A Poor Relation (14 page)

“You do not give me enough warning. You know I cannot follow the music.” She flounced off to help Aunt Hermione sort her embroidery silks, ignoring that lady’s hints that she could manage perfectly well on her own.

The third day dawned fine, though frosty. Anne and Rowena agreed as one to postpone the return to Cheltenham in favour of riding. They arrived at the five-barred gate at precisely nine o’clock.

There was no sign of the gentlemen. They dawdled through the orchards down to the village, meeting no one on the way but a flock of geese, busily nibbling at chickweed and plantain. The evidence that her advice had been heeded cheered Rowena. Anne had no such consolation. She swung between alarm lest the captain had suffered a relapse, and fear that he simply did not want to see her.

“I must stay home this afternoon in case they come,” she wailed.

“You shall do no such thing. Think of what Millie said about letting the gentlemen do the pursuing. We are going into Cheltenham so that you can dazzle him at the ball.”

The modiste, a round, cheerful Frenchwoman, was delighted to see them. She bustled them into two small fitting rooms and sent her assistants to help while she attended another customer. Rowena held her breath as the dress was slipped over her head and settled on her shoulders.

The fashions of that year of 1814 were of the simplest. The sheer
barège,
the delicate green of new beech leaves, clung to Rowena’s bosom, gathered just beneath with a darker green ribbon, and fell straight to the ankle in a silky foam. Like the bodice, the hem was ornamented with an embroidered tracery of leaves, matching the ribbon. She twirled, and the skirt floated about her in the most delightful way. It was hard to judge after a year of black and grey, but she thought it became her. She went to show Anne, and to see how her cousin looked.

Anne was too young for anything but muslin, and though she might escape white, pastels were
de rigeur,
as Madame had assured them. She was dressed in primrose, her spare figure softened by judiciously placed ruffles. Against the pale yellow, her pallid complexion took on an almost translucent glow.

“Me, I am a genius!” Madame appeared at the door.
“Mademoiselle
is
él
é
gante, distinguée,
despite her youth. You must hold yourself proudly,
mademoiselle.
Not for you the giggles and
—comment est-ce qu’on dit ça?—
the pouts of the other young misses.”

Anne was gazing at herself in the glass with an awed expression. “Oh, Rowena, do you think he will like it?”

“He will be staggered,” breathed Rowena.

Madame beamed and nodded. “But of course, the
jeune gentilhomme
will like it. How can he resist?” She turned to look at Rowena. “Ah, very good. The wood nymph,
n’est-ce pas? Jolie, fraîche,
altogether charming. For you,
mademoiselle,
the genius is not necessary.

Rowena suppressed a sigh. Fresh and pretty was all very well, but it did not compete with elegant and distinguished, still less with Millicent’s incomparable beauty.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Lady Amelia had had all Mr. Thorncrest’s orange trees moved into the ballroom, to his exceeding annoyance. The effect was exotic, much more so than that of the potted palms favoured by London hostesses, especially since several trees bore ripe fruit which glowed in the light of the chandeliers. Others were in bloom. Their fragrance wafted to meet Rowena as she made her curtsy to her hostess.

The party from Grove Park, arriving late at Millicent’s behest, was immediately surrounded by young men. Most of the attention, as usual, clustered about the beauty, but several gentlemen previously unaware of Rowena’s and Anne’s existence requested dances with them.

“All because of my new dress,” said Anne in disgust, though she did not refuse them. “My card is half full already. I must save some to sit out with Bernard. Do you see him, Rowena? Surely he has not already gone into the card room.” She peered about the room.

Standing at an angle to the entrance, Rowena saw the earl and the captain bowing to Lady Amelia and Mr. Thorncrest. She told Anne, who swung round at once with her heart in her eves. She would have rushed to greet them, or at least Captain Cartwright, but for Rowena’s hand on her arm.

“Wait,” said Rowena softly. “Hold yourself proudly, as Madame advised. He will come to you.”

