The Frost Fair (25 page)

“Oh, well, as to that, I don't deny that you've been devilishly adept at avoiding matrimony. The stakes at White's
are
getting lower each season on the chances that anyone will nab you. But that doesn't mean there aren't any number of eligibles who would jump at the chance. I, for one, am still ready at any time to take you off the Marriage Mart.”

She shook her head. “What a complete hand you are, Arthur. I think you persist in making that offer only because you're certain I shan't accept you! Besides, if I'm turning into a bluestocking, as you claim, you'd find me a dead bore.”

“But one book and one missed ball don't make you a bluestocking yet, ma'am. Let me save you from that fate. Marry me before the disease progresses any further.”

She laughed. “Enough, Arthur. I thought we'd agreed to avoid this subject.”

“Yes, we did. Forgot myself. Making you offers has become a habit with me. But you know, Meg, this bluestocking business is not as silly as you think. You've changed since you returned from Yorkshire. Is it because of that Carrier chap? Was there something between you that—”

He was interrupted by a tap at the door. “There's the tea,” Meg said, relieved to be able to drop the subject. “Come in, Maynard.”

The butler, however, was not carrying the tea things. His brow was creased with a slight suggestion of irritation. “There's a lady and gentleman at the door, your ladyship. I told them you were engaged, but they insist on seeing you at once.”

“Do they indeed? What effrontery! Do you know them, Maynard?”

“No, your ladyship, I haven't seen them before. But the gentleman said that they'd come a long way. And the lady said that if I gave you her name she was certain you'd see her. She's a Miss Carrier. Miss Beatrix Carrier.”

“Good heavens!” Meg gasped. “Trixie?” She darted past the astonished butler and ran down the hall. Standing just inside the front door, Trixie, bundled against the cold in a heavy cloak and carrying a large muff, looked red-eyed and miserable. “Trixie, my dear, what a complete surprise!” Meg cried excitedly. “How did you—? Why didn't you warn me that—? Good Lord … Mr.
Lazenby
!”

The man standing beside Trixie was indeed Mortimer Lazenby. “Good evening, your ladyship,” he said, his voice suffused with relief at her obvious gladness at seeing Trixie. “Sorry we had no opportunity to—”

Meg looked from one to the other with a sinking heart. “Trixie, you haven't …? You didn't …?”

Trixie nodded, but it was not the happy gesture of a new bride. “Yes, Lady Meg, we did. We eloped. Day before y-yesterday.”

“Do you mean you're married?”

Trixie's eyes filled, her underlip trembled and, instead of responding, she burst into tears.

Mortimer removed his hat and began to twist the brim with his fingers as he spoke. “Made all the arrangements with a J. P. in Ripon, everything proper and right as rain, and then, when we got there, he wouldn't do it!”

“The Justice of the Peace refused to
marry
you? Is that what you're saying?” Meg asked in a state of confused alarm. She didn't know which she feared more—the news that Trixie was wed or that she was not.

“Yes. Can't understand it. Everything all
arranged
.”

“It was wh-when he heard my n-name,” Trixie sobbed. “He was afraid of G-Geoffrey …”

“Had dealings with Sir Geoffrey, it seems,” Mortimer amplified. “Thinks highly of him, too. Wouldn't hear of doing anything to incur his wrath. Wanted a letter of
permission
!”

“He s-said the whole b-business looked havey-cavey to him. He suspected it was a runaway m-match!”

“Then why didn't you go back home at once?” Meg asked, her alarm increasing by the moment.

“No, I couldn't, don't you s-see?” Trixie lifted her head, her brimming eyes wide with anguish. “Geoffrey would have already f-found my note. He'd be furious with me!”

“She wouldn't hear of anything but that I take her to you,” Mortimer explained, making certain that Meg should not find
him
at fault. “
Told
her the fog would make the driving tricky, but she
would
come. Said over and over that Lady Meg would find a way.”

“Oh, Lady Meg,” the girl sobbed, casting herself into Meg's arms, “it's been so dreadful! The J. P., the journey through this awful fog—
everything
! Please say you'll help us!”

