Elizabeth Mansfield (15 page)

Letty, her hand trembling in his grasp, stared up at him. How dear he looked to her now, how sincere, and how deeply troubled. She longed to believe him, to trust him, to touch his face and soothe away the frown that creased his forehead. But she forced herself to remember that this very man whose eyes now searched hers with such tender concern had once shown quite another face. She had seen it at Vauxhall Gardens, and she could not forget it. “It’s not that I’m afraid of you, Roger,” she said at last, “but that …”

“Yes?”

“That I am … promised … to someone else,” she said hesitantly.

She saw his cheeks whiten.
“Promised—?”
He could barely say the word.

Letty nodded and removed her hand from his grasp, which had now grown slack. “Yes. I’ve
been … betrothed for some weeks now.”

“But you never … ! I had not heard a
word
—!”

“We’ve had to keep our plans secret. My family would oppose him, you see. They keep hoping that I …” She flicked a quick glance at his face.

Roger nodded in understanding. “That you will accept
me,
” he finished for her.

Letty clasped her trembling hands together in her lap and lowered her eyes, aware that he was staring at her incredulously. “You know him, of course …” she said, to make sure he didn’t doubt her word.

“Do I?” he asked in surprise.

“Yes. Brandon Peake.”

“Brandon!” His voice was shocked.

“You needn’t sound so surprised,” she said defensively. “You’d find him an intelligent and thoughtful person, once you grew to know him.”

“Yes, of course he is. I know that already,” Roger assured her with perfect sincerity. “I find him a most admirable and likable young man. I … most earnestly wish you every happiness.”

Letty murmured a thank-you and kept her eyes fixed on her hands. She had never felt so completely miserable. “F-forgive me for … for not telling you before,” she said lamely.

“There’s nothing to forgive. You owe me no explanations or apologies. It is
I
who should apologize for forcing my attentions on you.”

Unwittingly, Letty’s hand went out to him. “No, please,” she said gently, “you mustn’t think … I have never felt that you’ve been in any way … displeasing. You’ve always shown me the utmost courtesy and … and …”

“Thank you, my dear,” Roger said with a wry smile, “but I have a very clear recollection of at least one time when my … er … attentions must have seemed in excess of what a betrothed young lady could consider desirable.”

Letty, remembering that her
own
reactions to that kiss in the curricle were in excess of what would be considered desirable in a betrothed young lady, colored to her ears. But Roger, who was jumping down from the wall, did not notice. He stood in thought for a while and then seemed to pull himself together. Turning to her, he grasped her by the waist, lifted her gently, and set her on the ground. For a moment he held her against him and smiled wistfully down at her. “Your Brandon is a damnably lucky fellow,” he murmured, and then abruptly let her go. He took her hand and led her to the chapel where they found Gladys Summer-Smythe on the arm of Mr. Woodward, examining with feigned interest the magnificent vaulted ceiling. Leaving Letty in Mr. Woodward’s charge, Roger made a bow and left them. He was not seen by them again that afternoon.

More than an hour later, having somewhat dissipated his disappointment and frustration by striding through the narrow lanes and byways of the tiny city, Roger began to feel more in command of himself. Thinking longingly of the solace of a glass of good brandy, he made his way back to the inn where he bespoke a private parlor and a glass of the best brandy in the house. The innkeeper complied in the leisurely style of country service, remarking as he poured the brandy that, “T‘other young gent ain’t come down from ’is room as yet.”

“Other young gent?” Roger asked, puzzled. “Whom do you mean?”

“The gent ’oo come in with your party,” the innkeeper explained. “The one wi’ the bad leg.”

“Bad leg? I can’t imagine—” Then Roger realized that he had not seen Brandon all afternoon. “Are you speaking of a rather short young man with spectacles?”

“Yessir, that’s the very one.”

“You say he had a bad leg? You’d best take me to him at once,” Roger said, rising hastily, his brandy forgotten.

He found Brandon stretched out on the bed, his brow wrinkled in pain, his arm thrown over his face. “Good Lord, Brandon,” Roger said, dismayed, “what’s amiss here?”

Brandon, startled, sat up abruptly and attempted to smile. “Oh, are you all back already? Don’t look so troubled. It’s nothing to speak of. I only twisted my ankle and decided not to march about the cathedral on it, that’s all.”

