Authors: Cynthia Bailey Pratt
"You were kind to offer Packer a job,” she said. “And what a coincidence his having kept your gun. He could have sold it."
"It's not important what I did. Listen, Sarah.” He took her upper arms and faced her squarely, the pistol firm against her shoulder. “What do you mean wandering off like this? What are you doing riding alone?"
"I'm not alone; Harvey is with me."
"Harvey? You mean Phelps? Where is he?"
"He went to speak to a friend."
"Haven't you got a groom?"
"No, Harvey said we wouldn't need one."
She frowned with confusion when he searched the sky as if pleading for help, but as long as he went on holding her, he could do whatever pleased him. She didn't even mind that the gun was probably staining her habit with its oiled works.
Gently, Alaric shook her. “Hasn't your aunt ever told you not to go anywhere alone in London?"
"She warns me so often; I can't remember everything."
"Well, remember this. London is a dangerous city. It's not like home where you know everyone and everyone ... loves you.” Abruptly, he took his hands away, leaving her bereft. Shoving the pistol in his coat pocket, he brushed his fingers together as though removing contamination.
Sarah bowed her head, knowing he was remembering all the foolish things she'd done since they'd met. What good did it do her to make any attempt to please him? The moment they met again was sure to be the moment she fell into some bramble or other. She was only fooling herself, believing a dream that one day he'd forget his obligation to Miss Canfield and turn to her.
Sniffing, Sarah refused to cry before him. That would set the seal on his poor opinion of her. Despite her efforts, a tear escaped and rolled down her cheek. She shut her eyes tightly.
A warmth enfolded her. She rested her head on a firm, gently surging surface. She breathed in the fragrance of leather and citrus, mingled with another scent she knew was Alaric's alone. He tilted up her face, his fingers caressing her cheek, and she pressed her face into the palm of his hand.
Almost too softly to hear, he said, “Oh, my dearest."
Sarah slowly, slowly opened her eyes. She'd had dreams like this before and always, when she raised her lids, the blissful images vanished. This time, the vision lingered. She felt his hand tremble and rejoiced. But why, when he spoke again, was his voice so sad?
"Sarah, please don't. Don't make this difficult for me."
Suddenly, Sarah realized she'd betrayed herself. Her hands against his chest, she thrust herself away and stumbled out of his arms. She felt with what reluctance he released her. The knowledge did not make her happy.
"Sarah,” he said again, pursuing her. Catching hold of her arm, he tried to draw her near. “Please. Listen to me. I know that at this moment you feel—"
"Oh, let me go!” She tore away violently, though it pained her like pulling away oiled plaster in a sharp jerk. Beside her horse, she hiked up her skirt and placed her foot in the stirrup. Sarah swung up into the saddle, not caring that she'd probably shown him her leg to the knee. She'd just exposed her heart, so what mattered immodesty? Pulling hard, she tried to turn Russet about. But the horse locked its knees and refused to move from beside Reyne's large stallion.
"Damn!” Sarah exclaimed, and dropped her hands. “Take your horse away, sir, so that I may leave.” She made an effort to speak freezingly, as Aunt Whitsun had told her the right tone very often discouraged unwanted attentions, though Sarah was not certain how to rid herself of
wanted
attentions.
"Yes. I'll take you back to Harvey."
"I don't want you to come with me."
"Nevertheless, I have a few words to address to that young idi—gentleman.” He mounted his horse. Sarah's mare followed closely. “How long have you had that animal?” he asked.
"Years!"
"It's strange, then, that she's not better trained."
Sarah wished she'd picked up her riding crop so she could hurl it at his head. The desire grew when he told Harvey that she'd fallen off her horse, to account for her air of disarray. “Fallen off?” Harvey echoed. “That's not like you, Sarah. I must tell you. She's invited me to call. Miss Dealford, of course. I beg your pardon. Lord Reyne? You were saying?"
"I was saying, you young fool, that only a cad lets a lady ride alone. What the devil were you thinking of?"
"Miss Dealford, sir."