Meg patted the girl's shoulder, biting her underlip worriedly. “Don't take on so, Trixie. Of course, I'll help you. But we must try to keep our heads. I
must
ask this of you, my dear—have you been traveling for two days … er … just the
two
of you?”

“No need to kick up a dust about
that,
” Mortimer said cavalierly. “She has her
maid
with her.”

Trixie lifted her head and nodded solemnly. “It's Brynne. She's out in the carriage.”

“Thank heaven for that!” Meg breathed in relief. “Go fetch her, Maynard, and see that she gets something hot to eat. And tell Roodle to see to the horses. Now, then, Trixie, wipe your eyes and come along to the sitting room. You, too, Mr. Lazenby. You must both be chilled through. We shall sit down near the fire and have some hot tea, and then, perhaps, we shall be better able to think about what to do.”

Arthur, who had followed Meg out of the sitting room but had hung back for fear of seeming to intrude, now stepped forward. Meg introduced him to the miscreant couple and led them all down the hall. “I suppose you'll be wanting me out of the way,” Arthur whispered, pulling Meg aside as the runaway pair divested themselves of their outer garments and went gratefully to the fire.

“No, Arthur, don't go,” she answered in an undervoice. “You may be of great use to me. If you don't mind, after we've had our tea, I'd like you to take Mr. Lazenby away with you. Find a place for him to stay, can you? To have him here would be quite improper … and would also set my teeth on edge.”

Arthur nodded agreeably and set about making the red-eyed girl feel at home. Before the tea was brought, he'd already made her laugh. But it was the sight of the well-laden tea tray that really lifted Trixie's spirits. She explained that she'd been in such a state of agitation that she'd permitted Mortimer to make only the briefest stops during the almost two-day journey from Ripon, and they had scarcely had a bite to eat in all that time. Arthur watched with considerable amusement as the two young runaways devoured everything in front of them. Then, obedient to Meg's request, he suggested to Mortimer that it was time the two of them departed to find him a room in a hotel.

“Goodnight, Mortimer, dearest,” Trixie said prettily, her good spirits restored. “Have a good night's sleep and come back first thing tomorrow. By then, I'm certain that Lady Meg will have found us a way out of our difficulties.”

Meg groaned inwardly. The young girl's sanguine expectation that Meg could—and would—assist her to arrange a marriage was very disturbing. Meg didn't in the least wish to help her in that direction. While it was not in Meg's province to make decisions about Trixie's life, she couldn't help feeling that Trixie was embarking on a disastrous course. Mortimer was a vain, foolish, contemptible man, and Meg would be decidedly at fault to assist Trixie to wed him. Geoffrey would have every reason to despise Meg if she did. In fact, she would despise herself.

She glanced over at Trixie warily. The girl had pulled her chair close to the fire and was watching the play of the flames with dreamy eyes.
How easily
, Meg thought, expelling a troubled sigh,
the girl flits from the dismals to the heights
. No wonder Geoffrey had found it necessary to keep a firm guard over her. Well, whatever Trixie desired, Meg would not be so traitorous to Geoffrey as to help his sister leap into a foolish marriage without the brother's knowledge and consent.

In truth, if she had any character at all, Meg would do what Geoffrey himself would do if he were here—try to find a way to break the pair apart! Meg had once devised a plan to do just that. She'd thought of it weeks ago, when she and Geoffrey had discussed the matter. She'd even been about to divulge it to Geoffrey when Charles and Arthur had come upon the scene and driven the matter from her mind. If she could bring herself to interfere in this matter, she could execute that plan quite easily.

It didn't sit well with her conscience to interfere so drastically in the affair, but Trixie
did
choose of her own free will to drop the problem into Meg's lap. Meg was under no moral obligation to solve that problem in the manner Trixie wanted.
Yes
, Meg decided with a sense of firm conviction that it was the proper course.
I'll do it! I'll make the girl see just what sort of fellow she wants to marry
. She would earn herself Trixie's everlasting enmity (and even Geoffrey, when he heard the story from Trixie's lips, would probably misunderstand Meg's motives as well), but Meg was not doing this to earn gratitude. She was doing it for the satisfaction (it was a pitifully small, insubstantial reward) of knowing that she'd be doing the right thing.

