The Waltzing Widow (2 page)
Abigail frowned, knowing that there was something important in all her mother's talk of politics. It came to her in a sudden flash of understanding, and her eyes widened. “Oh! You mean that the
ton
have all left London. But that means ... why, there won't even
be
a proper Season in town this year."
"I am afraid so, my dear,” Lady Mary said. “Your grandmama's plans for a dizzying round of parties will hardly live up to your expectations, I fear. And according to Emily, who may be depended upon for her good sense and information, the situation is not likely to change for some months, at least until the Congress of Vienna is concluded and our statesmen and our army return home."
"But what am I to do? I will be on the shelf before I am much older,” Abigail wailed. Lady Mary went into a peal of laughter. Her daughter regarded her with a mixture of astonishment and resentment. “Mama, it is not at all amusing,” Abigail said with injured dignity.
Choking back her laughter, Lady Mary shook her head. “No, I can see that it is not,” she said with an attempt at sobriety, quite ruined by the gurgle that escaped her. “I am sorry, poppet. I am a perfect beast for laughing at you, but you are such a baby, and hardly in any danger of becoming an old maid, believe me."
"But you were married at sixteen. Mama, a year younger than I am now, while I haven't yet been presented or come out or met a single eligible gentleman,” Abigail said.
Lady Mary was reduced to silence. As she looked at her daughter, she recalled herself at the same age, deeply and irrevocably in love with her kind, good husband, and already a mother. She had lived life with such passion as long as Sir Roger had lived.
Her grief at his death had tempered her and had served to mature the undisciplined person. Overnight she had changed from a protected, well-loved, and cosseted wife to a young widow and mother of two, very much aware of her responsibilities and determined to carry out her duty as best she could.
Despite the openly expressed doubts of family and friends who considered her too young to raise a young son and baby daughter, or to handle her own financial affairs, she had succeeded. She had succeeded without assistance, gently but firmly turning aside the several attempts made by her parents to draw her back into their orbit. Only once did she accept her parents’ aid, and that was to allow her father to buy a commission in the army for her son, William. It was a difficult decision that had cost her many sleepless nights, but in the end she had capitulated to her son's entreaties to be allowed to make a career of the army.
Now, gazing upon Abigail, who was so very like her younger self, and thinking of her son, William, whom she had not seen in several months. Lady Mary came to an abrupt decision. “Very well, Abigail. You shall have your Season. We shall go to Brussels for the spring and summer, and though you won't be presented at court until next year, you may at least make your formal entrance into society,” she said quietly.
"Brussels, Mama!” Abigail squeaked, completely bowled out. Recovering in an instant, she threw her arms about her parent.
"Thank
you. Mama! You are so good to me. You can have no notion how happy you have made me."
Lady Mary emerged from the fervent embrace somewhat breathless and with her lace cap knocked askew. “Have I not, indeed!” she retorted, laughing as she straightened her beribboned cap. “Now, do go away, Abigail. I should like to pen a congratulatory note to Mrs. Evesleigh regarding Betsy's upcoming nuptials."
"Of course, Mama,” Abigail said. She crossed gracefully to the door. With her hand on the knob, she was struck by a sudden thought. “Mama! Wasn't William's last letter from Brussels?"
Lady Mary smiled at her daughter. There was a twinkle in her gray eyes. “Why, I do believe that it was, Abigail. A fine coincidence, certainly."
Abigail giggled. “You are the most complete hand, Mama.'’ She sighed. “I shall enjoy seeing William again, I confess. I have sorely missed him these last months."
"As have I,” Lady Mary said.
Abigail sent a saucy glance at her mother. “Besides, what is the use of having an older brother if he is not available to introduce one to his rakish friends?"
"Abigail,” Lady Mary said in a warning tone; but she smiled even as she spoke, aware that she was being teased. Abigail laughed again. She skipped out the door, humming happily. Lady Mary shook her head in affectionate exasperation before turning her attention to her correspondence.
