Amanda McCabe (12 page)

Chapter Fourteen

It is as easy to count atomies as to resolve

the propositions of a lover.

—
As You Like It

“Well, now, Lord Ellston,” Mr. Whitig said, scooping up the last of the excellent fillet of sole from his plate and starting on the newly served dessert, “I must say I will certainly be happy to see the Harvest Fete come to completion! I have scarce seen my curate these last few days; he is always at Rosemount, going over the arrangements for the Fete.” He gave said curate a jocular grin. “But I think we all know what his true purpose there is.”

Marcus’s eyes narrowed as he watched Mr. Elliott blush. Why would the man blush if all he was doing was concocting lists? There must be more to Mr. Whitig’s words.

Marcus had known it all along. The blighted curate was after Julia. The question was, did Julia mind the chasing?

He glanced over at her, but she looked calm and tranquil, as cool as the ice blue of her dress. Her face gave away none of her thoughts. She smiled at Mr. Whitig and said, “I fear that is entirely my fault, Mr. Whitig. It is an enormous task to prepare for the Fete, and Mr. Elliott has been an invaluable help.”

“Indeed he has,” added Lady Edgemere, who, along with Mrs. Whitig, rounded out their small supper party. “St. Anne’s has such a treasure in Mr. Elliott.” She winked at Marcus over the rim of her wineglass, as if she knew what he was thinking and found it quite amusing.

Marcus reached quickly for his own wine, taking a long sip to cover his discomposure.

“Oh, yes, a treasure,” said Mr. Whitig, sitting back from his plate, satisfied at last. “Mr. Elliott has the choir well in hand now, where before they could scarce sing in unison, and he is gathering funds to restore the stained-glass windows.”

“Assisting us with the Fete can only help him in that endeavor,” said Lady Edgemere. “By the time we are finished, we will have spoken to every family in the neighborhood. I am sure a small word to them about the windows will not come amiss.”

Mr. Whitig laughed. “Lady Edgemere, I do admire the way your mind works!”

“Thank you, Mr. Whitig.”

“Shall we all repair to our little drawing room for some sherry?” asked the plump little Mrs. Whitig. “And perhaps Mr. Elliott and Miss Barclay would favor us with some music? Lady Edgemere told me she has never heard anything so sweet as your duet.”

Mr. Elliott glanced shyly at Julia and said, “I would be deeply honored to play accompaniment for Miss Barclay again.”

I just wager you would, Marcus thought sourly. But he just smiled and said, “What a rare treat, indeed.”

Julia looked at him suspiciously. His smile widened.

***

“What a lovely evening,” Julia remarked, as they turned out of the vicarage gate onto the road in Marcus’s light curricle. It was such a warm autumn night that they had left the closed carriage at home. That was the agreed-upon excuse, anyway; neither of them wanted to speak again of what had happened the last time they were alone in the dark carriage. “I do so much prefer small parties, don’t you, Marcus?”

“Mm-hmm,” Marcus murmured.

“The conversation is so much more comfortable. And was Mr. Elliott’s playing not exquisite?”

“He was too loud,” Marcus said. “Your singing is much finer than his playing, but he was so noisy you could scarce be heard.”

Julia looked at him in surprise. “Why, Marcus, did you just compliment my singing?”

“Of course. You have a beautiful voice.”

“How very sweet of you! No one ever complimented my singing before.”

Now it was Marcus’s turn to be surprised. “How could they not?”

“Well, my mother had a glorious voice, you see. While I had lessons when I was young, and Mother often made me sing at parties, people would always say, ‘Oh, she has a sweet voice, but she will never be her mother’s equal.’”

Marcus snorted. “That is ridiculous.”

“Indeed it was. Almost as ridiculous as your unfounded dislike of Mr. Elliott.”

“Why do you think I dislike the man?”

“Oh, I do not know. I believe it must be the way your lips pinch together when you look at him. Or the way your nostrils flare, as if you were smelling something foul. Or . . .”

“Enough! All right, perhaps Mr. Elliott and I will never be cronies. But I am sure he is very worthy in his profession.”

“He is very worthy.” Julia leaned back against the seat with a sigh, and looked out contentedly at the night. “Is it not beautiful tonight? The perfect autumn evening. I only hope this weather stays until after the Fete.”

“Yes.” Marcus turned the horses down the lane that led eventually to Rosemount. “May I ask you something about the Fete, Julia?”

“Of course.”

“Why, after I left, was it still held at Edgemere Park and not at Rosemount? It had been at Rosemount for as long as I can remember. Did your mother not wish to host it?”

