Wild Heart (37 page)

"Bugs."

"Ah." Maybe she was imagining it, seduced by her ladyship's sympathetic manner, but the look they exchanged just then suggested to Sydney that they had a
world
of things in common. "You were a painter, Michael told me."

"Did he remember that?" She lifted her gaze to Michael, sitting at his father's left hand at the other end of the table, and her green eyes went soft with fondness. "Well, I am still a painter. Not one you would have heard of, I'm certain, but I—"

"Elizabeth, don't be so modest," Auldearn put in with gruff affection, taking advantage of a lull in Papa's opinion of the relative merits of the anthropology departments at the universities of Chicago and Edinborough. "My wife has had two shows of her own in Glasgow, as well as a group show in London. She is an artist of great sensitivity and intelligence."

During the short, pleasantly embarrassed silence that followed this pronouncement, Sydney wondered what Michael had told the MacNeils about her. They were gra-ciousness itself, they couldn't have been kinder to her— and yet they didn't exhibit that
particular
curiosity that would have meant they knew Michael was in love with her and she with him. He must not have told them, then. She didn't quite know what to think about that.

"Michael's an artist, too," Sam piped up. "Right, Michael?" They sat next to each other, between Sydney and Lord Auldearn, and from time to time they put their heads together and whispered. Sydney suspected they were confiding in each other how much they wished Hector were here, so they could feed him the flageolets and onions a la Grecque they were pushing around and trying to hide under their
pommes souffle.es.
Sam looked as happy and contented as any of the MacNeils, thrilled to have his friend back; in fact, he hadn't left Michael's side all evening. Until now, Sydney hadn't quite realized how much he adored him.

She let the conversation ebb and flow gently around her, content to watch Michael, fascinated by the happiness that shone so clearly in his face. She was dying to be alone with him. She had thought he might call her last night, but he hadn't. So she had called him, a little after ten. The desk had refused to disturb him; "The MacNeils are not taking telephone calls, madam." She had understood; the press must be tormenting them horribly. But ... he hadn't called today, either. She had hoped he would. Thought he would. She had stayed in the house all day, in fact, so she wouldn't miss his call.

Just then he laughed at something his father said, smiling broadly across the table at his sister. How selfish she was being, Sydney chided herself. Of course he would want to be with the family he'd just found. She was ashamed for wanting him to herself so soon. But she did.

"How unfortunate . .." Aunt Estelle had to clear her throat. "How unfortunate the Osgoods couldn't join us," she ventured in a low voice, completely unlike her, as if she were speaking in church. "You said Mrs. Osgood was in ill health, my lord?" The title rolled off her tongue naturally, fluidly, as if she'd been speaking to Scottish nobility all her life. And yet of all the Winters, Aunt Estelle was the most intimidated by the grandness of Michael's family. This was no ordinary social coup she had pulled off, sitting at the right hand of an earl, dining
en famille
with a countess; this was a revolution. All her hopes and aspirations had come true tonight in spectacular fashion. So far, interestingly, the effect was to reduce her to virtual speechlessness. Sydney had faith in her, though; soon she would shake off this out-of-character bashfulness and assert herself.

The waiters collected the plates and brought a new course, braised lamb cutlets; Sydney wondered what Michael and Sam would do with the spinach-stuffed mushrooms that accompanied it. Her father was talking to Lady Auldearn; she heard him mention that he planned to be in touch with Mr. Diffenbaucher, the trustee from the zoo, to discuss "ah, compensation for monetary damages resulting from the, ah, incident." He would have done it sooner, he explained, but Mr. Osgood advised him to make no overtures of that sort until Michael's legal case was resolved.

Lady Auldearn leaned toward him and said in a confidential tone, "Thank you, that's very kind of you. It won't be necessary, though. As it happens, my husband looked into that matter this afternoon, and now I believe everything has been taken care of. Indeed, I'm told the zoo authorities are perfectly satisfied."

