Quiet Meg (14 page)

“I do not intend to marry at all,” Meg said, noting the
other occupants of the box. The only one she recognized
was the petite girl Cabot had danced with at Almack’s.

“You think that will please father?” Louisa asked.

“I … don’t know,” Meg said, turning to look at her sister’s thoughtful face. “Perhaps you and Ferrell will have
enough grandchildren to pacify him.”

“He wants you happy, Margaret”

“I know, Louisa. But it is not something one can manufacture.”

“It is something one might choose”

“And if my choice should only cause unhappiness for
others?” Meg whispered. “What then?”

Louisa hugged her and continued to sit by her side.

“‘Tis said the Comtesse d’Avigne has a wealthy protector,” she went on, observing the box opposite, just as Meg
was. “Someone close to the Regent himself, one of the
Prince’s intimates. The very company Cabot shares there
tonight. The association is surprising, though I must say he
seems remarkably well connected. Ferrell says he is earning quite a reputation for his work.”

Meg dared not make the comment that came to mind,
not after her father’s reprimand. Though it did strike her
that the Comtesse d’Avigne, who had married without love,
need not have demonstrated quite so openly whatever sentiments she now felt. Or at least, not with Cabot.

As she watched him rise from his seat and turn toward
the young brunet, Meg was aware that another gentleman
approached the Lawrences’ supper box. She recognized
Malcolm Wembly at once, though she had not seen him
in almost three years. His hair was now grayer-like her father’s, and perhaps he was not quite as thin. But as
he stepped into the box and smiled easily around at all
of them, his smile was just the same. He turned to her father.

“Eustace, my boy Harry has written to me. He says I cannot go on as I have, and that I must apologize. Harry is quite
right.” Wembly extended his hand. “I apologize, Eustace. And I humbly ask your forgiveness-for being less of a
friend than I ought to have been.”

Her father’s eyes brightened suspiciously as he clasped
Mr. Wembly’s hand. Mr. Wembly turned to Louisa.

I owe you an apology as well, my dear,” he went on.
“And Mr. Ferrell, you are a lucky man.” He reached to shake
Ferrell’s hand, patted Bertram on the shoulder, then looked
with open pleasure at Meg. “Ah, Meg! Are you riding, girl?”

“Yes, Uncle Malcolm. I have Paloma in town.”

“You must join me some morning. I shall call ‘round.”

“I shall look forward to it”

“Hello, muffin” Mr. Wembly took a seat between Sir
Eustace and Lucy and turned to Lucy’s blond head. He had
always called her `muffin.’ “Are you enjoying yourself in
town?”

“Yes, Uncle Malcolm,” Lucy said. “I am seeing absolutely
everything.”

“The only way to see everything, my dear, is to see it
absolutely.”

“Do not encourage her, Malcolm, by speaking nonsense
yourself,” Sir Eustace said, which set the two men to bantering.

Meg had been so focused on Mr. Wembly’s arrival that
she had failed to maintain her study of the opposite box.
Now she realized with dismay that Cabot had answered her
father’s invitation, that he had indeed come across to visit,
and that he had brought the petite brunet with him.

He was dressed again most beautifully, in an immaculate
superfine coat, and as her father had so pointedly remarked
earlier, his smart boots were spotless.

He stood at ease at the front of the box, with the girl at
his side. She was no older than Lucy, tiny and pretty and,
Meg guessed, exceedingly shy, for her gaze repeatedly
sought the ground.

“Well, Cabot,” Sir Eustace said. “Good evening to you.”

“Good evening to you, sir.” He bowed.

“Malcolm Wembly, may I present to you Mr. Charles
Cabot, who rides Arcturus”

“Ah-do you, sir?” It was all the introduction Cabot
needed. Mr. Wembly was out of his seat and vigorously
shaking his hand. “That is very good, very good indeed.
Splendid. You must come see me at Havingsham Hall soon.
I move back this summer.”

“Thank you, Mr. Wembly.” Cabot’s gaze sought Meg’s.
Something about his smile suggested that he remembered
her comment-about attaching the Hall for his landscaping
projects. He placed a hand behind his companion’s slight
shoulders and gently urged her closer to the box.

“Mademoiselle d’Avigne,” he said, “it is my pleasure to
introduce to you Sir Eustace Lawrence of Selbourne and
his family-Mr. Bertram Lawrence, Mrs. Ferrell, Mr. Ferrell, Miss Lawrence, Miss Lucinda Lawrence and here her
friend, Miss Burke. Mr. Wembly is Sir Eustace’s neighbor.”

