A Perfect Likeness (17 page)

Delphine glanced guiltily at Bryony, who lowered her eyes resignedly, and Delphine very reluctantly surrendered the letter to her mother. As the paper was unfolded again and the duchess began to read, Bryony stared at the tray, which was awash with hot tea. The original letter was illegible now, its paper so soft and fine that it had almost disintegrated. That ruined piece of paper was her only proof that Petra had declared war upon the match, and now it had been destroyed.

The duchess’s face became very still as she finished the letter. She looked coldly at her daughter. “Leave the room, madam, I will deal with you later for aiding and abetting this disgraceful affair.”

Delphine got up in dismay. “But Bryony isn’t ...” she began tearfully, the protest dying on her lips as she saw what had happened to Petra’s letter. She realized immediately that her clumsiness had destroyed a vital piece of evidence and that once again she had been responsible for putting Bryony in an awkward predicament.

The duchess gave her daughter a furious look. “Leave the room this minute, madam, before I decide to
severely
punish you for your complicity in this wanton creature’s activities!”

With a sob, Delphine gathered her skirts and hurried out, leaving Bryony alone to face the duchess’s wrath. The solar was very quiet in the ensuing moments, but at last the duchess spoke. “You were warned what would happen if you persisted with your defiance, missy, and so you will hardly be surprised when I tell you that I am now going to write to Sebastian and inform him that you are still communicating with your lover!”

“He isn’t my lover!”

“Silence! I’ve endured enough because of you, Miss St. Charles, but your conduct now makes further tolerance on my part quite impossible. I am also now forced to defy my son, for Felix has strictly forbidden me to interfere in any way with the match between you and his cousin, but I cannot possibly ignore this latest matter. Go to your rooms and remain there until I give you permission to leave. And do not hope that my nephew will be lenient a second time, for that is the last thing he will wish to be after he has read what I intend to write. Soon he will wish he had never even heard your name!”

Bryony stared at her in dismay and then without a word walked past her and out of the solar.

She was seated unhappily in the window seat in her apartment a short while later when she saw a rider setting off at a great pace down the drive. The duchess had wasted no time; her letter was already on its way to London.

In the end the duchess’s promptness proved to be of no avail, for Sebastian was not at home when the letter was delivered to Berkeley Square, and he was not expected there for some time. Word to this effect was sent back to Polwithiel, leaving the duchess in some difficulties, as she had been counting upon Sebastian ending the match with Bryony before Felix returned. Now this seemed unlikely to come about in time, and Felix was not going to be at all pleased when he found out that his mother had deliberately gone against his orders concerning meddling in his cousin’s marriage affairs.

Still confined to her rooms, the duchess not knowing quite what to do with her, Bryony spent a great deal of time in the window seat, gazing out at the view over the estuary. She felt strangely empty now that all thought of marrying Sebastian must be at an end. She tried to tell herself that soon she would be far away from him and from the pain of her unrequited love, but the prospect made her feel more empty than ever.

Common sense and pride told her to deny the duchess the satisfaction of throwing her out; but Bryony simply could not bring herself to leave. It was as if by staying she remained Sebastian Sheringham’s intended wife. She was angry with herself for her foolishness, and for her weakness, but she was ruled by her heart and not by her head. She was angry with herself too for forfeiting Liskillen. Oh, she knew that it was not her own fault, because there was nothing she could have done to prevent things happening as they had, but still she felt to blame—she had failed, and because of that, Liskillen would be lost.

The days passed without word arriving from Berkeley Square, and in the end the duchess’s hand was forced by the arrival at Polwithiel of Madame Colbert, the famous
couturière
who was to provide Bryony with an entire new wardrobe. Madame Colbert was a brilliant dressmaker, but she was also a notorious gossip, and the duchess knew full well that word would soon be all over the realm that the Duchess of Calborough had locked the future Lady Sheringham in her rooms.