Julia hesitated for a moment, toying with the fringes of her Indian cashmere shawl. Then she said, “The truth is, Marcus, that my mother felt too . . . well, too insecure to host the Fete.”

“Your mother? The famous Anna Barclay? Insecure?”

“I know it sounds ridiculous, and Gerald told her that many times. My mother was supremely confident in her art; she was a fine actress, and she knew it. She worked hard for it. Being a countess was very new to her. She wanted to be as perfect at it as she was on the stage. The Fete was simply far too much for her that first year, and after, when she felt more sure of herself, it was just easier to go on having the Fete at Edgemere Park. Mother hosted a large Christmas ball instead.”

Marcus mulled over this in silence. When he had been gone from Rosemount, he had often imagined his father’s wife flaunting her new position, redecorating Rosemount, giving lavish balls, and having her wild friends to stay for long house parties.

But now he knew that he had been very wrong. In everything around him, in the elegant furnishings at Rosemount, in the way Lady Edgemere spoke of her, and most especially in her refined daughter, Marcus saw how badly he had misjudged Anna Barclay. She had not been vulgar and grasping; she had been a true lady. Just like her daughter.

His father had known that. He had seen the true beauty of Anna and Julia, whereas he, Marcus, had been nothing but a blind, snobbish fool.

Never had he felt more ashamed than he did in that moment.

He looked over at Julia, who was watching him with a puzzled air. How he longed to put his arms around her, to beg her forgiveness for the foolish, callow boy he had been! If he could only have those four years back, how differently he would do everything.

But that was impossible, and well he knew it. All he had was the present moment.

He drew up on the reins, bringing them to a standstill in the middle of the lane.

“Why are we stopping?” Julia asked. “Is something amiss?”

“Would you walk with me, Julia?” he said, his voice rather hoarse.

“What do you mean? Get down right here and walk?” Julia looked as if she rather feared he had lost his mind.

“If we go down that pathway there, we could walk to the stones,” he answered. “The carriage will be fine for a while, if we leave it in the shadows.”

“Marcus . . .”

“Please, Julia. Walk with me to the stones.”

She nodded slowly. “All right. Yes.”

Julia led the way again as they made their way to the stone circle. The moonlight was much dimmer than it had been on their last visit, but she knew the way by rote. She turned left at the special oak tree, and they were in the clearing.

She walked into the middle of the circle and looked back over her shoulder at Marcus. He looked more solemn than she had ever seen him, more haunted.

If anyone had ever had need of the magic of the stones, it was Marcus. Yet she had no idea why that could be. He had been rather quiet at supper, true, but he had seemed to have a pleasant time. Surely this new melancholy had to do with something other than a petty jealousy of Mr. Elliott.

Julia wanted to shake Marcus, to demand that he tell her what was wrong and how she could make it better. She knew that would never work, though, so she just sat down on the flat rock and watched him as he paced the perimeter of the stones.

Finally, he came and stood beside her.

“Would you tell me how my father met your mother?” he said quietly.

Julia stared up at him, certain she had not heard him right. Why would he, who had quarreled so violently with Gerald about her mother, want to know that?

Her first instinct was to not say anything, to hug her precious memories of Gerald and her mother close to her. They were more valuable than rubies to her, all she had left. Selfishly, she wanted to guard them.

Then Marcus said, “I know why you hesitate, Julia, and I do not blame you for it. But I promise I mean no mockery at all. I truly want to know.”

Julia studied him carefully. All she saw in his eyes was sincerity.

She slid over on the rock, and he sat down beside her. “Gerald came to see Mother perform in London, in
The Merchant of Venice
,” she began.

“Like the portrait in the drawing room.”

“Yes. He came every night for a week, and sent her a bouquet and a note each of those nights. Mother thought he was just like all the others who sent her letters and gifts, and she refused to meet him.” Julia looked at Marcus rather defensively. “She
always
refused to meet any of them. There was never any man in her life after my father died.”

“I know that now, Julia. So how did my father finally catch her attention?”

“He sent her one last letter, a very long one, in which he told her why he found her Portia so very superior to every other actress’s he had ever seen. He had a great knowledge of Shakespeare, you know.”

“Yes.” Marcus smiled faintly. “He always tried to impart it to me, with not much success, I fear. He dazzled your mother with his love of the Bard, did he?”

“Well, perhaps dazzled is the wrong word. But it won him a meeting. He came to tea at our house, and if he was surprised to find that he had to share the time with my mother with her young daughter, he gave no indication. He talked with both of us for a very long time, about so many things. Gerald was so charming. Just like his son!”

Marcus laughed. “My father’s charm far exceeded any I might have.”