Her slight emphasis on
perfectly
told Sydney as clearly as words that Lord Auldearn had been generous. Very generous. The slant of the stories in tomorrow's newspapers ought to be interesting. Really, it wouldn't surprise her if, before it was all over, the reporters turned Michael into a folk hero.

"Have you been able to see any of the city yet?" Philip inquired of Katherine, from whom he had hardly taken his eyes all night. He had asked her the question during a lull in the general conversation; everyone heard it. Self-conscious, he pretended he hadn't been speaking exclusively to Kate (Sydney had overheard an earlier exchange between them, in which she had invited him to call her Kate) but to the table at large. "It would be a shame if the newspaper reporters kept you cooped up in the hotel and you never got to see the sights."

"We did stay in our rooms all morning," Kate said with a wry smile. "But this afternoon Father and Michael gave interviews to three different papers, all at the same time. We're hoping that will make them leave us alone."

"How was it?" Sydney asked, looking at Michael. She couldn't imagine him fielding rude reporters' questions. But perhaps they hadn't been rude; perhaps the presence of the Earl of Auldearn had had a civilizing effect on the press. At least for a while.

"I didn't have to say very much. My father spoke to them."

My father.
He said the words with so much pride and love, such reverence, Sydney had to look down.

Dessert came—almond tortes and
coeur a la crime,
which Sam and Michael ate with gusto. The waiters brought champagne and fruit, and Auldearn rose to make a toast.

"Ladies and gentlemen, my new friends, my dear family. I'm often called upon to give speeches. Once at a state dinner for three hundred and fifty exalted guests, the Queen of England among them, I was asked to propose a toast to Her Majesty—with no preparation whatsoever— on the occasion of the passage of the reform bill extending the household suffrage to county constituencies. This was nothing. Permit me to say, I was eloquent. I know this, because they told me so afterward."

Sydney chuckled with the others, stealing a glance at Lady Auldearn. She was smiling down the table at her husband with a look that perfectly combined tolerance, amusement, and deep fondness.

"Tonight, however, I am finding it almost impossible to match the right words to my feelings. While I'm a religious man, I confess I've always thought of miracles as historical events, wondrous events that happened long, long ago, certainly not in the last decade of the nineteenth century. But... I was wrong." His voice dropped, hoarsened; Sydney thought he might weep, but he didn't. But he was deeply moved and unable to hide it, and she sensed he was a man to whom his own dignity mattered enormously. "My son—has been returned to me. The little boy whom I loved more than my own life has come back to us. A fine—and a good young man. I am ... so very happy. And proud. My dear friends—" Shiny-eyed, he raised his glass—"drink with me to this miracle."

All the women, even Aunt Estelle, had to search for their handkerchiefs.

"Did you really meet the Queen?" asked Sam when his lordship sat down. That lightened the mood. Auldearn explained to him very kindly that even though he was a Scotsman, he sat in the English House of Lords, and had occasion to see, meet, and even speak to Queen Victoria quite often. Sam was hugely impressed.

. "One day Michael will sit with the Lords as well, I've no doubt." Father and son smiled at each other, and the similarity in their sharp-edged profiles was uncanny.

"Will I?" Michael said shyly.

"You will. After a wee bit of grooming, perhaps."

"Father says Michael can go to St. Andrews and study anything he likes," Kate put in, beaming at her brother. "It's the oldest university in Scotland. And it's Father's alma mater," she added, laughing, "so we know they'll take Michael." She turned to Philip. "Did you know he's a baron? Michael, I mean."

Sydney thought her aunt might cut herself with her fruit knife. The awe in her face was comical. But Sydney didn't feel like laughing.