Lady Candace curtsied very prettily, claimed in heavily
accented English to be delighted to make their acquaintance, then turned to Lucy and asked if she and her friend
Miss Burke might care to take a stroll with them to explore
the gardens.

As Lucy readily agreed, Sir Eustace suggested, “Why
don’t all of you go? ‘Tis a sight to be seen, and we’ve
very little left of our supper on which to gnaw. Yes, move along there, Bertram, Ferrell. Malcolm and I wish to
have some discussion.” As Meg hesitated and retained
her seat her father’s eyebrows rose. “Do go with them, Margaret.”

“I would … rather stay, father.”

“Why so skittish, girl? ‘Tis a large party.” Meg glanced
at Cabot, who lingered behind the rest of the groupwaiting for her. She thought his expression impatient, even
a little angry. Her disinclination must have seemed rude.

As she rose to join him and the others she was embarrassed to have been so obviously tossed out by her parent,
who was already lighting a pipe with his friend. And she
remembered too vividly how just that morning she had betrayed herself to Cabot.

She did not take his arm, but walked beside him, just two
steps behind Bertram and the three younger girls. Lucy, as
seemed to be increasingly the case, held forth with her
usual breathless discourse.

“I am so glad Mr. Wembly has made up with Papa,” she
said. “Just think, how terrible to have one’s very best friend
not speaking to one at all! And for so many years, too! Of
course, Harry has had much to do with this, I can tell, though
he said nothing to me about writing his father. I really do wish
he’d stayed in town. Then he needn’t have written his father at
all, but could have arranged the meeting himself, and had
supper with us tonight and be walking with us now. Instead,
Mr. Harris Wembly must rush back to university for his studies. To be quizzed on his Latin. There is nothing as important
in the world as Mr. Harris Wembly’s examinations!”

“Lucy,” Bertram interposed, “it is the end of the term.
Poor Harry…”

“Poor Harry! Poor Harry who can only criticize me, saying I am not-not circumspect with Lord Knowles-though
Trevor is so very pleasant, and dances divinely, and says he
should like nothing more than to spend every day with me!
And then for Harry to tell me he will not be able to come to
my ball! I have a ball the end of next week, Candace,” she
diverted enthusiastically. “You must come. My aunt Pru
has helped plan everything to be just so and Charles”Lucy looked over her shoulder-“will come-as he promised?” Cabot nodded. “But Mr. Harris Wembly makes no
promises, when they mean everything!”

“For goodness’ sake, Luce! You cannot expect him to
sacrifice a term’s work for a ball,” Bertram said sharply.

“Yes, Miss Lucy,” Cabot agreed. “He will be with you
all the sooner if he completes his examinations.”

“But you are coming, Charles. And heaven knows you
are always running off on some quest or other!”

“I have considerably more control of my time, Miss
Lucy.”

“Oh, all of you will find excuses for him!” she said, and
dragging a compliant Amanda ahead with her, left Bertram
escorting only Candace d’Avigne.

“What the devil just happened?” he asked.

“Elle est amoureuse,” Candace said shyly.

“Eh?”

“Lucy is in love, Lawrence,” Cabot told him.

“Lucy?”
?

“Do not say anything to her Bertie, please,” Meg urged.

“Say anything? How could I? ‘Tis impossible to get a
word in edgewise . . “He leaned to catch something Candace said to him. As the two walked ahead, Meg looked about at
the lanterns high in the trees.

“It is a pretty place,” she ventured. “I had forgotten”

“‘Twas well planned. Though now considerably overgrown. Do you know its plan, Miss Lawrence?” Cabot
asked. Meg shook her head. She meant to keep her brother
and Miss d’Avigne in view, but Cabot seemed in no hurry.
“You remember I set Selbourne’s improvements on a radial
plan. Vauxhall was laid out as a parallelogram.” He reached
casually, unself-consciously, to pull a dead branch from a
tangle at their side and quickly scratched the shape on the
side of the path. “The walks cross so-and here is the central square. Should the paths not meet at right angles-you
have reached an outer edge” He tapped the four of them.
“So you need never,” he said looking down at her, “be lost
in Vauxhall-again.”

In the sparkling lamplight, wrapped by the darkness,
Meg thought she should not at all mind being lost-were
she to have his company. But that `again’ recalled her to her
circumstances. Cabot traced her reluctance to walk out this
evening to a fear of the gardens, or of some repetition of
the past.