“Not at all. You are very much like your father. Anyway, after that he was a regular caller. He took us driving in the park and to Gunter’s for ices. One night, when my mother did not have to be on the stage, he even took us to Vauxhall to see the fireworks. After only a month, he asked my mother to marry him, and she said yes.” Julia turned to look steadily at Marcus. “She loved your father very much, and she made him happy during their marriage. Just as he made her happy.”

“I am glad, Julia. More than I can express, I am glad that they found happiness together.” He took her hand in his and held it very tightly. “I cannot apologize to your mother, for she is beyond me. So I must beg forgiveness of you, Julia, on her behalf.”

Julia stared at him, shocked. “Oh, Marcus, I scarce know what to say.”

“You can say you forgive me,” he said hopefully.

“You had my forgiveness a long time ago. You had my mother’s, too. Nobody was ever more understanding of human foibles than she. She had seen it all in the plays she performed, and she said you were only young and confused. That you only needed to find your own way, and she was confident that you would. And so you have!”

Had he? Marcus was not so certain. But it did feel as if a great weight had been lifted from his heart. “Thank you, Julia, for sharing this with me.”

“Thank
you
, Marcus, for allowing me to tell you. I miss them so much. Having someone to share them with seems to bring them back to me.”

“Yes. To me as well.” He looked about them, at the tranquil stones. “I have kept you far too late. You must be cold and tired.”

Julia rubbed at her suddenly throbbing temple. “Very tired, indeed.” But very happy, as well.

Chapter Fifteen

Come, woo me, woo me; for now I am in a

holiday humor, and like enough to consent.

—
As You Like It

The day of the Harvest Fete dawned bright and warm, with all the colors of the autumn trees at the peak of their brilliant reds and golds. A perfect day for merriment.

Everyone arrived early to fill the booths with food and handiwork, and by noon it seemed the entire county filled Rosemount’s grounds. The scent of roasted corn and meats and baked cakes hung in the warm air. Families gathered on blankets beneath the shade of the trees for picnics, while young couples could be seen slipping in and out of the summerhouse for quick kisses. Little children, their faces sticky with jam and toffee, watched the jugglers and musicians in awe.

Julia strolled among all the chatter and laughter, surveying the bright scene with great satisfaction. She had been awake very late the night before, putting all the finishing touches in place. It seemed worth every sleepless moment now, as she looked about at all the excited, happy faces.

Rosemount was at last coming to life again, after its long mourning. Just as Julia’s heart had felt alive again these last days with Marcus.

She turned at the end of the booth-lined pathway to look back at the house. All the windows were thrown open, with long silk banners hanging from their sills that dressed the gray stone in crimson and yellow gaiety. Mary and Daphne, who had shed their black housemaids’ frocks for their own dresses of pink and yellow muslin, had organized a game of blindman’s buff for the children on the terrace. They were using Ned for their first victim, and he stumbled about comically, grabbing for the gleefully shrieking children.

Julia smiled as she watched them. This was what Rosemount needed—life, and children.

And, oh, how she wished they could be
her
children. She could just see them here, a sturdy little boy and a curly-haired little girl, running about, laughing, and making their sweet faces sticky with toffee. They would wave to her and call out, “Mama, Mama, watch me!” as they dashed off to some mischief.

Then her daydream shifted, and she saw their father grab them up in a hug and kiss their plump cheeks as they giggled and squirmed. In her imagination, he turned to her, and it was—Marcus.

The children had his dark, silky curls and her hazel eyes.

Julia gasped at the stab of longing, and the fragile bubble of her vision burst in the face of reality. She stood alone, among a great crowd of happy families. And Marcus was strolling among the flower beds with Lady Angela Fleming.

Julia could see them from where she stood, could see Lady Angela’s gloved hand on his arm and the silk roses on her bonnet bobbing near his shoulder. She might as well dream of going to the moon as of having children with Marcus. As of having Rosemount for her home forever and raising a family there.

She felt tears prickling at her lashes and wiped at them impatiently with the back of her hand. This was no time for such maudlin thoughts! This was to be a day of celebration, of enjoyment. She refused to ruin anyone’s fun, even her own, on such a day.

So she straightened her wide-brimmed, ribbon-trimmed straw hat and walked on to survey the rest of the crowd.

On the next row of booths, she encountered Mr. Elliott, who broke away from the giggling gaggles of girls that surrounded him and fell into step with Julia.

“What a successful Fete it has been, Miss Barclay!” he said. “It is my first one here, of course, but several people have told me that it is the finest one they have ever attended.”

“The day is not yet over, Mr. Elliott,” Julia answered. “But I think we can safely say that, barring something like an unforeseen rainstorm, it will be a grand Fete.”