"Take Sarah home, then meet me at Jackson's. It'll give me great satisfaction to render you
hors de combat."
He turned his horse away and rode off, without a glance at Sarah, and without acknowledging Harvey's ecstatic thanks.
"Did you hear that, Sarah? I've never been to Jackson's Saloon. What a dashed good fellow he is. A bit of a cross crab, but I don't let that put me off. It's amazing how many fellows will do anything for you, as long as you don't thank them."
"Take me home, Harvey, will you? I don't feel very well. I'm probably going to have a large bruise on my ..."
"You do look rather a mess. ‘Course anyone would after Emma—I mean. Miss Dealford. You should see the way she sits her horse, and a quiet, dark habit—nothing flashy for her. I say, Sarah, I mean, is pink quite the thing, do you think?''
"Oh, Harvey, I don't know."
But he wasn't listening. “She's got a splendid seat, but she's not unfeminine. I hate a woman who thinks she can ride better than I. Miss Dealford was quite startled when that shot went off, but I grabbed the reins, and her horse soon knew who was master. Docile little thing, really."
"Shot?"
"Didn't you hear it? I think ...” He urged his bay closer to Sarah and whispered, “I think someone's fought a duel. I looked up when I heard it, same as everyone, but nobody moved. We'll hear all about it later, when the gossips get hold of the story. I promised to come tell Miss Dealford the entire tale, once I knew it."
The bonging of a church clock prompted him to ask, “What time do you suppose Lord Reyne meant to meet me? Although, it's awfully good of him to take me to Jackson's, I hope he won't keep me too long; I mustn't disappoint Miss Dealford."
"You'll have to visit her after the swelling goes down."
"Oh, it won't be a real match. Just sparring. Won't Miss Dealford be bucked when she hears where I've been? I tell you, Sarah, I've never met a girl so sweet and sympathetic. When she looked up at me with those big eyes, that first day, when Petey came at her, I, well, I ..."
Sarah peered at Harvey in amazement. He was actually blushing! It was hard to believe that a few moments alone with some girl could reduce a boy she'd known all her life into a flowery lover. But, turning red herself at the memory of Lord Reyne's arms about her, she found it easier to understand. How unfair that fantasies should become so hideously embarrassing when realized!
"Here we are,” Harvey said, breaking into her thoughts. He helped her to dismount.
Though she wanted nothing more than to be alone, to sob into her pillow as Harmonia had last night, politeness demanded she show Harvey some consideration. “Won't you come in? You haven't met my great-aunt yet."
"Yes, I did, when I brought Harmonia up. I don't mean to criticize, but does she look at everybody that way?"
"What way, Harvey?"
"It's difficult to say. As if she were hungry? Made me nervous as a cat, I can tell you."
"Aunt Whitsun's not so dreadful as that. She's been kind to me and good to Harmonia. If she hadn't agreed to let Harmonia stay, you wouldn't have come up to London until next month."
"That's true. But I'll cry off coming in, nevertheless.” He tugged at the fronts of his coat and fluffed his cravat. “I'd better hurry to Jackson's. I don't want to keep Lord Reyne waiting. And then, Miss Dealford did ask me to call.” After escorting Sarah to the door, Harvey remounted. “I'll come by in a few days. If you're going to Lady Gordon Lloyd's ball, I'll meet you there."
Sarah nodded and waved. Then she said, “Harvey? Harvey,
can
you box?''
” ‘Course I can,” he said, pausing. “What did you think I learned at Oxford?"
"Good. I hope you black both Lord Reyne's eyes!” The butler opened the door and she went in, leaving young Mr. Phelps to clatter down the stony street, shaking his head at the strangeness of women. He did not think about this long, as in a few moments he was wondering what his mother thought of Miss Dealford, a speculation which occupied his mind until he reached the stables.
"Damn!” For the third time, Alaric caught his leg on a tree root. He felt certain it was the same knobby stem that had tripped him twice before. Glimpsing a tree stump, shining whitely in the gloom beneath the trees, he hopped over to it and sat down.
