Miss Cresswell's London Triumph (8 page)

Cassie, who could barely keep her own lip from quivering at the thought of Frances and Lord Mainwaring relegated to the card room with the likes of Sir Lucius and Lady Taylor, wondered how her sister was able to keep her countenance. A surreptitious glance over her shoulder at her twin revealed that Freddie, quietly convulsed behind her, was even less successful than she at containing his mirth.

Arabella did not look best pleased to have her tete-a-tete interrupted, but she recovered quickly and followed her mother to the door. Just as Higgins was preparing to usher the ladies to their carriage she stopped and, as if struck by a sudden thought, exclaimed, "Ned, why do you not accompany us? Our appointment is not so pressing that we may not take a turn around the park before consigning ourselves to an afternoon with Madame Celestine."

If Ned was somewhat taken aback at being invited to leave directly he had arrived, he did not exhibit the least sign of discomposure. Instead he assisted each of the ladies into the carriage, remarking, "It has been so long since I have been in such a salubrious climate that I welcome every opportunity to enjoy it, especially in the company of two such charming companions."

Arabella simpered complacently and even her mother's somewhat wooden countenance relaxed into the semblance of a smile.

Those left behind in the drawing room were left to react as they would to Arabella's stratagems. "Well, of all the impudent..." Cassie sputtered. "She never gave Ned the slightest opportunity to speak for himself."

"Arf," agreed Wellington, whose own nose had been put slightly out of joint because his old friend had been so occupied by that fussy Arabella who had never liked dogs that he had not even acknowledged Wellington's furiously wagging tail and smile of greeting. "I should have barked to get his attention," he confided to Nelson. "But that would have displeased Frances." With a gusty sigh he dropped his nose between his paws and stared into the fire.

"Don't refine upon it too much, Cass," admonished Freddie. "He didn't seem to be the least put out."

"His wits must have gone begging then," Cassie snapped as she went to collect her bonnet and pelisse before seeking the more rational companionship of Horace and the comte.

Cassie's spirits, which had been somewhat dampened by the alacrity with which Ned had gone off with Arabella, were restored by the warmth of her reception in Hanover Square.

"Ma chere Cassie, how happy we are to see you!" exclaimed the comte as his general factotum, the lugubrious Jacques, ushered her into the study. "We have been arguing ... no, discussing, the theme represented on this frieze. I believe it to be a procession from the celebration of the Panathenaea, but Horace here has his doubts."

Picking her way carefully among the bits of frieze here, a torso there, Cassie made her way slowly to the one clear patch of floor that the comte and Horace had left for themselves. Horace, who had been frowning in concentration over a section of frieze, looked up as she approached, remarking, "I don't believe it could be the Panathenaea because nowhere is there any representation of the olive wood figure of Athena which was essential to the ceremony. Furthermore, there are too many male figures for it to be the procession."

Cassie studied the figures, stepping first to one side and then the other and moving away from it as far back as the clutter would allow. For some time she remained deep in thought, her eyes fixed on the figure of a child handing something to an adult. Horace, glancing surreptitiously at her face, thought the way she bit her lip in concentration infinitely more charming than all the dimpled smiles and simpers cast his way at the various social affairs his mother had forced him to attend. He was far more attracted to her in her total absorption in the frieze than he had ever been to any woman, even those who had lavished their most seductive attentions on him. Here was someone as oblivious as he to the rest of the world, someone who was not only as uninterested as he was in the vagaries of fashion or the latest on-dits, but whose concentration was fixed on the same concerns as his. In all his years of study he had only found one person who shared his passion for antiquity—the Comte de Vaudron. For Horace, misunderstood by his family and ignored by his peers, this friendship had provided the most rewarding companionship he had ever known. Now here was someone his own age who, in addition to understanding his enthusiasm, entered into it as wholeheartedly as he. To Horace such a state of affairs was nothing short of a miracle and he regarded Cassie with a mixture of reverence and awe that he had never felt before in his life.

