a black cloud of despair, Lucinda followed her cousin into the house.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Once she was back
in Agincourt Circle, all Lucinda’s apprehensions about the evening flooded back. As a last resort, she found herself hoping rather chicken-heartedly that Mrs. Cleeson would throw a rub in their way by insisting that she carry out their evening engagements.

But when she had left off her hat, freshened her toilette and gone in search of her cousin, she found that good lady prostrate on her bed.

“Are you not well, cousin?” she asked in concern.

Mrs. Cleeson moaned and removed a cloth reeking of rose-water from her forehead. “I knew this would happen. Exactly the same thing came about when I went to see Lunardi.”

“You have the megrim, cousin Ethelreda?”

“From staring into the sun.” With a sigh, Mrs. Cleeson replaced the damp cloth.

Tentatively, Lucinda broached the subject dominating her thoughts. “If you shouldn’t mind too much, cousin, Lady Grantham must visit her aunt again and Patience has asked me to bear them company tonight...”

“What an excellent idea! Do go and visit Patience and Belle tonight. I don’t doubt Amelia is anxious to miss the rout. Mrs. Manley-Smythe’s parties are always a perfect crush. I own I shall also be glad to avoid this one.”

Lucinda said nothing, merely gazed ahead of her, her fingers twisting and untwisting in Ethelreda’s counterpane.

Mrs. Cleeson looked thoughtfully at her. “Is Will to be at home tonight?” she asked casually.

“No.” Lucinda’s mind was on the night’s excursion. “I believe not.”

“Ah.” Mrs. Cleeson nodded and thought to herself that his absence probably accounted for her charge’s mopes. She made an effort to speak cheerfully. “Gentlemen cannot be forever dangling after us, you know,” she said. “They have their own interests.”

Dispiritedly, Lucinda agreed, and left her cousin to the quiet of her darkened room. Time, however, marched relentlessly forward. Having dawdled as long as she dared over dinner, Lucinda went upstairs with a feeling of impending doom.

Mindful of Patience’s instructions, she chose a dark-coloured wrap with a hood. The Grantham coach called for her, and feeling rather as she imagined Marie Antoinette must have done when she entered the tumbril for the guillotine, Lucinda climbed I the steps. To her surprise she found Patience, similarly garbed, already inside.

“Are we going already, then?”

“I thought it would be best,” replied Patience in a rush, not meeting Lucinda’s eyes.

Out of respect for her friend’s privacy, Lucinda did not ask any further questions. But she couldn’t help thinking that Belle would have been a far more daring and courageous companion for such an adventure. She herself was increasingly uneasy, and she hoped desperately that they would not meet anyone they knew.

Last time she had come to Vauxhall, in a large and properly chaperoned party, they had arrived by Vauxhall Stairs and the river. But this time, they entered by the far less imposing land gate.

Hoods pulled forward and cloaks clutched tightly about them, the girls hurried forward. There were already a number of merry-makers present. The lights twinkled in the growing dark; the fountains played; music from the bandstands floated on the night air and laughter rose and fell around them.

But the girls paid no attention to Vauxhall’s many attractions. Lucinda was in fact cheered to see that Patience knew where she was going and was avoiding the brightly lit areas as much as possible. Dodging the crowd, they crossed to where the promenades and more secluded walks began.

It was quieter and darker there. Lucinda began to feel there was something to be said for the lights, after all. She looked longingly back, but Patience propelled her down one of the sidewalks.

“The second, yes, here we are.” She pulled Lucinda after her. “Ah, here it is.” She indicated a kind of archway cut out of the thick hedge that bordered the walk on both sides. There was a small wrought-iron bench in the alcove which had been so formed.

“Wait here, Lucinda,” Patience said abruptly and turned and fled.

“Patience! Wait, Patience!” But Miss Grantham had vanished into night and Lucinda was alone.

She fell back on the bench. Huddling closer to the corner, she pulled her wrap nearer and glanced nervously from side to side. Where had Patience gone? When would she be back? What would happen to her, all alone in this dreadful place?

She wished desperately she had never agreed to come at all. Even the most crowded rout would be preferable to this!

On the other side of the hedge, pressed back against the branches, Patience was wishing exactly the same thing. Anxiously, she peered along the path, Where was Belle? Surely it was time for Belle to make her appearance? Patience groped for her watch. Yes! Past time. How much longer must they wait? What was Belle
doing?

On the other side of the gardens, behind the Chinese Pavilion, Belle was experiencing unforeseen difficulties.

“Oh, miss,” exclaimed a rather frightened Mabel. “Perhaps you didn’t ought to wear the cloak. It’s so long, it does trip you up.”

Belle hitched the garment higher on her shoulders. “It’s not the cloak,” she complained. “It’s this mask. Either it slips down or, if I pull it tight, I can’t see properly.”

Mabel glanced fearfully about. There were few people here and the shadows lay thickly about them. “Maybe I should go with you, miss.”

“No, Mabel. I can’t go accosting young women with a maid in attendance. No, you stay here with my clothes. I shall need you to help me change. After all, I can’t go home dressed like this.”

Mabel looked unhappy and sniffed disconsolately.

“Just stay here, at the back of the Pavilion. No one will see you and I shall know exactly where to find you. Don’t worry, everything is going splendidly.”