The letter to her friend Emily Downing went swiftly and crossed several pages. She sanded the sheets and folded them into an envelope that she addressed in her firm clear hand, sealing the missive with hot wax. Lady Mary sighed as she pulled a fresh sheet of vellum to her. The letter to her parents, Viscount and Viscountess Catlin, would be more difficult to compose. She sat chewing the nib of her quill pen, forming and discarding a dozen openings. Finally, when she had decided on the best approach, she discovered to her irritation that she had completely frayed the tip of her pen, and she had to sharpen it with a small penknife before she could begin writing.
Dipping the newly sharpened point of her quill into the inkwell. Lady Mary took a breath and started upon the letter. It was always difficult to communicate with her parents, for the sole reason that whatever she wished to convey was invariably rejected as errant nonsense.
Viscount Catlin still clung to his obstinate position that the independent and respectable widow was the same lavishly spoiled and petted daughter that had grown up in his house. As for the viscountess, she cherished the fond notion that her outrageously wayward daughter must one day yet take her rightful place at the forefront of society. But by her very character, Lady Mary violated every conception that her parents held of the ideal dutiful and dependent daughter.
Lady Mary caught herself sighing again. She knew that the news that she and Abigail would not be going up to London for the Season after all would excite strenuous protests from her parents. She thought with a flash of humor that she would not require the return post to know of her letter's reception; she would be bound to be able to hear the repercussions on the very air.
She finished the difficult letter, sanded it, and readied it for posting. Rising from the desk with the two letters in her hand, Lady Mary went out of the sitting room. The footman immediately inquired her wishes and she gave him the envelopes with instructions to post them. Then she asked, “Is Miss Abigail in the drawing room, John?"
"Yes, my lady. Tea is being brought round this moment,” the footman said.
"Thank you, John,” Lady Mary said. She walked to the drawing-room door, which was partially open. Hearing the murmur of voices, she paused with her fingers on the panel, disconcerted. She had not known that her daughter was entertaining a guest.
A young gentleman in desperate tones said, “I swear to you, Abigail, I shall do it. I shall join the army if you will not."
Abigail's high clear voice sounded irritated. “Pray do not be so absurd, Colin! I cannot possibly marry you. Do,
do
get up! Tea will be brought in at any moment and it will be all so embarrassing."
Lady Mary closed her eyes for a second of resignation. Then she pushed open the door, saying brightly as she did so, “Abigail, I have just recalled—” She had the briefest impression of a red-faced young gentleman scrambling up from his knees and her daughter snatching back her hands from the inopportune suitor's slackened grasp. She pretended not to notice either of their flushed faces. “Oh, it is you, Colin. I am happy to see you, as always. How does your dear mama?” She advanced toward him smiling, her hand held out to him.
The young gentleman, who was dressed in riding clothes, awkwardly took her hand and sketched a bow. “Mama is much better, thank you, Lady Mary."
"I am happy to hear it. Influenza is such a particularly fatiguing ailment. But I expect we shall soon see Mrs. Rollings to be her usual self again,” Lady Mary said. She seated herself beside her unusually quiet daughter. She chose to ignore Abigail's swift wondering glance. “We were just about to take tea. I hope that you will join us, Colin.” As she spoke, the butler entered with the tea tray and set it down on the occasional table before her. She thanked him quietly.
"No ... no, that is to say, Mama must have been expecting me back long since. I but stopped to ... to pay my respects to yourself and Miss Spence, my lady,” Colin stammered. He appeared extremely uncomfortable and cleared his throat.
Lady Mary calmly nodded her understanding, betraying nothing of the amusement she felt. “Of course. We must not keep you, then. Pray give my regards to your mother. I shall make a point of calling on her in the next few days,'’ she said, once more holding out her hand to him.
He took it, mumbling his excuses before turning to Abigail. Faced with her gleaming eyes and lovely countenance, Colin swallowed hard. His voice was hoarse as he took a lengthier leave of her. With one last anguished glance cast in Abigail's direction, Colin exited the drawing room.
When the door closed behind him, Abigail let out her breath on an exasperated sigh.
"Thank
you. Mama. Before you came in, I did not know what I was to do. You have no notion what a cake Colin was making of himself."