She got up with a deep breath and, crossing to her young guest, put a gentle hand on Trixie's shoulder. “Come along, Trix, and I'll show you the pretty bedroom where you'll sleep. I know it's a bit early, but you must be yearning to put down your head. And you'll
need
a good night's sleep, my dear, for tomorrow may prove to be a more difficult day than you expect.”

Chapter Eighteen

The following day could hardly be said to have dawned at all, for the fog was so dense that day looked almost like night. The cold was so intense that Arthur and Mortimer, who appeared at Meg's door red-nosed and frozen in the middle of the afternoon rather than in the morning as they'd promised, swore that their walk was the most unpleasant they'd ever experienced. “You can't see anyone standing two feet away from you!” Arthur muttered in disgust as he warmed his hands over the sitting-room fire. “Passersby suddenly appear right on top of you, seeming to materialize out of nowhere. It's positively frightening!”

“And so cold one doesn't dare take one's horses out!” Mortimer added glumly. “Never known
Yorkshire
to be as cold as this!”

Arthur explained that they'd not even made it to Fenton's Hotel the night before. The fog had been so thick that he'd decided to put the young man up in his spare bedroom rather than walk the added distance to St. James Street. “One daren't risk using horses in such fog—any slight mischance and the animal might be fatally lamed.”

Meg cast her friend a look of gratitude. It must have been irksome to Arthur to be forced to endure the companionship of the foolish young braggart she'd foisted on him.

But poor Arthur was to endure much more. The next day, with the fog still persisting and the weather growing even colder, Arthur came to Meg's door to inform the ladies that Mr. Lazenby had come down with a case of the sniffles which he didn't wish to aggravate by taking himself out in the cold. He'd sent his good wishes to the ladies and begged to be excused until the weather had improved.

Meg had no opportunity to speak to Arthur alone during the visit, for Trixie, obviously untroubled by her betrothed's illness, sat all afternoon at Arthur's side, questioning him interminably about the various places of interest in London which she would soon be able to see. It was only when he rose to take his leave that Meg, accompanying him to the door, was able to exchange a private word with him. “I don't know how to thank you, Arthur, for inviting Lazenby to stay with you. It must not be very pleasant to have to endure his company.”

Arthur shrugged. “It's not so very bad. Although the fellow has told me several times already about some sort of race on a high-perch phaeton which he won. One would think it was the only event in his life worth speaking of.”

“Do you mean he hasn't yet bragged to you about his remarkable attraction for the ladies?”

“Oh, yes, and his rare ability to outstrip Londoners in matters of dress. The mushroom is convinced that he'd put Brummell in the shade.”

“Oh, dear,” Meg sympathized, “he seems to have put you through almost his entire repertoire. But don't despair, my dear. This fog can't last much longer. Once it passes, I promise I shall put things to rights.”

But the fog lasted three more days. Even the intrepid Arthur gave up his attempts to inch his way along the streets to Meg's domicile. Meg and Trixie, trapped within the house with only each other for company, found the hours oppressively hard to fill. The thick, almost black mist pressed in on their windows, making it seem as if the house had been transported to a world made up of a strange, tangible nothingness which, if they stepped out the door, would swallow them whole.

They passed the mornings in sewing or reading, the afternoons playing endless games of Piquet and an unsatisfactory, two-handed version of Whist called Hearts, and the evenings in chatting, telling each other bits and pieces of their past lives and becoming almost as close as two sisters in the process. Meg admitted that she'd missed having sisters and brothers during her childhood years, while Trixie revealed a number of stories about her youth which often included sketches of Geoffrey which held Meg spellbound. Trixie didn't remember a great deal about her brother's early years (being sixteen years his junior) but she did recall how exciting it had been when he'd come home on holiday from Cambridge or how magnificent he'd looked when he'd had leave from the army and had come home wearing his regimentals. Meg put a strict rein on her tongue to keep herself from asking too many questions about him, but she couldn't keep herself from hanging upon Trixie's words every time Geoffrey's name came into the conversation. Fortunately, Trixie herself was so disenchanted with her brother since he'd opposed her attachment to Lazenby that it never occurred to her to suspect that the odd fascination Meg seemed to show for anything having to do with Geoffrey could possibly be a sign of affection.