The duchess therefore had no option, in the absence of a decision from Sebastian, but to allow Bryony to see the dressmaker as if all were going on as before. Prior to permitting her to leave her rooms, however, she extracted from Bryony a firm promise that she would conduct herself correctly and not give the dressmaker anything to whisper about.

Bryony agreed readily enough, for as far as she was concerned she had done nothing for which she should have been punished; and besides, it was good to be able to leave her apartment again.

The consultations with Madame Colbert presented opportunities for speaking with Delphine again, that young lady having been strictly forbidden by her mother to associate with Bryony. Delphine proved surprisingly adept at deception, being all coolness and reserve when the duchess was present, and the very opposite when she wasn’t. For Bryony it was just another strain when she already had so much to endure. She wished she had the resolve to leave Polwithiel, and she despised herself for her lack of spirit.

There was something grotesque about pretending to choose a wardrobe which she would never wear. She gazed at countless drawings, inspected hundreds of pieces of material, and considered various accessories, and she did so with a lack of enthusiasm which caused the dressmaker and her assistant to exchange many questioning glances.

Madame Colbert was a shrewd businesswoman, and on accepting the order to provide the future Lady Sheringham with a new wardrobe, she saw an opportunity to rid herself of a gown which had unexpectedly been left on her hands by the demise of the young lady for whom it had originally been ordered. It was a beautiful creation of silver organdy muslin, with dainty silver piping on its sleeves and around its hem and long train. It was a perfect gown, as fashionable as any young lady could wish, and it fitted Bryony as if it had been made for her. Had it not been for the hopelessness of her situation, she would have taken great joy in such a gown, but as it was she felt close to tears just trying it on. The dressmaker evidently thought her very strange indeed, although she said nothing.

Madame Colbert stayed at Polwithiel for rather longer than planned, not departing until early on the day that Felix was expected to return. The duchess still had not heard anything from Sebastian, and so had to prepare for what was bound to be an angry confrontation with her son when he discovered what she had been doing.

The dressmaker left before breakfast, promising a second ball gown in time for Petra’s assembly, and Bryony was strolling in the gardens when a footman came to inform her that the duchess and Delphine were calling upon a neighbor and would not be returning until the afternoon. The news was far from displeasing, for at last she could enjoy a little freedom. She glanced up at the sky. There were storm clouds on the horizon, but as yet the sun was shining. She could go for a ride in the park! She didn’t hesitate, but asked the footman to see that a horse was prepared immediately, and then she hurried up to her apartment to change.

She was determined that on this occasion, with the duchess safely out of the way, she would ride without stays. Sally—for that was now what she called Anderson when they were alone—giggled a little as the stays were discarded. Bryony had come to like the maid, and she felt a great deal of sympathy for her because her sweetheart, the youngest Polwithiel coachman, Tom Penmarrion, had a roving eye and was casting speculative glances in the direction of the innkeeper’s daughter at the Royal Charles.

Informing the steward that she would be following the same route that she and Felix had taken, she mounted the horse and was soon riding sedately down through the park. No one watching her would have known that she was improperly dressed, for her back was as stiff and straight as the duchess’s. She looked very decorous, perched gracefully on the sidesaddle, the ribbons of her little hat fluttering gaily behind her. She could not help an ironic smile, for she looked every inch the future Lady Sheringham, but the duchess’s letter must by now have put an end to any such possibility.

It was overcast when she reached the open headland by the tower, and as she paused there for a while, gazing out at the open sea in the distance, she thought she heard the first low rumble of the approaching storm. Below the cliff the tide was out and more rocks were now visible, stretching away toward the creek, which was now little more than a stream between glistening mudbanks. By her horse’s hooves, the star-faced mesembryanthemums were tightly closed, showing their brilliant colors only to the sun.

She turned the horse away then, riding along the bank of Polwithiel Creek. In the distance there was another roll of thunder, louder now as the storm swept closer to the shore, and she urged the horse on, anxious to complete the ride before it began to rain.