“Indeed it will. Thanks to all your hard work, Miss Barclay.”

“And yours, Mr. Elliott.”

They strolled along for a while in companionable silence, occasionally stopping to chat with groups of people or to sample one of the booths’ culinary wares. When they reached the little summerhouse, all the young couples fled, tossing guilty looks in the curate’s direction.

“I sense that Mr. Whitig and myself will soon have many banns to read,” Mr. Elliott commented as they sat down on one of the deserted benches.

Julia stretched her tired feet in her kid half boots, deeply grateful for the chance to sit. “I am certain you will. But if they wish to wed before winter comes, they had best hie themselves off to Gretna Green.” As her mother and Gerald had. Julia smiled to recall their hasty but oddly sweet and romantic nuptials.

“Oh, no,” Mr. Elliott said, shocked. “Surely they would want a proper, sanctioned wedding. Doesn’t everyone?” He paused. “Don’t you, Miss Barclay?”

“Want a proper wedding?” Of course she did. A lace veil, white rosebuds, a cake, and all the trimmings. That had to come before the curly-haired children.

She shook her head as maudlin thoughts threatened again. “Certainly I want a proper wedding,” she murmured. “One day.”

Mr. Elliott leaned closer, his expression deeply earnest. “Miss Barclay, I told you the other day that there was something I wanted to speak with you about. I know that this is not the proper time, but may I call on you? Tomorrow, perhaps?”

Julia knew what he was asking. He had been so attentive throughout the planning for the Fete, and Mr. Elliott was much too respectable a man to pay such attention to just any woman. He had also commented several times on how sensible she was, how efficient, and what a good “helpmate” she would be for a man of the church.

She studied his earnest, handsome face carefully, trying to insert him into her daydreams of weddings and children.

He was quite good-looking; that was undeniable. And he had a good heart and was devoted to his work. If she married him, they would have an eminently respectable life together. They would never have a home as grand as Rosemount, of course, but very soon he would surely have his own living and there would be a comfortable vicarage. They could read Shakespeare together in the evenings; she would do good works in the parish.

It all seemed very cozy. But, despite his basic goodness, Mr. Elliott had no spark of humor about him. Their children would not giggle and make mischief, like the children in her vision, like she had herself as a child. They would solemnly work on their lessons and give her no trouble.

Was that really what she wanted for her life?

Then she looked back out over the garden and saw Marcus and Lady Angela walking there, sharing a ginger cake, laughing and talking.

She turned away from them, back to Mr. Elliott. He waited for her response, his calm eyes patient.

Well, the least she could do was hear the man out. “Very well,” she said. “You may call on me one day next week.”

***

“Psst, Abby! Look at that.” Mary tugged at Abelard’s sleeve, nearly causing him to spill the tray of lemon tarts he was offering to passersby.

“What is it, Mary?” he muttered out of the side of his mouth. “Can’t you see I’m butlering?”

“But look over there! Beside the summerhouse.”

Abelard looked—and almost dropped the tray anyway. Julia stood there, posed in a sweet scene with a gentleman who was just raising her hand to his lips for a kiss. The trouble was, it was the wrong gentleman. It was not Lord Ellston; it was Mr. Elliott, the curate.

“That obnoxious little minister,” Abelard growled.

“He’s not a minister yet. He’s just the curate.” Even though Mr. Elliott was too far away to see her, Mary patted the blonde curls that had been disarranged by blindman’s buff back into place. “It looks like we need a plan, if Julia and his lordship are going to be together. It would break poor Julia’s heart to leave Rosemount.”

“You are quite right, Mary,” Abelard said slowly. “We do need a plan, and we need to put it in effect tonight, at the ball. Tell the others to meet at the dower house in an hour.”

***

“You look so pretty, Miss Barclay.” Elly sighed as she put the final touches on Julia’s coiffure for the ball. “Just like an angel.”

“Thank you, Elly,” Julia said, trying not to squirm nervously on her dressing table bench. “Are you sure I shouldn’t wear the green velvet, instead?”

“Oh, no, miss. This is perfect.”

There had been no time to have a new gown made, and all of her mother’s other dresses had already been seen in public, so Julia had just redone one of her own gowns. It was of white muslin, falling in classically simple lines from its high waist and rounded neckline.

Julia had removed the white frill of lace that used to trim that neckline and replaced it with turquoise satin ribbon. More of the ribbon encircled the waistline and threaded through her upswept hair. It was to match the turquoise scarab Marcus had given her, which hung on its new gold chain about her neck.

