Winter Wedding (13 page)

As the evening drew to a close, she went to the room where she was to oversee the punch making. She wanted to check that all was in order and that her apron was there. Splashes of juice on her rose gown would be the ruin of it.

It was late and Clara was tired. She was also unhappy with the evening just past and unnerved at the prospect of the morrow’s busy activities. She saw her apron resting on a table and unfolded it to see it was a fresh one. Shaking it out, she examined it and refolded it with a weary sigh.

“Take heart. It will soon be over,” a voice said from the doorway. Turning, she saw Allingcote had followed her from the gold saloon. He had been sparing of his attentions all evening, and she was surprised to see him.

“Not too soon to suit me,” she said, replacing the apron on the table.

Allingcote advanced into the room and looked at the table, set with punch bowls turned upside down to keep out the dust, ladles, cups, serviettes, and all the apparatus required for the job.

“It takes a lot of work to put on a big wedding,” he mentioned idly.

“Too much. If I ever marry, I’ll elope.”

His eyes widened in playful surprise. “This cannot be the cautious Miss Christopher contemplating such a wicked deed! You are overly tired.”

“I am,” she agreed. The thought flitted through her harried mind that if it were not for his bringing Nel here, she would be less fatigued. Or even if they had left when she suggested, she would have been tucked up in bed at the inn hours ago.

“An elopement is not at all the thing,” he pointed out.

“I know that,” she said curtly. “I was joking.”

“Ah! It was your scowl that led me astray. Jokes are more usually accompanied by a smile, or at least an effort to conceal a smile.”

“You would know, Allingcote.”

Seeing that she was determined to be grumpy, he joined in her complaints. “I cannot imagine why Aunt Charity chose December for a wedding. And between Christmas and New Year’s, too, such a busy season. Spring is much better, don’t you think?”

From sheer perversity she answered, “No, I think this is a very good time for a wedding. Spring is a pleasant season, it needs no help, but the winter months are dull. A wedding enlivens things.”

Allingcote appeared to be considering this remark with more weight than the speaker intended. “Yes, a little later in the winter, perhaps, after the excitement of the holiday season has worn off.”

“No, no. Prissie chose an excellent time. There is invariably a sense of letdown after Christmas, and a wedding, one assumes, would mitigate it somewhat for the married couple at least.”

“You may be right,” he said, frowning in concentration. “But it is a dreary season for a honeymoon. Where does one go in January?”

“In the case of Oglethorpe and Prissie, one goes to Scotland to visit relatives.”

“Oh, the Highlands—they are miserable in any season. A pile of rocks and sheep and frigid winds, even in midsummer. In winter they are intolerable.”

“Was there not some mention of your going there yourself? Your mother wrote you were going somewhere, I think. She was not sure you would be here for the wedding.”

Allingcote directed a surprised and rather angry stare at her. “And you
still
didn’t intend telling me you were here, knowing that!”

“Certainly not. Why should I tell you?”

“Clara Christopher, you should have your ears boxed. I have a good mind to do it,” he exclaimed.

“How very civilized you have become,” she said coolly, but something in her warmed at his angry outcry.

“A paper-thin veneer of civility, just barely covering the snarling primitive man beneath,” he warned, but she could see he was no longer angry. “You know just how to puncture that veneer, too, don’t you?” With a little laugh, he took her arm and locked it closely in his own to begin walking slowly toward the door.

The position in which he held her arm necessitated their walking so closely together that Clara’s skirts brushed his trousers at every step. It lent an air of intimacy that embarrassed Clara. She wanted to disengage herself before they returned to the company, but her slight pullings went unheeded as he chattered on. “Prissie will be greatly disappointed in the Highlands. A pity one could not go to the Midi, but with Boney marching his soldiers back and forth and lugging his cannons about, it would not be conducive to romance.”

“Nor even to safety. Napoleon is such a ramshackle creature he has purloined all the best countries: Italy, Spain, Portugal—he has a toe in them all, depriving winter honeymooners of a ray of sun. Really I don’t know what option Cousin Oglethorpe has but to take her to Scotland.”

“Did you like it? You spent some time there.”

“It was not my favorite spot in the world.”

