Rhonda Woodward (2 page)

Deirdre took Marina’s place at the bow window and a moment later said, “Oh, it’s Lydia and Mrs. Hollings! Let’s see if they have any news.”

Before stepping behind the screen, Marina watched her sister wave in a most inelegant fashion until she gained the attention of their neighbors. A moment later, the ladies entered and Mama moved with Mrs. Hollings to a settee that was out of hearing range.

Mrs. Birtwistle fussed over the lavender-blue kerseymere draped around Marina, staring at it as if she had never seen fabric before. Marina watched her, falling back into her old curiosity about the delicate-looking woman.

Before the arrival of Mr. Penhurst, the last wave of gossip to sweep Parsley Hay had been several years ago, over Mrs. Catherine Birtwistle, née Fielding.

The Fieldings were a well-regarded family who had lived in Parsley Hay for as long as anyone could remember. They owned a small estate and Mrs. Birtwistle’s father had been Vicar for decades before his death nearly five years ago.

Mrs. Birtwistle’s husband, Dudley, had been killed during the war and Mrs. Birtwistle’s older brother, Major Horatio Fielding, had returned from the Peninsula nearly dead from his wounds. The hardship on the small family could only be imagined.

But it wasn’t these sad facts that had caused such a firestorm of gossip, it was the shocking news that only a year after her husband’s death, Mrs. Birtwistle, a gentleman’s daughter, set up shop as a mantua-maker.

Nothing else had been talked of for months. Even the new vicar had been asked to intervene. It was one thing to take in mending and the like, discreetly of course, said the more vocal members of Parsley Hay society, but quite another to set up shop. It wasn’t at all proper, was it?

So Mrs. Birtwistle was cut, for her own good of course, from the higher social structure of the village. And no one even admitted to walking by the little shop on High Street that boasted her name in discreet script on a brass plaque fastened to the door.

Marina and Deirdre had discussed it endlessly. Marina had always liked and admired Mrs. Birtwistle, who was perhaps five or six years older. She remembered her wedding, when she was pretty Catherine Fielding, to Dudley Birtwistle. The whole day had been lovely and romantic and, after the nuptials, Marina had felt so grown up when she was allowed to sit at the long table during the beautiful wedding breakfast held at Fielding Manor.

Watching the bride and groom, Marina thought the couple looked terribly in love and Marina had cried when she learned of Dudley’s death in the war only a few years later.

The zealous gossip regarding Mrs. Birtwistle going into trade continued until one afternoon, without any notice, Mama called for the coach, saying they were going to the village. Once there, to Marina’s astonishment, Mama swept them into Mrs. Birtwistle’s elegant but empty little shop, and ordered two day dresses, and a walking dress with pelisse for herself.

Mrs. Birtwistle had stood there looking rather like a frightened rabbit and said little above “thank you,” making copious notations on a sheet of paper, while Mama examined fabric and fashion plates.

Mama had made sure that when they left the shop there were a number of people nearby.

On the way home, Mama had said in a crisp tone, “That dreadful Napoleon has caused enough damage. As the Buckleighs of Buck Hill, we shall do what we can to help our own.”

Marina had been so proud of her mother that day, and hoped that everything would return to normal in Parsley Hay, for she liked Mrs. Birtwistle a great deal.

In short order, the clothes had arrived at Buck Hill. To the wonder of the Buckleigh ladies, standing in Mama’s dressing room, each item had emerged from the tissue as perfectly tailored and elegantly designed as anything from the most exclusive shops in London.

Truly, Mama admitted with a tone of wonder, she had expected the clothes to be fit for only when they were not expecting callers, but these clothes were beyond flattering and original.

One of the day dresses had not even been in the color originally chosen. Mrs. Birtwistle had haltingly explained that she had decided the new color would be more suitable to Lady Buckleigh than the first choice and hoped she did not mind the substitution.

Indeed, Mama had not, for the dress was the most beautiful of the lot. However, over time, this had become a pattern—picking one style of gown with a certain color of fabric and the gown being made with a completely different sleeve style, hem, or color because Mrs. Birtwistle had thought better of it later.

Immediately after the first order, Mrs. Birtwistle began making clothes for Marina and Deirdre. Not once had Marina been disappointed when one of Mrs. Birtwistle’s gowns arrived different from first discussed. In fact, she had grown to delight in the surprise of what she would find beneath the folds of tissue.

After Lady Buckleigh’s very public endorsement of Mrs. Birtwistle, the gossip had died, and now Mrs. Birtwistle’s shop always seemed to be busy.