"Ah, yes." Cassie's brows cleared and she replied, "I regret that I agree with the comte, Horace. Surely this figure is that of a girl handing the new peplos, woven to cover the image of Athena, to a magistrate. I am sorry to disagree with you." Here Cassie flashed such a charming, apologetic smile at the young man sitting at her feet that it quite took his breath away. The admiration he'd felt toward a revered scholar's daughter suddenly metamorphosed into something more potent, and for the first time he was fully aware of Cassandra as a beautiful, vital woman. He sat stunned by the intensity of these new emotions.

Meanwhile, Cassie, oblivious to the powerful effect she was having, turned to the comte for confirmation of her theory as she speculated, "It is true that the figure could be either male or female, but the form looks to be more feminine, don't you think?"

The comte smiled at his protege. "I had not previously thought of that as being the peplos, but that is an excellent interpretation. I quite agree with you ma chere. "He was looking at Cassie as he answered, but as his glance fell on Horace, transfixed by his private revelations, the smile deepened to one of amused contemplation. Aha, we have here the beginning of a passion for something other than the dust of antiquity, he muttered silently to himself. Such a situation will bear some watching.

Cassie took up a pen, looking expectantly at the comte. "How would you wish this described in the catalog, then?"

He waved a hand toward the manuscript of the catalog, responding airily, "Oh, I absolutely leave it to you, ma chere, as your reasoning behind your attribution of it as the Panathenaic procession has far more merit than our humble interpretations. Write what you wish." Turning to Horace with an impish twinkle, he remarked, "This Cassie is a scholar, non? I warned you she would put us on our mettle." A blank look was all the response he elicited, so he continued, "We must not get on our high ropes merely because she arrives and answers in a few minutes the question that has been dominating our discussion the entire morning, hein?"

"Yeeeeeees," Horace responded vaguely as he slowly returned to reality. He continued in a more punctilious tone, "But surely we should discuss this with others who are equally well read in these
matters. It would be most disadvantageous to put forth such an interpretation without having consulted many more sources and explored every avenue of thought in a work that is to serve as a guide for future generations."

"Relax, mon brave," adjured the comte. "Who is more well informed than we? Who has spent more time with these chefs d'oeuvres than we? Remember"—he held up a cautionary hand—"the best, most judicious interpretations are those that mingle instinct with learning, and emotion with intellect. Cassandra and I looked at the figure presenting the object and both of us instinctively felt it was a girl. This then led us to the more refined and rational conclusion that it was a peplos that was being offered. You, on the other hand, looked at the procession and, applying only your knowledge, assumed the procession to be dominantly male and therefore could not explain the reason for such a procession or interpret the identity of the object. This is not to say, of course, that ours is necessarily the correct interpretation," he continued fair-mindedly, "but our trust in our immediate responses gave us perhaps a richer interpretation."

He laid a reassuring hand on the young man's shoulder, adding, "I can see you are disturbed. Do not distress yourself, mon ami. To cultivate the mind is all very well, but one must not do so at the expense of the other faculties. I think now we require some refreshment, non?" After ringing unsuccessfully for Jacques, the comte strolled off in search of him while Horace, prey to a variety of conflicting emotions, turned to stare out the window.

He was not the only one staring vacantly at the gardens outside the library. Cassie, who had been scribbling furiously at the onset of their discussion, had written progressively more slowly as unwelcome thoughts from earlier in the day returned. At first at a loss to explain her general malaise, she began to examine her feelings more closely and realized, much to her surprise, that she felt betrayed. She should have been glad that Arabella, who had so callously spurned someone as fine as Ned, should now be so eager to capture his attention. And you are glad, she admonished herself severely. He deserves, he always deserved, admiration. But how can he be taken in by such an about-face? she wondered. Surely he must see that she only wants his attention because he is the ton's latest sensation. Can't he see that she is constant only as long as friendship brings social distinction? How can he not be disgusted by a nature that is only interested in someone who will lend social cachet to her?