Lord Farleigh was still talking to his hostess when Bernard turned away from the receiving line. Anxious that her cousin should not expose her feelings to the tattlemongers, Rowena watched him. She saw his face light with wonder as he recognized Anne. His limp was scarcely visible as he came towards them, with eyes for none but her. He raised her hand to his lips and a faint colour rose in her cheeks. Not a word passed between them.

Consumed by envy, Rowena was taken by surprise when the earl spoke to her.

“You are out of mourning at last, Miss Caxton. How well green becomes you! One would think you a very wood nymph, especially in this orange grove.” He was laughing, but there was admiration in his tone as well. “I hope you will celebrate your liberation by allowing me the honour of standing up with you.”

“Thank you, my lord, that will be delightful.” Rowena was pleased to note that her voice was composed.

She offered him her dance card.

“I see I am not the only one to take advantage of your new freedom. If we had been delayed any longer I should have been too late. You are not engaged for the waltzes yet. Do you not waltz?”

“I have never danced it, but I have often watched and it does not look difficult. However, Millicent says that it is frowned on for a young lady to waltz without the permission of one of the patronesses of Almack’s. Since I am unlikely to meet one, I ought not to do it.”

“Fustian!” There was a wicked gleam in his grey eyes. “That rule is for
young
ladies, and you have admitted to attaining the ripe old age of one and twenty. I shall put my name down for two waltzes, Miss Caxton, and I’ll not take no for an answer.”

“Yes, Major!” Not even the frowning presence of one of those patronesses could have stopped her.

He turned to ask Anne for a dance, and Rowena smiled sunnily at Millicent’s scowl. It was not her fault the earl had spoken to her before approaching her cousin, and even Millicent had too much sense to make a scene at the ball. It was a pity that Lord Farleigh went straight from her side to Millie’s, but it was inevitable. She was determined to enjoy the evening and not think about the future.

She looked at his signature on her card. It was a mirror of his character, firm, clear strokes leaving no room for ambiguity. And then, with a sense of shock, she realized two things: he had written not “Farleigh” but “Chris Scott”; and the second waltz was the supper dance.

That
would surely set the cat among the pigeons!

She had no leisure to ponder either matter, for her first partner came to claim her hand. Mr. Desborough, son of Lord William, was one of those few who had always spared her a kind word, though in a stiffly condescending fashion she attributed to a sense of
noblesse oblige.
His manner had not changed, but he unbent sufficiently to compliment her on being in looks tonight. He was not one of Millicent’s court, possibly because he scorned to compete. Rowena found him dull and a trifle pompous, but he was a good dancer and she loved to dance. She thoroughly enjoyed the cotillion.

After two more dances, she was quite happy to find a gap on her card before the first waltz with Lord Farleigh. She went to sit beside Anne, who was talking to Captain Cartwright. However, young Mr. Berry-Browning came to remind Anne that she had promised to stand up with him for this dance, so Rowena was left with the captain.

They chatted for a while, then he fell silent, his gaze  following Anne and her partner about the room. Rowena set her mind to the puzzle of the earl’s signature.

The simplest explanation was that he was still unused to his title and had signed his name out of habit. In that case half the young ladies in the room might possess that signature, for his lordship was most conscientious about spreading his favours. She was not on sufficiently intimate terms with anyone but Anne and Millicent to ask to see their cards.

He might have meant to tease her with an allusion to her disregard for his rank. But surely he would have written “Major Scott,” so that was not it.

She acknowledged a faint hope that he had signed his own name on her card only, and because when he was with her he thought of himself as plain Chris Scott, not as a peer of the realm. That would suggest that he was comfortable with her, more so than with his other partners. It was a pleasing notion, though she was sure he must have done it unintentionally. A deliberate gesture of that nature was foreign to his character.

She resolved to find a way to look at Anne’s and Millicent’s dance cards.

Then there was the business of his asking her for the supper dance. She sighed. He had probably not even noticed that it was anything more than a waltz, and if he had, he was undoubtedly unaware that it was a signal honour for a young lady to be chosen as his partner for supper. Millicent would be furious, though Mr. Ruddle had engaged her for that dance as soon as she entered the room.

“In a brown study, Miss Caxton? It is time for our waltz.”