And the best thing, to Marina’s mind, was the way Mrs. Birtwistle had taken up her old social life again. Of course, the highest sticklers in the small community would never fully accept Mrs. Birtwistle again, but because of Mama’s very public endorsement, no one ever gave Mrs. Birtwistle the cut direct. Now, neighbors called at Fielding Manor and Mrs. Birtwistle called upon her neighbors, including the Buckleighs.

And as if by some strange and unspoken agreement, everyone in Parsley Hay only acknowledged Mrs. Birtwistle’s foray into trade whilst actually standing in her shop.

When she came for tea or visited with everyone in the churchyard after services, no one ever said a word about the appointment they had the very next day or the gown that Mrs. Birtwistle had fitted the day before.

Such were the quirks of a small village where everyone had known everyone forever, Marina mused.

Marina had grown to believe that the quiet little woman was a true artist and therefore engaged in little conversation as Mrs. Birtwistle tucked and pinned the fabric around her body.

Out of boredom, she attended the conversation between Deirdre and Lydia.

“I wonder why Mr. Penhurst has come to live in Parsley Hay,” Deirdre asked. “Surely he has a grand estate somewhere.”

“Indeed he does, in Wiltshire,” Lydia replied. “But it is claimed that the house itself has been moldering away for a generation. I understand that Mr. Penhurst’s father, who died a couple of years ago, was an inveterate gamester and neglected the estate his whole life.”

“Oh that is a shame,” Marina offered from the pedestal, for she could not fathom that kind of irresponsibility. Marina turned for Mrs. Birtwistle who
tut-tutted
and tugged at the fabric.

“We have also heard,” Lydia continued, “that his older sister will live with him and act as his hostess.”

“We have heard that as well. Lady Darley, I believe,” Deirdre said.

“Yes. She is a widow, poor thing, and her husband was a viscount, I understand. She is not much above thirty years of age.”

“How sad,” Deirdre said.

“Mrs. Willingham also told my mama,” Lydia continued in her eager tone, “that there shall be any number of eligible gentlemen at the ball, for Mr. Penhurst and Lady Darley have invited their friends to stay at Ridgeton Abbey and that the house party shall likely go on for a month or two.”

Marina could just imagine Deirdre looking as if she were going to clap her hands together in glee. She hoped she would think better of it.

“That is marvelous!” Marina didn’t hear any clapping, but Deirdre’s voice fairly gushed her excitement. “You know there are rarely enough gentlemen, and one often ends up looking like a wallflower when one is most certainly
not
.”

Marina almost snorted her laughter at her sister’s telling comment. Several months ago they attended a party at the Hollings estate, Northam Hall, and one of the Hollings cousins suggested they form sets as another played the pianoforte. Sadly, there were indeed not enough gentlemen to form more than two groups, although Marina never lacked a partner.

Part of Deirdre’s lamentable wallflower status was self-inflicted. Marina had tried to point out to her sister that it was just not the thing to stand there with a case of the fidgets, staring eagerly at any young man who wandered by.

She hoped Deirdre had learned her lesson.

“It really is too bad that Mr. Penhurst is not more handsome.”

“Deirdre! What a thing to say.” Marina hoped her tone was as daunting as Papa’s. Although she agreed that Mr. Penhurst’s features were rather unexceptional, he was tall and fit-looking and had displayed a perfectly affable demeanor when Vicar Ralston had introduced them all some weeks ago.

“It is lamentable but true,” Lydia said, “however, he has any number of handsome and very eligible gentlemen staying at Ridgeton Abbey. Several lords and even a marquis are rumored to be attending the ball, though my brother says that the gentlemen are really here for the hunt.”

“Did you hear, Marina? A
marquis
. Oh, I’m terribly excited.”

Again, Marina’s thoughts went to the blond man. She must catch hold of herself or soon she would be as giddy as Deirdre over the ball and that just would not do.

“
And
,” Lydia continued, proud of all the news she was able to provide. “There shall be an eight-piece orchestra.”

This was welcome news to Marina, who raised her arms at Mrs. Birtwistle’s bidding, for she loved to dance and she had never had the chance with anything other than a pianoforte.

With the news of Mr. Penhurst and his ball exhausted, Deirdre and Lydia’s conversation turned inevitably to the discussion of their clothes and Marina was free to let her mind wander back to the handsome blond man, while Mrs. Birtwistle continued to fuss over her.

Soon, though, to Marina’s relief, the draping was over and the Buckleigh ladies parted amiably from the Hollings ladies, with promises of meeting at Mr. Penhurst’s ball.

As they stepped out onto High Street, Marina looked around, feeling a bit silly for hoping so fervently to see the blond man again.