“There, now!” Elly stepped back to survey her handiwork. “You are all ready for the ball, miss.”

Julia twisted her head about, examining the smooth chignon of her hair. For once, not a single curl escaped. “Elly, you are a miracle worker.”

Elly blushed a bright pink. “’Twas nothing, miss.”

Mary came running through the door then, without so much as knocking. She wore her neat housemaid’s black again, but her white apron was crooked and her cap lay askew. “Oh, Julia! You are wanted in the . . .” She broke off midword, staring at Julia with wide eyes. “You look beautiful.”

Julia laughed. “You needn’t sound so surprised! I am not such a ragamuffin as all that.”

“Of course you are not. I have just never seen that gown before. And what is that around your neck? Some sort of blue bug?”

Julia touched the turquoise lightly, running her fingertip over the carving. “It is an Egyptian scarab. It brings good fortune.”

“We could all use some of that these days.” Then Mary seemed to remember what she had come running into the room about in the first place. “Oh, you’re wanted down in the wine cellar! There’s some sort of emergency there.”

Julia frowned. The very last thing she needed right before the Harvest Fete ball was an emergency with the wine. “What kind of emergency?”

Mary shrugged. “A wine emergency, I suppose. Or perhaps a sherry emergency. Abelard sent me to fetch you.”

“Then I had best go see about it.” Julia gathered up her gloves, her white lace fan, and her turquoise-colored silk shawl, before going downstairs to avert the “wine emergency.”

***

“Lord Ellston,” Abelard boomed, “I fear you are needed down in the wine cellar. There is an emergency.”

Marcus had just finished dressing for the evening and was carefully placing his emerald-headed stickpin in his cravat when the butler interrupted him.

“An emergency?” he asked, puzzled. “In the wine cellar?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Can’t you take care of it, Douglas? The guests will be arriving in little more than an hour.”

“Oh, no, my lord. I fear only you can resolve this particular emergency. The entire midnight supper could depend on its successful resolution.”

“Oh, well, in that case . . .” Marcus took his blue superfine coat from the chair where it lay and shrugged into it before going downstairs to see to the “emergency.”

***

After Julia and Marcus were both safely dispatched to the wine cellar, Abelard and Mary met in the corridor.

“Julia has gone,” Mary whispered furtively. “Is all in readiness?”

“Ned is waiting for the signal.”

“Excellent!” Mary straightened her cap and pinched at her cheeks to give them some becoming pinkness. “I shall distract Mr. Elliott when he arrives, then.”

***

“Hello?” Julia called out. Her voice echoed hollowly in the cavernous wine cellar. She stepped into the room tentatively, holding the hem of her skirt off the stone floor. Ever since she had been accidentally locked in one of her mother’s small dressing rooms as a child, she had been wary of dark, closed spaces. “Abelard? Are you here?”

“Julia? Is that you?” Marcus stepped from behind a shelf of wine bottles at the far end of the cellar. He held a candle in one hand, and the flickering light illuminated his puzzled features.

“Marcus? Why are you here?”

“I was told there was some sort of emergency. That footman told me it was over here, behind this shelf.”

“What footman?”

“The one who always wears the little plumed cap.”

“Ned,” Julia whispered.

“Why are
you
here, Julia?”

“I was also told there was an emergency.”

“Were you? How odd. Well, there doesn’t seem to be any emergency at all.”

Of course there was not. There was only mischief-making actors.

Julia turned back toward the door at the same instant that it swung shut. There was the rusty creaking of a lock shooting home.

She ran over to the door, banging at the stout, iron-bound oak with her fists. “Let us out right this instant, Abelard! I know what you are trying to do, and if you do not let us out, you will be very, very sorry.”

“Julia? Who are you shouting at? What is the matter?” Marcus hurried down the length of the cellar to her side. He stared dumbly at the closed door. “Why is the door shut?”

“It is locked,” Julia leaned her forehead against the wood and closed her eyes tightly. How she hated dark spaces, and suddenly the spacious cellar seemed to be closing in on her.

“However did the door become locked?”

Julia shook her head wordlessly.

Marcus banged his fist on the door, shouting, “Hello! Let us out! We’re trapped in here.”

Julia winced at the word “trapped.” “There’s no one there. They can’t hear us.”

“How do you know that?”

“I just know.”

“Then we will just have to wait for them to come back. Surely we will be missed before the guests start to arrive.”

Julia shook her head again, her eyes still closed.

Then Marcus really
looked
at her, for the first time since the door slammed shut. She was white as snow in the candlelight, and her slender shoulders were trembling. Her shawl lay in a puddle at her feet.

“Julia?” he said quietly. “Are you quite all right?”