Presently Aunt Estelle pulled herself together to say, "I hope you will be kind enough to allow me to introduce you to a small, a select number of people, in whose society I believe I can assure you you would not feel uncomfortable. I would consider it the greatest honor to host a small reception in my home. Or here in the city, for your convenience—my brother is a member of the Chicago Club, a very old and dignified institution, indeed, the most exclusive in the city. You would not—"

"Madam, you are much too kind," his lordship said smoothly—so smoothly, Sydney couldn't tell what he really thought of her aunt's effusiveness. Perhaps he was used to that sort of servility and thought it no more than his due. "On a return visit, nothing would please us more. Unfortunately, our schedule won't allow us the luxury of the sort of social occasion you suggest, delightful as it sounds."

"Auldeam has business in Edinburgh that can't be postponed," her ladyship put in. "Indeed, we were making arrangements only this afternoon for passage on a liner home. But I know we'll return," she added warmly. "How could we not? You're our friends now, and we owe you a debt we can never repay."

Aunt Estelle replied with something; Sydney didn't hear the words, only the flattered, disappointed cadence of her voice. The conversation turned into a meaningless buzz. Without thinking, she took a tiny bite of cake. It stuck in her throat and she couldn't swallow it; it tasted like sand.

"I'd like to make a toast." Michael rose, holding his glass up and out in a perfect imitation of his father. He had even borrowed Auldearn's evening clothes, to stunning effect; they fit him almost perfectly, but more than that, they
suited
him. He was changing before her eyes, turning into an elegant, dignified stranger.

"I'd like to drink to everybody. This is the happiest night of my life. I love you." His eyes touched everyone, but they lingered on Sydney. She smiled at him with all the love in her heart, but there was a core of coldness spreading through her that even his warmth couldn't melt. They all drank. Michael sat down, and his father said something that made them both laugh. It was the same sound, deep and generous, the same angling of the head. His sister murmured to him, reaching her hand across the table toward him, love and tenderness glowing in her eyes.

Sydney was losing him. She could see it, feel it; the evidence was everywhere, but most particularly in the affection that filled this room like the scent of flowers. She had looked forward to this night with excitement and anticipation, the way a bride looks forward to her wedding day. Tonight was to be the crown of her happiness, heaven on earth, the perfect resolution to everything. Michael would get what he deserved, and she would get Michael.

Self-hate made her skin prickle. She was the traitor here, the Judas at the table, the only one who didn't wish him well in his new life. Not only did he not need her anymore, his
schedule
no longer permitted him to enjoy the
sort of
social occasion
she represented. And—he was a baron!

"Now I'd like to propose a toast." Her father stood up, his face wreathed in smiles. He cleared his throat—

Sydney pushed back her chair and got to her feet. "Excuse me." Horrified, she realized she couldn't control her voice. Her smile felt stiff and false; humiliating tears were only a breath away. Without risking more words, she turned her back on everyone and hurried out of the room.

Michael stared after her. Dr. Winter, bewildered-looking, set his glass down and said, "Hmm." Michael saw a look pass between his mother and his sister; some kind of understanding dawned in their eyes. He stood up. "I have to go." Remembering his manners, he added, "Excuse me," and made everybody a bow.

There was a ladies' lavatory at the end of the hall. He went toward it, thinking she might have gone there, distracted on the way by the sight of himself in the mirror-covered walls—very gentlemanly-looking in his father's black evening clothes. In the corner of his eye as he crossed the main corridor, he caught a flash of Sydney's yellow dress, just before she disappeared down a wide flight of steps to the lobby.

"Sydney!"

He veered left and ran after her, his feet sinking deep in the thick, silent carpet. When he reached the stairs, he skidded on the slippery marble and almost fell. He made a grab for the banister. Two women and a man coming up the steps delayed him—he dodged to his right at the same time they moved to their left; he shifted left, they moved right. It happened two more times. They started to laugh. Finally he got around them, and took the rest of the stairs three at a time.

The lobby was full of marble columns and fat velvet chairs and beautifully dressed people. But no Sydney. Could she have gone outside? He raced to the front desk, where the clerk was talking on the telephone.

"Did you see a woman," he panted, "just now, in a yellow dress? She just walked by."