I have never been lost in Vauxhall,” she corrected him,
and heard his indrawn breath.

“My mistake, Miss Lawrence,” he said shortly. “I presumed.” As he moved ahead, Meg tried to match his lengthening stride.

“Lady Candace is very amiable,” Meg said, once they
spotted Bertie and his companion ahead.

“Yes. But she has had an unsettled life. I feel for her.”

“Her mother is lovely.”

“The Comtesse d’Avigne is her stepmama” He was starting to sound as brisk as his pace. He kept his gaze forward.

“The comtesse has a most … engaging manner.”

“It is her way. She likes company.”

“Yours-clearly.”

At once Cabot halted and bent close to look into her
eyes. In the dim light at this particular passage, his gaze
looked black.

“What is it you wish to say, Miss Lawrence? That I
have been indiscreet? That my behavior has lacked circumspection?”

Meg swallowed and looked away. Her brother and Candace had passed beyond the next lantern. The path was
empty. The dense press of foliage about them seemed as
abandoned and remote as a jungle.

“You and the Comtesse-”

“Have a history. From many years ago. My past is not
sterling, Miss Lawrence, but I cannot apologize for having
been young. I endeavor to improve myself.”

“Her manner..

“Is acceptable in certain circles.” He sighed. “Miss
Lawrence, if you wish to debate right and wrong, you must
consult Sir Eustace. I cannot condemn, since I myself have
been wrong, and will be again. Shortly, no doubt.” His gaze
searched her face. “The comtesse’s manners are not mine.
You make clear they are not yours. It is because they are not
yours that Lord Sutcliffe makes you suffer.”

The bold reminder instantly brought tears to her eyes. As
her lips trembled, Meg noticed his attention to them. His
frown fled.

“Miss … Miss Margaret,” he urged softly.
“Please.. His head lowered. He meant to kiss her. But he straightened
abruptly as excited calls carried from the path ahead. They
heard footsteps running back along the walk, then Bertie,
Lucy, and Candace, closely followed by the Ferrells, moved
into the lamplight.

“Meg, Charles-Mandy has gone missing!” Lucy declared. Her voice shook. “I just stopped to speak one minute
with Mr. Gillen and his party, and when I turned back,
Mandy was gone!”

“She did not pass us,” Ferrell said.

“And there is only one crossing,” Bertie added. “She
must have gone toward town. ‘Twas the only route crowded
with company.”

“Sutcliffe . . ” Meg ventured.

“Sutcliffe would not trouble Amanda,” Louisa said firmly.

“In the dark-her hair-it is my color …”

“She hasn’t your form, Meggie,” Bertie said frankly, as
only a brother could.

Cabot cleared his throat.

“The earl and Mulmgren were on the other side of the
square,” he said. “He could not have come around us so
quickly.” And Meg glanced at him, astonished that he should
be so aware of Sutcliffe’s whereabouts.

“Let us return the ladies to Sir Eustace,” Ferrell suggested. “Then begin a search”

They walked quickly and silently back to the colonnaded square. Even Lucy stayed quiet, perhaps because
Candace d’Avigne kindly held her hand and whispered encouragement. Meg frowned as they reached their supper
box. Her father and Mr. Wembly were still comfortably smoking and talking; the orchestra had begun another set
of Handel’s music. Yet the evening’s earlier ease was lost.

“Father, Amanda has gone missing,” Bertie said shortly.
“We must start a search.”

“Nonsense,” Sir Eustace pronounced. “She’s run off
with her true love, Sir Freddy Dymthorpe, baronet and nincompoop. Burke’s been expecting it for some time.”

“Freddy?”
Lucy
gulped.
“She’s
never
said
a
word!”

“How could she, Lucinda, when you steal all of them for
yourself? If you must ignore your friends,” he said sternly,
“they are like to ignore you”

Mr. Wembly patted the empty chair next to him.

“Come sit next to me, muffin. I am sure this is a shock
to you, as Amanda is your very best friend, is she not?”

“Yes sir,” Lucy sniffed. “She certainly was..

“Father, I think we should still go after them,” Bertie said,
with a glance at Meg. “They shouldn’t just be let to run
off..”

“Why ever not, if they’re both willing? Barely brain
enough for one between them. They shall scrape along
nicely. The only reason to stop them is to prevent them
from having children.”

“Father. . ” Louisa objected. She and Ferrell had preceded Meg back into the box.