“Where is your favorite spot in the whole world, Clara?”

That “Clara” sounded so natural on his lips that she scarcely noticed it. She felt she was in her favorite spot, locked to Ben’s side, but when she replied, she said with all her usual calmness, “I like London as well as anywhere.”

“I like London, too.” He turned his head toward her and leaned down, as she had seen him do dozens of times, but the charm of it never diminished. “It’s time to leave. Best get your things. Nel has gone for hers. I’ll meet you here.” He patted her hand and let her go.

What a strange man he was. But after ignoring her all evening, he could still send her heart soaring with a few foolish comments about Prissie’s honeymoon because she imagined they were discussing their own.

Chapter Twelve

It seemed impossible that Nel was not fagged to death after tramping in the fresh air for hours in the morning, shopping in the afternoon, and staying up partying till well past midnight, but she was still full of life. In fact, she was wide awake and almost feverishly active in the carriage during the trip to the inn. She chattered and laughed, peered through the window, and did not sit still or silent a moment. She reminded Clara of an infant who had had an overly wearing day and was using her last gasp of energy before sinking into sleep.

Clara had to be up early in the morning, and it occurred to her that she hadn’t mentioned it to Allingcote. Presumably his driver could take her to Branelea and return later for himself and Nel. She suggested this, and he replied in an undertone that he wanted to speak to her privately before they all retired. It would not be easy to arrange, but perhaps at the door of her room she could manage a word without Nel’s overhearing.

Allingcote went to the desk as soon as they entered the inn. Clara and Nel went on upstairs. He was smiling when he left the desk, but before he was halfway up the stairs, some new doubt or fear came to nag him. The gentleman was not at the inn, but that did not mean he was not loitering about outside, with his spavin-backed team hitched up, ready for trouble. He tapped at Clara’s door. She had managed to get away from Nel early. The girl was not in bed, but moving about in her room.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” he told her. “I would like to take you to Branelea, but daren’t risk leaving Nel alone here. It would be best if she slept till nearly time for the wedding. The less she’s at Branelea the better. My driver will take you and return for us. A pity you won’t have long to sleep, but this is the end of it. I shan’t get a wink myself, if it comes to that.”

“She must be dead tired. Surely she’ll sleep like a log tonight.”

He shook his head ruefully. “No, she’s too excited, and I should warn you of the reason for it. The proprietor just told me Moore has arrived. She may bolt tonight. I plan to sit up on a chair fully clothed the whole night long, with my ear to the door. I’ll hear if she tries anything. You try to get some sleep.”

“What, exactly is afoot between them? Is he an out-of-work actor, her future costar in the theater?”

“He is an out-of-work something, but not an actor, to my knowledge.”

“So it is purely romance.”

“A romance, far from pure on his side, I fear.”

“And Covent Garden was a story to hoax me?”

“Not entirely. That was last month’s scheme. This month’s hopes are pinned on running away with Moore.”

“What a shatter-brained girl she is!”

“She is,” he smiled, tolerant still. “But she’ll come around with time. She’s not really a bad girl at heart. She’ll settle down when she meets the right man.”

“A pity Moore is not the right man,” Clara said wearily.

“That villain! He’s only after her fortune. A wretched, underhanded fellow. I’d gladly run him through.”

This violent answer sounded very like jealousy. Really, it was hard to put any other construction on it. “Does she know he’s here? Is that why she is on edge?”

“I don’t know whether she knows or not. Very likely it was arranged between them that he would come. She expects him, I suppose. He’s been inquiring here for her. The proprietor, on my instructions, denied having seen her, but the servants gave us away, so he knows she is here. He might try to contact her tonight. He mustn’t be allowed near her.”

Such jealous guardianship as this robbed the conversation at Branelea of any further charm for Clara. She nodded and closed her door. Nel came in a moment later to get her dress unbuttoned.

“What did Ben want?” she asked.

That a young lady who rifled through one’s reticule also listened at doorways was no surprise. “He wanted some private conversation with me,” Clara replied.

“I suppose he was telling you to keep a close watch on me,” Nel said, smiling contentedly. “Ben is so jealous,” she added, sliding a glance at Clara from under her long lashes. “We were supposed to be getting married, you know, Ben and I. It was all arranged, and then I met someone I liked better.”