Startled for the second time that evening by his sudden appearance at her side, Rowena blinked up at Chris.

His smile took her breath away.

She rose, and placed her fingertips on the arm he offered.

“I hope you were not worrying about your unfamiliarity with the steps?” he asked. “I have watched you dancing and I am sure so graceful a performer will have no difficulty.”

He had watched her dancing! It was enough to render her speechless, but she refused to show so poor a spirit.

“No, my lord, that does not concern me. I have no doubt but that you will direct my steps, for I am familiar with your autocratic ways.”

He grinned. “You malign me, ma’am. I’ve a mind to leave you to flounder without guidance.”

“You are too much the gentleman, and besides, it would make you look as foolish as me.”

“True, alas. Now start counting to the music, one two three, one two three.” He swung her onto the floor.

“One two three, one two three,” she repeated obediently, concentrating on following his lead.

The infectious rhythm caught her up, and she laughed with the exhilaration of the dance.

“We are not doing too badly for two self-confessed unmusical people,” he observed as he twirled her round the room. “Now that I am sure you will not step on my feet, you may come a little closer.” He pulled her towards him until only the few inches required by propriety separated them.

His hand holding hers, his strong arm about her waist, the warmth of his breath on her cheek—all should have flustered her. Instead she felt as if she belonged in his arms. Guided, protected, cared for—she was growing sentimental.

She summoned up mock indignation. “I have never stepped on a partner’s feet.”

“What, never? Perhaps wood nymphs are immune to such clumsiness. We soldiers, or rather our partners, are not so lucky. I waltzed for the first time at the Desboroughs’ not a month since, and I fear Miss Desborough’s toes must have been black and blue for days.”

They continued to joke until the dance ended and he relinquished her to her next partner. With a deliberate effort Rowena forced herself to attend to Mr. Berry-Browning’s trivial conversation as they took their place in the set for a country dance. Despite Lord Farleigh’s distracting presence in the next set, of which she was constantly aware, she went through the figures of the Lancers without hesitation. The country hops and Canterbury assemblies of Kent had always been one of her favourite diversions.

When the time came for their second waltz Chris did not take her by surprise. Her consciousness of his whereabouts had continued though the length of the ballroom lay between them.

She heard herself laughing and chattering, yet she had no idea what she said. She must have answered appropriately, for he would not have failed to tease her if she had not, though he too seemed a trifle distraught. She was afraid the sight of Millicent waltzing with Mr. Ruddle was making him jealous.

However, when the blissful dance was over and they went into the supper room, he made no effort to join Millicent’s table. They sat with Anne and Bernard and Miss Desborough and her partner. Rowena was glad to see that Anne was no longer wearing her heart on her sleeve. Conversation was general and lively, and Miss Desborough’s neighing laugh frequently rang out over the deeper voices of the gentlemen.

Rowena managed to catch a glimpse of both the other young ladies’ dance cards. “Farleigh” was firmly inscribed on both.

As he held her chair when she rose from the table, Chris murmured, “I need your advice on fertilizing the cherry trees. I had almost forgot. You will not wish to rise early after dancing all night, so I will call tomorrow afternoon, if I may.”

“Need you ask?” Rowena realized that not one word of agriculture had been spoken between them all evening. She need no longer tell herself he only sought her out for useful information.

After that exhilarating insight the rest of the ball could only be an anticlimax. Rowena was neither surprised nor disappointed when Millicent claimed a headache immediately after supper. Rowena had had her fling and not even her cousin’s vapours or her aunt’s admonishments had the power to spoil it.

“Indecorously coming behaviour, my foot!” said Anne vulgarly, sprawling on Rowena’s bed in the small hours of the morning. “You had no need to cast out lures for they swarmed about you as soon as they saw your new gown. Is it not disgraceful the way pretty clothes make men change their opinion of you when inside you are the same person still? Not that it made the least difference to Bernard. He was the same as ever.”

Rowena remembered the captain’s dazzled expression when he first saw Anne in her new finery. She held her tongue. “All the same, it was pleasant to be noticed for once, was it not? I do love dancing.”