Roger took note of the whiteness of his lips and the tension in his face and was not taken in. “We are not
all
back, only I. So you needn’t play the hero for my benefit. Let’s have your boot off so that I can have a look at that ankle of yours.”

Brandon was tremendously relieved to share his problem with someone as purposeful as Lord Denham, but he nevertheless was reluctant to make a fuss over what he knew was only a minor injury, the pain notwithstanding. “I don’t think we should remove my boot,” he demurred. “We won’t be able to put it back on again, I’m afraid, and then everyone will see and make a great to-do—”

Roger had been feeling the ankle through the boot and shook his head in kind but firm disagreement. “I’m afraid you’ll have to withstand a to-do, my boy. You’ve been subjecting yourself to needless suffering by keeping the boot on. Much as I admire your courage, I see no reason for you to endure unnecessary agony.”

“But taking the boot off will be worse than anything,” Brandon admitted fearfully. “Can’t it wait until I get home?”

“Taking the boot off will be impossible now, I fear. Your ankle has become so swollen, we’ll have to
cut
the boot off. But cutting it off won’t cause you much discomfort, I promise, and the relief of removing it will be a positive blessing.” With those comforting words, he turned to the landlord and ordered the necessary implements and the bottle of brandy.

When the innkeeper returned, Roger urged Brandon to drink a good quantity of brandy before he set to work cutting off the boot. But Brandon, not accustomed to drink, was reluctant. “I can bear it,” he said manfully. “I don’t need spirits to give me courage. Go ahead and cut.”

Roger grinned at him. “Quite the hero, aren’t you? No wonder Letty prefers you to me.”

Brandon shot a startled glance at Roger’s face. “Oh,” he said with an agitated tremor in his voice, “did she … tell you about that?”

“Yes, she did. Do you mind?”

“Well, I had hoped she wouldn’t have to—” Brandon began.

“But she
did
have to. I was forcing my attentions on her again, you see.”

Brandon worriedly studied Roger’s face, but Roger seemed to be quite calm and unconcerned. Nevertheless, a pervading sense of guilt depressed Brandon’s spirits. Roger Denham had always been more than kind and generous to him, and even now was doing his best to help Brandon out of this fix that his ankle had caused. To repay Roger with a lie—to let him believe in this false betrothal to Letty—was beyond anything. He regretted with all his heart that he had given his word to Letty. But there was nothing he could do now. With a hopeless sigh, he reached for the brandy. “I think I
will
take that drink after all,” he said.

By the time the others returned to the inn, Brandon was seated downstairs in the private parlor, his leg freed from the constricting boot and his ankle neatly bound with strips of cloth and propped up before him on a cushioned stool. The high color of his face, the foolishness of his smile, and the brandy glass in his hand gave instant evidence that he was, if not quite cast away, at least gloriously tipsy. As he had predicted, a great fuss was made over him, especially by his mother who, when they went to the
carriages for their return to Bath, insisted that he sit next to her in the barouche to permit her to administer whatever aid he should require on the journey. Since the only aid she offered was to wring her hands and make repeated comments on the Peake family’s tendency to adversity and misfortune, Brandon wisely turned away from her, closed his eyes, and fell into a stertorous sleep.

The occupants of the other two carriages were not much more cheerful. Roger was forced to drive the vapid Miss Summer-Smythe in his curricle, and after responding to her inanities for half an hour, he found himself gritting his teeth in impatience. As a result, he urged his horses into a wild gallop, frightening poor Miss Summer-Smythe into a frozen tension and completing the more-than-three-hour journey in less than two.

In the phaeton, Mr. Woodward and Osbert were at first overjoyed to find themselves squiring the two Misses Glendenning, but they soon noticed that their quips and pleasantries fell on deaf ears. The two girls sat side by side in a dismal, abstracted silence. Prue’s thoughts were completely occupied with guilt and self-loathing. She had caused Brandon to sprain his ankle. She remembered saying to Letty one morning that she hoped he’d broken a leg. She hadn’t meant it, of course, but it was as if she’d put a curse on him. And tonight, at the inn, when she’d tried to apologize to him, he’d turned away from her. She had ruined everything. Brandon, so serious, so sensible and reliable, was the only man whose good opinion she desired. For him, she would enjoy curbing her impetuosity and controlling her flirtatious behavior. But she had pushed him from the carriage and injured him. How could she expect him to forgive her when she could not forgive herself? She had lost forever the chance to show him what a truly lovable girl she could be if she tried.