Even Belle’s confidence, however, faltered a little when she found herself caught up in the press of people in front of the private boxes. The mask restricted her vision, especially on the side. The cloak hung heavily on her and displayed an aggravating tendency to catch her up. And the boots! They were the worst of all. To get anywhere, she had to adopt a most peculiar sliding shuffle. “Really,” muttered Belle to herself, “I can’t think how men manage at all!”

Most peculiar indeed
, thought Mr. Devereux as he stood by the classical ruins, watching the crowd. He was not at the moment referring to Belle’s gait. Rather he was considering the letter he had received that morning. His finger tapped against the pocket where he had stowed it.

Expensive notepaper ... illiterate spelling. Well-formed writing ... yet covered in blots. Unsigned ...yet delivered by a uniformed footman. If only the maid who received it had recognized the livery!

And the reference to Miss Neville: what could that mean and how could she require his help? Dev shook his head. There was a havy-cavy air to the whole business. He was probably making a prize cake of himself.

“At ten o’clock,” it had said. It must be getting close on ten now. The second promenade, wasn’t it, and the first alcove? Just as likely he’d find only a moon-struck couple there—and much they’d thank him for intruding!

Mr. Devereux eyed the lively crowd with disfavour. He’d never greatly cared for Vauxhall; not good ton, not at all.

“Good Lord, Dev! What on earth are you doing here? I thought you loathed the place.”

Dev swung round to greet Captain Rupert Brookefield, one of his closest friends. “Rupert! I thought you were in Belgium.”

“Just got back, my dear boy. Enjoying a long’s delayed and, may I say, well-deserved furlough. But I hear I am to wish you happy?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Don’t be coy, my boy. The fair Chloris. I hear she is soon to become Mrs. Devereux.”

“I congratulate you, Rupert. If you’ve just got back, you seem remarkably well informed on the latest gossip. But this particular on-dit is wrong. I am not going to marry Lady Chloris.”

“You’re not? If that don’t beat all! I bet Farquhar at White’s this morning that you’d be married before the Season’s out.”

Mr. Devereux regarded his friend, his smile carving his lips and warming his eyes. “Did you indeed? Well, don’t despair. You may yet win your wager.”

“Oho! Now what’s to—” Captain Brookefield broke off and raised his monocle. “Look at that over there, Dev. Demme if I don’t think you’re right. Vauxhall ain’t the thing. You know, I breakfasted with young Bertram this morning and for a moment I thought he was wearing an army tent instead of breeches. Now there’s another sprig in the same rig-out.”

“I take it the Petersham trousers do not meet with your approval?”

“They do not! I tell you, Dev, I don’t know what the younger generation’s coming to. Take that young chap over there, now.” He pointed to a young man crossing the grassy square in front of them.

“I shouldn’t care to patronize his bootmaker,” Richard agreed.

“And that cloak—he might be goin’ to a costume ball. I shouldn’t wonder he’s wearing a mask—I should myself if I went about got up like that. Tell you what it is, Ricky, the country’s gone to the dogs since I left.”

Dev laughed, but his gaze followed that absurd figure. Surely there was something familiar about...

A raucous group of revellers suddenly caught up with the object of their interest, singing boisterously and linking arms as they dragged him along with them.

“I’m desolate to have to leave you, Rupert, but I have an appointment.”

“A mysterious assignation, eh? Who is she, my boy?”

“Come and dine tomorrow. I cannot stay now.”

“I certainly shall. Off you go now, my boy. After all, I must protect my bet.”

Dev grasped his friend’s hand and set off for the rendezvous.

If Mr. Devereux was less than enthusiastic about Vauxhall, there was one visitor that evening who took an even more jaundiced view of the amusement park. Unexpectedly released from the duties of escorting either his sister or Miss Neville, Will Ryland had accepted a friend’s invitation and joined a party bound for Vauxhall. Once there, however, he had discovered he was not at all in the mood for frivolity.

Absorbed in his own reflections, he had wandered away from the crowds. But an hour of walking and thinking had brought him no solace and he was now seeking to rejoin his companions. He had spent a tedious half hour wandering byways and dark paths and upsetting a surprising number of courting couples.

Now, however, he could see brighter lights and catch snatches of music. That must be the main promenade at last, he thought, hastening his steps. He would take leave of his friends and go home.

Then he froze. He had heard a scream, a woman’s scream. Mr. Ryland raced down the lane towards the sound.

“No, no!” Lucinda cried, pushing the man back.

“What is a pretty li’l ladybird like you doin’ all alone, eh? That’s what I’d like to know.” The fellow leered at her, bringing his red face close to hers and choking her with his brandy-soaked breath. “Poor li’l ladybird,” he hiccupped.

Lucinda slipped off the bench and backed away. Where was Patience?

“Naughty, naughty!” The red-faced man attempted to wag a finger at her and stumbled forward.

Lucinda backed away again, but he lurched towards her and grasped her round the waist.

“Let me go! Let me go!” Lucinda struggled, half in anger, half in fear.

“You heard the lady,” said a grim voice.

“Will!” gasped Lucinda.

“No fair,” declared the red-faced man, pulling Lucinda closer. “No fair, I saw the li’l ladybird first.”

Will drew back one arm, and with a powerful crack, his fist contacted the red-faced man’s chin. Lucinda’s tormentor sank silently to the ground.

Miss Grantham, Miss Ryland and Mr. Richard Devereux turned the corner just in time to hear Lucinda cry, “Will, thank heavens!” and to see her throw her arms about his neck before sinking into a dead faint in Will
Ryland
’s
arms.