Learning to Waltz (25 page)

“We will write, of course. I must know how your social life progresses.”

Deborah’s stomach dropped. She had already received an invitation for an evening at Reston Park the following week, and another for a picnic by the river, and was far from sure that she wanted a social life at all. Especially one where she had no Elizabeth looking out for her.

Later in the afternoon they took tea with Miss Latimer and some of her other houseguests. Then they went to check on the children but found the schoolroom empty. Though Deborah could have no concerns about Julian’s safety in Miss Halley’s capable hands, it was peculiar, and a little unsettling, to be out of touch with him.

Finally they went to Elizabeth’s allotted room to rest and change before dinner. And though she had no expectation of doing so, she fell asleep immediately upon lying down.

Elizabeth pulled her letters from her reticule. With a glance at Deborah’s still form on the bed, she gave them the attention they deserved.

Philip Dusseau

London

April 1

Dearest Lizzy –

I trust you have begun your packing. I have been very patient, I think! I have been cooling my heels in London for a week already. I’ve caught up on things at White’s, practiced my boxing form and hit the target at Manton’s, played innumerable hands of cards, seen a fine production of Le Nozze de Figaro—there will be nothing left for me to do by the time you arrive! The days have been busy enough, and the evenings more so. But how cold the nights with no Lizzy on the other side of the bed.

I’m sorry it’s taken so long to obtain the information you wanted. I offered the man a bonus for prompt performance, hoping to advance the hour, or the minute, when I may next kiss you; but it could not be done. It has finally arrived, however, and I judge it best to forward the whole. Now that you have it, I trust you will bring to a speedy resolution whatever course of action your pretty, clever little head deems appropriate. You are the smartest woman I know, yet you seem to share with all your gender the mysterious conviction that no man is capable of managing his own romantic affairs.

Do come soon! –

Philip

Brown & Sons, Solicitors

Exeter, March 26

Mr. Dusseau:

Herewith the information you engaged me to collect regarding the antecedents of one Deborah Moore, nèe Carlington. I beg your pardon for failing to meet the early deadline you proposed; I was obliged to travel to Liverpool in order to clarify some details and thus suffered some delay. The weather was abominable.

The Carlingtons have held property in Lydford for over a century. The original estate was quite respectable, and the gentleman farmers who owned it likewise. Old Blake Carlington seems to have been a paragon: good to his tenants, careful of his land, and sensible of his status in the community. The incumbent’s father was no such thing, however, and by the time he died, half the acreage had been sold to pay off debts. At the age of seventeen, our subject’s father, Mr. Robert Carlington, inherited the reduced estate along with (by all reports) the cavalier propensities of his sire. He proceeded to gamble his remaining assets on cards and on a variety of investment schemes, not all of which, it must be said, were abject failures.

In 1788 he was plump enough in the pocket to win the hand of Catherine Winthrop, fourth daughter of one John Winthrop. Mr. Winthrop hailed from the landed gentry but was a younger son with few expectations. He involved himself in business and was at this period quite a prominent Liverpool merchant. (Matilda, whom you also mentioned, was his second daughter. There were no sons.) Miss Winthrop was twenty years of age at the time, and there were two other motherless daughters still unmarried. Her father was no doubt happy to make the contract, and the settlements were reasonably generous.

John Winthrop’s primary source of revenue was an extensive and lucrative sugar operation in Barbados. Together with profits from the transshipment of slaves and certain other trading operations, this had kept the family in affluence for some time. Unhappily, circumstances conspired during the several years surrounding Miss Winthrop’s marriage to bring ruin upon them. Ships sank, an overseer absconded with funds, and the slaves revolted; the sugar plantation was lost, and bankruptcy ensued. Winthrop killed himself in 1791, never seeing his granddaughter, Miss Deborah Carlington, who was born in October 1790. The estate went toward payment of debt and all further payments or expectations Mr. Carlington may have had from his father-in-law lapsed. In fact, having invested funds of his own in the plantation, he himself lost a considerable sum.

From this point the tales told by townsfolk in Lydford become increasingly sordid. Rumors abound encompassing all the evils of mankind. Debt, there certainly was; adultery and natural births (including that of his heir, if the stories are true); and also cruelty to his horses and household, extending to his wife, his heir, and possibly Miss Carlington herself. Many villagers appear to have forgotten there ever was a daughter; some hint that she was murdered by her father. Clearly that is not the case, and we must question the veracity of the other claims as well. In any event, the years following Miss Carlington’s birth are outside the scope of my employment.

I hope this information is of use to you, and trust that if I can ever serve you further, etc etc.

Inspecting the reincarnation of her gown in the mirror, Deborah was vain enough to be pleased. Elizabeth had brought her dresser to work some wonder on her hair, involving Elizabeth’s ribbons and enameled combs and a ridiculous amount of time. It was nothing she could recreate for herself if she had a week to devote to the task.