They paused on the sidewalk as a tall man, dressed in the garb of a country gentleman, approached. All three ladies greeted Major Fielding, Mrs. Birtwistle’s older brother, warmly, for he was one of Papa’s good friends, being one of Papa’s hunting companions for years.

The only visible remnants of his terrible war wounds were a long scar high on his left cheekbone and a pronounced limp, but for all that he had a dashing way about him and was a favorite amongst all the ladies of Parsley Hay.

As had been established long ago, anything unpleasant was never mentioned to the people involved in the unpleasantness, so never once in all their years of friendship with the Fielding family had the Buckleighs ever alluded to Major Fielding’s sister having gone into trade.

“Ah, Lady Buckleigh, Miss Buckleigh, Miss Deirdre, good afternoon. I am all set to call on Lord Buckleigh later this week.”

“Your visit will be most welcome, Major Fielding, for my husband tires of speaking of the hunt with us mere ladies.”

The major laughed at Mama’s quip, and after another moment or two of pleasantries, they parted.

As their carriage drew up, Marina could not resist a last sweep of High Street in hopes of glimpsing the blond man again.

Again, she was disappointed.

Chapter Two

The tall clock on the landing struck nine as Marina followed her sister and parents up the grand staircase at Ridgeton Abbey. She assumed it was the very stairs that had hosted the whispered-about potato race. They, along with fifty or so more of Mr. Penhurst’s guests, had made steady progress in the last ten minutes, but Marina could sense her sister growing more fidgety by the second.

“Just think, Marina,” Deirdre whispered, “we might meet our future husbands at Mr. Penhurst’s wonderful ball.”

Marina ascended a few steps before whispering back, “Fustian, Deirdre, you are much too romantical for your own good. Besides, you wouldn’t want to find a husband before we go to London in the spring, would you?”

This caused Deirdre’s brow to wrinkle. “Well, I guess I am a bit young. But I would dearly love to have several gentlemen fall in love with me so that I won’t be without a dance partner again.”

Deirdre said this with such guileless enthusiasm Marina could not help laughing, which did not sit well with her sister.

“Oh, give over, Marina. You behave as if you are so cool and careless, but confess, you would not be so if Henry Willingham were not besotted with you. You never have to worry about being without a partner.”

Marina felt an instant pang of guilt, for she was not excited about dancing with Henry because he had the lamentable tendency to traipse through the steps.

She had known Henry all her life, and familiarity had bred affection. He was amiable, dutiful and not at all bad-looking with his brown hair, blue eyes and country-squire-in-the-making physique.

Their union was a most sensible plan, Marina had always thought, and she assumed nature would follow its logical course and they would marry at some convenient time in the future.

It had always given her a vague sort of comfort to have her future so obligingly lying before her.

Until she had seen a blond gentleman on High Street.

She certainly was not going to share the inner workings of her thoughts with Deirdre and instead said, “You know I dearly love to dance, so I will confess that I’m looking forward to dancing with
any
gentleman who does not tromp on my toes.”

On the step above them, Lady Buckleigh, looking elegant in her golden silks, glanced over her shoulder. Without a word, her expression said she expected her daughters to be on their best behavior.

Instantly, Marina composed her features and checked her posture. Looking around, she saw mostly familiar faces, but was gratified that a few were unfamiliar to her.

How lovely to have new people, new conversation, new dance partners!

They had almost reached their hosts when Marina caught the reflection of her family in a large gilt – framed mirror on the other side of the ballroom. With an unexpected swelling of her heart, she was struck by the lovely tableau they presented.

Everyone agreed that she favored her papa; sable hair, gray eyes—said to be from a French relative several generations back—and a tall, lean frame. Deirdre was more like Mama, average height, but with a pleasingly curvaceous figure, auburn hair and hazel eyes.

What also struck Marina was the harmony of the gowns the three of them wore.

Despite all the draping and pinning, the lavender-blue kerseymere gown had not arrived. Once again, a completely new creation had emerged from the tissue only two days before the ball.

Marina had stared down at a most unusual gown of moss-green velvet, not quite sure at first what to think.

She took in the sleeves, puffed and tucked in a most cunning manner, then tight from the middle of her upper arm to wrist. The bosom was low, but not too much so and beneath her breasts was a velvet ribbon in a slightly darker shade of moss with a cluster of smoky crystals tucked in the knot of the bow. Three rows of ruching circled the hem, with more smoky crystals sparkling here and there from within the folds.