"Of course I do,” Lady Mary said. She gestured for her daughter to pour the tea. “That boy has been head over heels in love with you for months. I am not at all astonished that he was at last able to screw up his courage enough to make an offer for you."
"You heard! Oh, how glad I am that you did not say anything. It was such an embarrassing moment in any event, and I most certainly would have laughed if Colin had turned one shade redder,” Abigail said, handing her mother a saucered cup. “Mama, I have known Colin Rollings simply forever. I do not understand why he should suddenly take it into his head that I would make him a good wife."
"My dear daughter, have you looked in the mirror today?” Lady Mary asked with a gathering twinkle in her gray eyes.
"Of course I have,” Abigail said. She blushed when her mother laughed at her. “Oh, you know what I meant, Mama. But Colin—he has seen me every day of our lives, except when he was away at school and this last time that I spent visiting with Grandpapa and Grandmama in London. Colin has always known what I look like, but he never paid the least attention to me until now."
"You forget that you have changed considerably in the last few months, Abigail,” Lady Mary said.
Abigail instinctively glanced down at herself, and a slow satisfied smile curved her lips. “I have gotten my figure, haven't I, Mama? And it is quite a nice one, too."
"Really, Abigail, your vanity seems to have kept pace with your increase in dress size. Yes, my dear, your figure is very nice and you have a lovely face as well. And that pretty package is what has Colin completely bowled out.” She saw that her daughter was immensely pleased with herself and she shook her head. “What was that Colin was saying about the army just before I entered?"
Abigail brushed aside her query. “Oh, that. Colin swore that if I refused to marry him, then he would run away to the army and I would never see him again. Such stuff! It was all nonsense, of course."
"So I should hope. I do not like to think what Mrs. Rollings’ feelings would be if Colin were actually to do such a harebrained thing. She positively dotes on that boy,” Lady Mary said, somewhat disturbed. She took a biscuit from the tray, reflecting upon the matter. “Perhaps I shall drop a hint in her ear when I call on her. She will know best how to discourage any such ridiculous ambitions, I am certain. The army is no place for one so young as Colin."
Abigail regarded her mother in surprise. “Mama, I did not know you felt that way about the military. Why ever did you give permission for William to go if you dislike the idea so?"
"Your brother is altogether different from Colin. He has always been army-mad, and when your grandfather offered to purchase a commission for him, and William begged me to agree to it, I could not very well refuse him his dream,” Lady Mary said. She sighed softly. “I did worry over William, of course. But the long war is done with at last, and he is not likely to see battle again now, so I am content."
"I do not think that William will be. Content, I mean. He wrote a vastly exciting letter about the battles that some of his acquaintances participated in, and he was quite envious of all their daring deeds. He rather thought his own experience paltry by comparison. Do you remember, Mama?” Abigail asked.
Lady Mary gave a slight shudder. “Too well, I thank you. He described it all so cheerfully and took such pride in breezing through with but a ‘scratch’ across his brow. A scratch! When he came home on leave I almost fainted at sight of that scar. He might have lost his sight."
"I secretly thought that William's scar made him appear terribly romantic,” Abigail said.
"Abigail! I hope that you did not tell him so,” Lady Mary said, appalled.
"Of course not, Mama. I did not wish him to get a swelled head over it, and besides, we did not know then that the war was finished. I knew that he would think nothing of being wounded again if he believed that it would make him appear even more interesting,” Abigail said.
"I am so glad that you said nothing, my dear. William has always been more heedless than he should be,” Lady Mary said. “I am just happy that Bonaparte abdicated before William had a chance to set foot on another battlefield."
Abigail nodded. “That is just what I thought. I was remembering how he tried to take that high fence on a dare and the horse refused at the very last minute. William flew over its head and broke his shoulder against the post. As soon as he was healed, he set himself for the fence again."
"And fortunately on the second round the horse landed safely and William was unscathed,” Lady Mary said. “I was never more angry with him than when I learned of that stunt. But he explained in that way of his that he could not allow himself to have failed in any endeavor. How
very
glad I am that the terrible war is over."