The air was very still as she rode through Polwithiel village, and the sound of her horse seemed to echo more than ever. With the village behind her and the last stretch of woodland ahead, she saw the silhouette of Polwithiel Abbey on its vantage point. Behind it the skies were black now and the next clap of thunder was very loud, echoing through the trees for a long while.

Gazing ahead at the house, she suddenly realized that her ride was almost at an end. She didn’t want it to be over just yet—she was enjoying her few hours of freedom too much. Reining in, she saw that she had almost reached the clearing where the gamekeeper’s cottage lay. All around her the woods were thick and concealing, the tall trees rising out of a profusion of magnificent late rhododendrons. It was not an oak wood like Liskillen, but she was reminded of her home for all that, and with the memory came thoughts of how she had liked to ride bareback.

A moment of madness seized her then. She could ride like that now; there would be no one to see her if she left the track. Glancing up at the sky and seeing that the storm would not break just yet, almost before she knew it she had turned her horse into the cloak of greenery.

After a short while she dismounted and removed the saddle, which she then pushed beneath the low leaves of a rhododendron. Leading the horse to a fallen tree, she managed to remount, sitting astride, the skirts of her riding habit unavoidably pulled askew to reveal rather too much of her legs. But no one could see, she told herself, preparing to urge the horse away.

Suddenly she became aware of the sound of someone weeping. She glanced around, but there was no one to be seen. The sobs came again, from the direction of some rising land where the woods were thicker than ever. It was a child, she realized, a little girl weeping as if her heart would break.

She hesitated, fearing that the child was not alone, but then she could not ignore the despair and heartbreak in those choked sobs and she rode slowly toward the sounds.

Beyond the tangle of shrubs and trees, a stream tumbled down the hillside, splashing and roaring between boulders and then deepening into a large pool before spilling on down to a lower level and disappearing between banks thick with ferns. The gamekeeper’s little daughter was kneeling beside the pool, tears pouring down her cheeks, for there, floating out of reach on the water, was her beloved wooden doll.

The child turned with a start at the sound of the horse, getting swiftly to her feet and preparing to run away, but then she recognized Bryony and hesitated, undecided.

Bryony reined in beside her. “Please don’t be frightened. You remember me, don’t you?”

The little girl nodded, her eyes huge.

“Can’t you reach your doll?”

The kindness in Bryony’s voice made the child relax then. Tears filled her eyes. “Mary’s drowning,” she wailed, her chin puckering and her little hands twisting miserably together.

“No, she’s not,” said Bryony soothingly, “and I think I can rescue her for you.” She glanced at the pool, trusting that she was right in thinking it wasn’t too deep for someone on a horse. Kicking her heels, she urged the reluctant animal toward the water, just as another rumble of thunder stole low across the almost black skies.

The horse tossed its head nervously, shying from both the thunder and the water, but gradually it was coaxed into the pool. Bryony gasped as the water swept up over her knees, soaking her heavy skirts and dragging at them as if it would pull her down into its chilly depths. The doll seemed to bob tantalizingly out of reach, but at last she could stretch to pluck it to safety. With a glad smile she turned to show it to the little girl, but there was no sign of her. Instead there was someone else on the bank now, Sir Sebastian Sheringham, mounted on his gray horse.

Bryony’s heart almost stopped. He looked so perfect in his excellent green riding coat and beige breeches, his top hat tipped back a little on his golden hair. It was a shock to see him again, and a shaft of dull pain seemed to pass through her. She had never felt more at a disadvantage in her life, for he already believed her to be in the wrong; now he must think even more poorly of her. What must she look like? Her skirts were wet and clinging, her legs displayed too much for modesty, and she was astride like a boy!

He removed his hat, running his fingers lightly through his hair and glancing up as a sudden flash of lightning split the dark skies. A warm wind swept from nowhere, bringing with it the smell of dusty earth and pine needles. It began to rain, the heavy drops pattering loudly on the surrounding leaves. “Good morning, Miss St. Charles,” he said softly.

“S-sir.”

“Do you intend to remain indefinitely in the water?”