When she showed them, Mama and Deirdre had been doubtful, suggesting the moss-green color a little too unusual for a ball gown. Yet, when Marina tried it on, it was instantly apparent the color did the most amazing thing to her gray eyes, adding a depth and mystery to them she had never noticed. And the design and fit, though simple at first stare, were deceptively alluring.

It was quite the most sophisticated, elegant thing she’d ever worn, and she was determined to wear it to Mr. Penhurst’s ball.

But now, catching their reflection, she could see that the design behind all three gowns had not been an accident. Although the gowns flattered the best features of each Buckleigh lady, the colors—Deirdre’s burnt pumpkin, Marina’s moss, and Mama’s gold—complemented one another in tone. The saturation of colors created a harmony that showed the artistic ability of the designer.

Mrs. Birtwistle truly was a wonder.

Soon enough, they arrived before their hosts, the congenial Mr. Penhurst, whom they had met before at church services, and his elegant sister, Lady Darley, whom they had not.

Marina had been looking forward to meeting Lady Darley, and she took a moment while the young-looking widow greeted the guests ahead of them to observe her.

Lady Darley was a little above average, though not as tall as Marina. Her hair was a shade lighter than her brother’s golden brown, and arranged in a sophisticated twist at the back of her head with a series of ringlets across her forehead and in front of either ear.

Her gown was a deep wine-colored satin with an overgown of matching net, which coordinated beautifully with her parure of rubies and pearls.

In expression and fashion, Lady Darley presented a picture of regal, confident beauty. Marina was most impressed, though she thought a little sadly that she looked very young to be a widow.

The guests ahead moved on as Mr. Penhurst, who looked less nondescript in his black evening clothes, greeted the Buckleighs with great solicitude due the highest ranking family in the community. He then turned to present his sister.

With a gracious smile, Lady Darley greeted Lord and Lady Buckleigh with easy assurance and charm. The pleasantries could barely be heard above the lively rumble of conversation and music, but Marina was delighted when Lady Darley’s blue eyes swept her moss-green gown and showed silent approval.

Marina smiled and curtsied before moving on. It wasn’t only London ladies who could be garbed in the crack of fashion.

The four of them reached the edge of the parquet floor, where the other guests were mingling and listening to prelude music.

Lord Buckleigh turned to his wife and daughters. “Now, my doves, I have seen you safely to this spot and I shall stay for one set. After that, you may find me in the billiard room Mr. Penhurst just mentioned.”

“That shall be perfectly satisfactory, my dear,” Lady Buckleigh said with a smile to her husband.

Knowing how much he hated this kind of entertainment, Marina smiled at her father for making the concession of dancing one set with Mama.

Deirdre, twitching her skirts and tapping her foot in time to the music, bumped into Marina.

“Gracious, Deirdre, do stop fidgeting.”

“I cannot help it. It is all so lovely and exciting. After all, this is my first ball.”

Marina shook her head. “You are such a goose.”

Papa, who had heard this exchange, chuckled deeply. “It seems that this is your first ball, too, Marina. Or have you forgotten that your first Season does not commence until spring?”

It was true, although she was nineteen, Marina had decided to postpone her Season for a year, so that she and Deirdre—deemed too young by Papa to go to Town this past spring—could enjoy all the delights of London together.

“Yes, but that is no reason to behave in so gauche a manner.”

“I am not gauche! That’s a horrible thing to say to me.” Deirdre’s large hazel eyes looked wounded to her core and her bottom lip quivered.

Marina looked heavenward for a moment, for, really, her younger sister’s high-strung emotions could be quite trying at times. “Do stop being so dramatic.”

Before Deirdre could reply, Lady Buckleigh gave her girls a stern look. “Stop this squabbling. We are here to enjoy ourselves or have you forgotten?”

“No, Mama. I’m sorry,” Marina said contritely, annoyed with herself for allowing her sister to discompose her.

Deirdre mumbled something similar.

Marina gazed around the ballroom, marveling at the improvements made to the room since the last time she was here, many years ago. Mr. Penhurst had been busy with his renovations.

But it was the guests who drew her attention, and she scanned the crowd for a certain golden head. Unfortunately, in the immediate vicinity, she only saw people she had known all of her life. And they all seemed to be waving or chatting or laughing with one another.

“Oh my,” Deirdre said with a sense of wonderment. “I do hope our ballroom will be as beautiful.”

Marina, standing beneath a massive chandelier whose candlelight glinted off gilt and mirror and jewels, agreed that it would indeed take some doing to rival this magic, but she knew her mama—who took great pride in being the grandest lady in the district—was up to the task.