As Nel was being so informative, Clara did not bother with concealment. “Mr. Moore?” she said.

Nel pouted. “Oh, he told you about Georgie. I made sure he would hide it to protect my reputation. Yes, George Moore is the man. He is very handsome, Miss Christopher. I wager even you would admire him.”

“I doubt that very much, from the description I have had of him,” Clara replied, undoing the buttons as fast as she could. She wondered if Nel was telling the truth about marrying Allingcote. “Were you and Allingcote actually engaged?” she asked.

“Unofficially. It was arranged by his papa and my Uncle Anglin.”

“His father has been dead for two years. What is the delay?”

“I was only fifteen at that time, so of course the marriage was not to take place at once. We were together a good deal later on. He loves me,” she said, full of confidence. “You must have noticed how jealous he is of anyone I show the least partiality for. Your cousin Herbert, for instance. Ben hasn’t a good word to say of him. But it is George he especially despises, because he knows I love him. Why, he has even taken the notion George is ugly, and he is really very handsome.”

“You don’t plan to marry Allingcote?”

“No, that is what has Ben in such a pelter, but he doesn’t frighten me. I know how to handle him.”

There seemed some element of truth in this proud boast. Allingcote was strangely reluctant to recognize Miss Muldoon for the bad-mannered hussy she was. His smiles for her were sweeter than they should be, considering her behavior. What but love could account for such blindness and for such anger toward Mr. Moore?

“I am very tired,” Clara said, as soon as she had the buttons undone.

“A pity I—we didn’t think to bring a little laudanum along, and you would have slept well.”

“A great pity,” Clara answered with a wary eye. It was a wonder she hadn’t been drugged, but with the accumulated fatigue of the past week, she doubted she would stay awake long. She did stay awake long enough to hear Nel get into bed. She waited for the long, even breaths that denoted sleep, and heard only the squeaking of the mattress as Nel tossed and turned. The sounds continued for the better part of an hour. In vexation, Clara pulled the covers over her head, but still the noises from behind the curtain continued.

It had been approaching one o’clock when they got to their rooms. At two, the girl still hadn’t settled down or allowed Clara to do so. At two-fifteen, Nel emitted a low moan. Clara pretended to ignore it, but it was soon followed by a louder one. If she were to get any sleep at all, she must see what was amiss and try to calm Miss Muldoon. No doubt she was hit with hunger pangs at two-fifteen in the morning.

Crawling out of her own bed, Clara shuffled into her slippers, pulled her housecoat about her, and went into the next room. “I feel sick,” Nel said. Her voice in the darkness sounded weak.

“You had too much wine, very likely.”

“I only had three glasses. I think I had some bad food. The seafood tasted strange.”

Lady Lucker and Clara had been concerned about the food contributions piling up at Branelea. It was very difficult to ensure they were all kept cool. It was entirely possible that one of the dishes had become tainted. It occurred to Clara that food poisoning might be rampant at Branelea, a ghastly crown for Prissie’s wedding. But her main concern was Nel, and she felt her face for any sign of fever. It was a little warm, no more. She was worried enough that she lit a lamp and examined the girl closely. There was a febrile glitter in her eyes. Upon touching her own forehead to Nel’s, the difference in temperature seemed significant.

“You must get a doctor,” Nel said weakly. She was doubled up now in real or imagined pain, clutching her stomach. “It is the seafood making me sick. I think it was poisoned.”

Clara stood undecided. She felt it was a trick, a bid for attention—or worse, a chance to nip off. On the other hand, if Nel was truly ill, she must do something. While she stood undecided, there was a tap at the door and Ben stepped in. He was fully clothed, as he had said he would be.

“Nel says she’s sick,” Clara told him.

Another low moan came from the bed. Nel crawled deeper under the blankets, covering her face with her arms. “Did you have a look at her?” he asked Clara calmly.

“Yes, she does feel a little warm.”

Walking to the bed, Allingcote pulled Nel’s arms from her face and placed a hand on her brow. “Stick out your tongue,” he said. Nel complied, looking at him with her bright eyes as she did so, to read his reaction.