Letty, too, was wrapped in misery. She could hear Roger’s voice saying, “I do love you, you know.” Even in her dreams she had not permitted herself to imagine his voice saying those words to her. But he’d said them. It had happened in a reality more wonderful and more terrible than any dream. His eyes had been lit with such warmth and confidence, and she had snuffed out that light with a couple of words. With a lie. It would have been so easy—so easy!—to have told him the truth, that she loved him to distraction, that she had never loved anyone else, that she wanted nothing more than the feeling of his arms around her. How different this ride home would have been if she had let herself say those things! At this very moment she would have been sitting beside him in the curricle, her head on his shoulder, his arm around her waist, blissfully whispering the sweet things that she imagined lovers say to each other when they are alone together.

But she could not let herself dwell on the might-have-been. She had thought the matter through clearly when she’d been calmer and more sensible. She had made what she was certain was the wisest decision under the circumstances. Everything had gone as she had planned. He would not ask her again. If the price she had to pay to see her plans fulfilled meant living in this utterly abject misery, well, she must pay it.

Thus three carriages returned from a pleasure trip with all the passengers disgruntled and more than half their number sunk in deep despondence. When the good nights were finally said, there were not many among them who did not secretly vow to stay closer to home in the future.

Roger had been at home an hour when Lady Denham wearily entered the house after the seemingly endless journey back from Wells. The first sight to greet her eye as she stepped in the door was Roger’s man, Trebbs, climbing the stairs carrying a portmanteau and a small campaign trunk. “What on earth are you doing with those, Trebbs?” she inquired.

“Good evening, my lady,” Trebbs said, turning and setting down the luggage. “I am carrying these up from the storeroom so that I can have them packed by morning.”

“
Packed?
What for?”

“His lordship’s orders, ma’am. He wishes to leave shortly after breakfast.”

“Is his lordship leaving? He said nothing of it to me,” the dowager said, puzzled. “Has he gone to bed?”

“No, my lady. He’s in the study, I believe. Would you like me to find him and send him to you?”

“No, never mind, Trebbs. I’ll find him myself.”

Roger was indeed in the study, a glass of brandy in his hand and a half-empty bottle on the table at his elbow. Although he seemed to be staring at the glass with more-than-ordinary concentration, there was no other evidence that he had been imbibing too deeply. His mother stared at him for a moment with a troubled frown. “What’s this Trebbs has been telling me?” she asked when it became apparent that he was not going to look up from his fascinated contemplation of the contents of his glass. “Do you truly intend to leave tomorrow?”

Roger looked up at her with a rather unfocussed gaze. “Oh, there you are, Mama. Should stand up, o’ course, but can’t seem to use m’ legs.”

“Roger!” his mother said disapprovingly. “You’re
foxed
!”

Roger nodded. “Drunk as a lord,” he declared, and laughed. “Very appropriate saying, that. Drunk ’s an earl might be even better. Tha’s it. Drunk ’s an earl.”

“Well, if you’re drunk, you should
not
be making decisions. Tell Trebbs to stop packing and to get you to bed. In the morning, when you’re more yourself, you won’t want to leave at all,” Lady Denham said firmly, relieved that Roger’s decision to depart was only the result of an alcohol-induced whim.

But Roger shook his head. “No. Made m’ decision before I shot the cat. Cold-sober decision. No point staying here, y’ know. She won’t have me.”

“What are you talking about? You aren’t making a bit of sense. Roger, you sot, we can’t have an intelligent conversation while you’re in this condition.”

“Nothing to discuss, Mama. ’S all very simple, really. She won’t have me. Betrothed already. May ’s well take myself back to London, see? Won’t do any good staying here and brooding.”

Lady Denham was beginning to understand. Her plan had apparently fallen apart. But she was too tired to probe further into the matter now—especially with Roger in this condition. “Take yourself to bed, my boy. That’s my advice to you. We’ll talk about this in the morning.” She went to the door, but before she left the room, she stopped to give him one last warning. “Don’t you try to steal away before I see you in the morning! Do you hear me, Roger? I want your word that you’ll provide me with a
coherent explanation before you desert me.”