Mama, eyes smiling, leaned forward and whispered, “You are receiving a flattering amount of attention, Marina dear. Henry Willingham has had his eyes on you since you stepped into the room.”

Marina’s smile turned wry at her mother’s satisfied observation and glanced Henry’s way.

Before she could answer, Mrs. Willingham, garbed in a gown of forest green and a rather exotic looking turban in a violent shade of purple, swept toward them, flanked by her son and daughter. Lady Buckleigh, after a cry of delight, greeted their old friends affectionately.

“Mrs. Willingham, how delightful you look,” she said, before Mrs. Willingham pulled her a little distance away to convey some particularly juicy bit of gossip she deemed unfit for the “children’s ears.”

This left Henry Willingham, his sister Jane Willingham, Marina and Deirdre to make their bows and requisite greetings, for it had been some weeks since they had visited.

As he bowed, Marina noticed that Henry wore his pale brown hair in what Marina recently learned was the windswept mode considered so smart in London. And although his collar points were fashionably high, they did not seem to impede his ability to turn his head.

Marina instantly admired his fair good looks and the unmistakable patina of polish a few Seasons in London had added—but he did not, she admitted a little guiltily, compare to the mysterious blond man.

Nearly the same age, Deirdre and Jane Willingham had been bosom bows since nursery days. However, a lingering girlish plumpness, along with her very fair complexion and hair, gave the impression that Jane was much younger.

Unfortunately, her ivory gown did not enhance Jane’s pale coloring, especially when she stood near her mother’s bright costume. Her fair hair, nearly the same shade as her gown, was arranged in a riot of curls atop her head and the style was nearly as unflattering as her gown.

Despite this lack of style, Jane was extremely popular amongst the younger people in Parsley Hay, and considered quick-witted and kind.

Even so, Deirdre had expressed, with repetition and sincere peevishness, that she was quite put out that Jane Willingham had already made her come-out in London the previous spring.

Evidently, by their affectionate greeting all was forgiven this evening.

“Oh, how lovely you both look,” Jane exclaimed. “I am about to give up on Mrs. Birtwistle; the gowns she makes for me are not nearly as fashionable and flattering as the ones she makes for the two of you.”

“I think you always look lovely, Jane.” Marina thought it the most prudent reply.

But the compliment was unnecessary as Jane was on to her next thought.

“I vow that Mama lives on gossip alone,” Miss Willingham proclaimed, having to raise her voice a little to be heard over the orchestra and the chatter of the other guests. “But isn’t this all so terribly exciting? I can hardly believe the changes that have been wrought in the room since last I was here. Wasn’t this the great hall of the abbey?”

“Indeed, I believe it was,” Marina said. “One would hardly guess that this was ever
not
a ballroom.”

“It is now so—oh! Look over there!” Jane interrupted herself with a gasp and gestured with her fan toward something across the room. The look of surprise on her face caused Marina to turn as well, expecting to see someone with their hair on fire.

Henry also looked in the direction his sister gestured. “What? I don’t see anything.”

“It’s Cortland!” Jane stood on tiptoes trying to gain a better look. “What is he doing here? I have heard nothing of his arrival! I would think this would be much too tame an evening’s entertainment for him.”

“I see him now,” Henry said. “Looks like he’s heading for the cardrooms, which makes perfect sense.”

Jane turned back to Marina and Deirdre. “You must forgive my rudeness. I am referring to the tall, dark-haired gentleman over there. See? He is moving away from us.”

Through the swaying throng, Marina caught an obstructed glimpse of a tall man with near-black hair, a strong jaw, and an imposing nose. He presented a striking figure and moved with powerful grace. Instantly curious, Marina, for once, did not mind Henry’s penchant for gossip.

“Who is he and why are you shocked he is here?”

“He is Fitzhugh Hawksmoor, the Marquis of Cortland,” Henry provided. “He has made himself rather notorious. I met him a few times in London, though I would hardly believe he would attend such a respectable function as this. He must be a close friend of Mr. Penhurst.”

“Oh, pooh, I cannot see him,” Deirdre exclaimed.

“His grandfather is the Duke of Hawksmoor,” Jane said, still straining to catch a glimpse of the Marquis. “The Hawksmoors have always been a proper lot, going back to the days of Queen Elizabeth. But Cortland is cut from a different cloth. His parents died when he was quite young, and so he became the Duke’s only direct heir. He got into one too many rather public scrapes and the Duke cut him off without a sou. La, but that was a nine days’ wonder! Cortland responded by becoming even wilder. Gambling and I know not what. It is rumored that he was nearly caught dueling. He’s terribly dashing,” she ended with a heartfelt sigh.