But Ned had not only not been disgusted, he had actually looked at Arabella with admiration. That was where the sense of betrayal arose. It came from the fact that someone as intelligent and sensitive as Ned, who had been her constant intellectual companion and ally at countless dull engagements, now seemed as taken in as all the rest by a beautiful countenance, a coquettish manner, and a frivolous mind. Did he value his own mind and interests so little that he would forgo them for the dubious excitement of a flirtation with a pretty ninnyhammer? His pursuit of Arabella seemed to be a rejection of all they had once appreciated and shared. Not only was Cassie genuinely puzzled by his fascination with someone whose existence was so antithetical to his former interests, she felt horribly alone—abandoned in some respects—by someone she had counted on above everyone else for understanding and sympathy.

So lost in thought was she that she did not hear Horace approach, nor did she hear his tentative, "Cassandra?" He tried again, a little more loudly this time.

Cassie came to with a start. "Oh, I do beg your pardon. I'm dreadfully sorry, Horace. I didn't hear you. I was woolgathering, I'm afraid," she apologized.

Horace, still coping with his newfound appreciation of her, had crossed the room to invite her to Mr. Glover's recently opened exhibition of oils and watercolors in Bond Street, but the words died on his lips as she turned to apologize to him. The bright light streaming from the window behind her turned her hair to a golden halo framing a face whose half-amused, half-rueful expression at having been so distracted coupled with the remorse at having ignored him made her seem all at once so beautiful and so dear that he was overwhelmed with tenderness. Horace was ordinarily the most punctilious and reserved of men, but before he could stop himself, he had seized her inky hand and pressed it reverently to his lips.

Cassie was stunned. Though she had eschewed much of society and the attendant opportunities for flirtation, she had received her share of compliments. Ordinarily she dismissed such admiration as purely groundless flattery, but Horace had shaken her. The intensity of the genuine admiration she read in his eyes and the fervor with which he devoured her hand with kisses were something she had never before experienced. It was a novel and disturbing sensation to be the object of such attention. Her knees felt weak and she found it difficult to catch her breath.

Horace was the first to recall himself to his surroundings. Flushing a deep scarlet, he gasped, "Please forgive me...I never meant to ... I wouldn't for the world cause you distress. I can't think how I came to forget myself. It is just that I admire you so greatly. Lady Cassandra, and you looked so beautiful. . ."He blushed even more deeply, if such a thing were possible, and stumbled on, "I apologize for allowing my feelings to run away with me and subjecting you to such a vulgar display."

Cassie, once she had a chance to recover from the shock of it all, found herself wishing he would stop disavowing his actions. The idea of being truly admired by one whose mind was generally occupied by higher things was an appealing one and she found it most intriguing to be the subject of such passionate protests from a young man who, if the comte and others were to be believed, had hitherto had no thoughts for anything but his work.

Fortunately for both Cassie and Horace, struggling in the grip of new and strangely intense emotions, the comte and Jacques returned, bringing welcome distraction. Tea was set out and the bustle of serving allowed them time to recover their equanimity, but not before the shrewd eyes of the comte had taken in the entire scene and reconstructed with amazing accuracy the events that must have led up to it. So, the little Cassie is becoming a woman, he thought to himself. Bon. It will do her a great deal of good to be distracted from her books. Perhaps she will begin to be a little more pleasure seeking, and Horace, too. He smiled in satisfaction as he accepted a cup of tea from Jacques.

Ned astride Brutus, a high-spirited bay that was the envy of all those who had seen him purchase it at Tatter sail's immediately upon his return, was savoring the pleasure of accompanying the Taylor ladies through the park on such a fine day. The flowers were in full bloom, the air was newly washed from an early-morning shower, and the whole world seemed lush and filled with promise. Once again Ned was struck, as he had been so many times since his return, with how fresh and green it all looked. He reveled in it and all the wonderful smells of England in the spring, which, after the heat and dust of India, made it seem an even more wonderful season than it had before his departure.