More and more as their acquaintance proceeded, Deborah had seen reflections of Evan in his sister’s face and never more so than this evening. Elizabeth watched as Deborah’s hair was coaxed into place, offering an occasional comment or a third hand when needed. Deborah watched the sister in the mirror and wished: that he had never come into her life at all, or that she could undo all that had passed between them, or that she might find him standing at the foot of the staircase in evening dress awaiting her descent, with eyes only for her…

Well, it would not happen tonight. It would never happen. She could only hope Elizabeth would ascribe her distraction to nerves. Evan had seldom been mentioned between the two women, yet Deborah was quite sure Elizabeth knew how she felt about him. She might chatter like a sparrow, but her bright eyes missed very little.

“There now, ma’am,” said Francine at last. “Nod your head and shake it just a bit…  Yes, that will do.”

“Indeed it will!” Elizabeth exclaimed with the clap of her hands that said
Magic has been done!
“I don’t think you have any idea how pretty you are.”

Deborah wrinkled up her nose in reply. She handed Francine a half crown she could ill afford, but the woman pulled back. “Oh, no, ma’am. I can’t take that.” Though she was happy to keep her money, Deborah felt herself blush at the misstep.

She set aside her unhappy thoughts. Tonight she must repay Elizabeth for her attention, her support, and her friendship. She pulled on her borrowed gloves and summoned the smile that would be her mask through the coming ordeal.

“Do we have time to visit the children? I promised Julian.”

“No, but we’ll do it anyway.” Their silks rustled into the hallway and up the stairs to the Manor’s long-disused nursery. “Do you think Julian will recognize you? Do you recognize yourself? Your gown turned out beautifully, I think.”

Julian had no problem with his mother’s identity, but it was plain he did not approve of the new look. He hugged her tightly before drawing back and looking dubiously at her. “You smell different.”

“It’s just perfume, sweetling. I will be back to normal tomorrow.” She smoothed his hair from his forehead. He looked exhausted.

“What did you do to your hair?”

“I had it done properly, for once.”

He touched it gingerly. “I don’t like it.”

“Well, that will be back to normal soon enough as well. Now I must run, or I’ll be late for dinner. Someone might scold me.”

Julian giggled. Another quick hug and it was back down the stairs to the drawing room, where they
were
late but not last.

Elizabeth must have worked some magic of her own on the seating arrangements. On Deborah’s right hand at dinner sat the vicar, who attended her as much as possible given the garrulous Latimer aunt on his other side.

“It is good to see you amongst us, Mrs. Moore. I hope your son continues healthy?”

“He is flourishing, Mr. Hepplewhite. Thank you for asking.”

“I do not believe I’ve seen you at services recently. In my official capacity, I am obliged to chide you.” He wagged an admonishing finger at her.

“I have been quite busy. I know I should—”

“You did not let me finish, Mrs. Moore,” he said with a smile, laying his hand on her wrist. “In my
un
official capacity, I can say that it does me good to see you out and about. I hope you will not withdraw again from society after Mrs. Dusseau’s departure.”

“Thank you, sir. I hardly know…” Deborah caught the eye of Mrs. Hepplewhite several seats down on the opposite side. She flinched at the malevolence she saw there, and whatever she’d thought to say flew out of her mind. She applied herself in some confusion to her turtle soup. When she raised her head again, Mr. Hepplewhite was fully occupied with his other dinner partner.

“Ahem,” came from the chair on her left. “It seems, Mrs. Moore, that we have each been deserted for another.”

Deborah turned toward the gentleman. Elizabeth had introduced him before dinner as Mr. Sherill. A handsome man and a bit of a dandy with his high, starched collar and flamboyant waistcoat. She had hardly thought he would have anything to say to her. But peering beyond him, she saw Miss Chiggerford on his left.

He spoke so softly she had to lean toward him to hear his words. “I believe no one can say I did not try. She is quite devoted to her dinner.” His mouth was drawn down at the corners in a mournful expression, but his eyes sparkled with merriment.

Deborah should have been offended by his mockery of the poor woman, but she found herself chuckling instead. She took another sip of wine.

“So,” Mr. Sherill continued, “having done my due diligence, I may follow my preference without blame.”

Deborah smiled a little. “But then, your choices are so limited.”

To her surprise, he threw back his head and laughed. “At the moment they are, but in this case I believe my preference may survive one dinner and come out the other side unscathed.”

Nicely said, sir. We’ll see how you feel at the end of this meal when you’ve had no one to talk to but me.

The dinner looked to be a protracted one as the covers arrived in dizzying profusion. But she laughed too, and drank more wine. It seemed to relax her.
Ask a question, Elizabeth said…