This natural seat was ridged and beastly uncomfortable. Alaric wished he could leave it to the elves, who were no doubt abroad on this witching eve. Above him, the sky held the lasting purple glow of the spring midnight. A few stars were caught like netted fish in the swaying branches above. At his feet, all was impenetrable shadow, full of things that could not be alive and yet moved with malevolent intention.
Finding his thoughts irresistibly running over the foolish stories of his childhood nurse, Alaric crossed his arms and concentrated determinedly on his boots. No doubt they were now buffeted and scarred beyond repair. As soon as he could get back to the house, he would change them. The next order of business would be to find some potion rather more substantial than fairy dew sipped from a wild rose, or whatever the liquid that the Duchess of Parester's butler had been ladling. Despite its medieval associations, a'Maying all night was not for the middle aged.
Alaric looked up once more at the stars and defied them to bewitch him more. Tree branches swayed before his eyes, weaving complex runes across the sky. Floating on the flower-filled breeze came the voices of the other house guests. Lillian was among them. So was her father. And so was Sarah. It had been at the sight of this last that he'd ducked into this grove.
Though it was beyond foolish to be afraid of a mere slip of a girl, he knew it was the better part of wisdom to avoid Sarah. Sitting with the wind whispering around him, Alaric acknowledged that he was indeed afraid, afraid of the giddy feelings she aroused in his heart. Safer by far to cower in a dark wood than to be tempted anew into folly by Sarah's beauty. He knew he would not find the courage a second time to resist her youthful enthusiasm for him as he had in the Park. And even then, he shamefully confessed to the night, he'd had to beg for her help. Trying to think of brandy and bruises, Alaric was prey to the strange sensation that it was not the stars that had been trapped by the trees but himself.
He did not hear the girl behind him until her hand came down caressingly on his shoulder. “My word!” Lillian said, retreating. “I did not mean to startle you, Alaric."
Having leapt to his feet, Alaric bowed. “I beg your pardon, my dear. I seem to be somewhat ... edgy?"
"Perhaps spring has got you.” Lillian came a hesitating step nearer. “It seems to be in the air. After all, there are young girls down in the meadow performing magic rites. Such things have an effect on everyone. I even saw Father cutting a caper in the moonlight."
"I have not seen a moon."
"Well, starlight then. Magic light, Alaric.” Hastily, as though afraid she'd be stopped, Lillian laid her hand on his arm. With a smile, Alaric raised her fingers to his lips and kissed them exactly as he'd done a hundred times before, in greeting or farewell. Exactly as he'd done before.
"Frankly, Lillian, I can't quite see why we shouldn't go back to the house like reasonable mortals. There's such a thing as carrying respect for a hostess’ wishes too far."
"The duchess wants to carry on May Day in the traditional style."
"Tradition's well and good for Druids, Vikings and such, but not for sober-minded people like you and I. Come, let's go back. We can play cribbage."
"I don't play, you know that."
"That's right; it's Sarah I'm thinking of. I suppose she's washing her face in the waters of seven flowers or something. At least you needn't bother, my dear. You've no need for the fairies to show you the man you'll marry."
"No, I've no need for the fairies. But still ..."
"You know,” Alaric said, pursuing his own thoughts. “I don't know what it is about that girl. I don't think she cares much for me."
"Who? Oh, Sarah."
"Have you noticed it, too? She stops smiling and never talks when I come in the room. I wonder if I've frightened her."
"I shouldn't think so."
"Well, I am much older than she is."
"Fifteen years isn't very much. I know many people who are happily married with greater difference in their ages than that. And do you forget that I am only four years older than Sarah?"
"There's no comparison to be made between you, Lillian. You have much the advantage. But still, I don't like frightening young girls. I'm not an ogre, you know. I shall have to show that I approve of her, although that aunt of hers is a dreadful toad-eater."
"Mrs. Whitsun has had a difficult life. And you are rather important, socially. Quite a feather in her cap if you show attentions to her ward."
"Nonsense. I'm no one of any use to anyone with social ambitions. Or do you want to continue the giddy round once we are wed? Not that we won't come up to London fairly often; I'm not going to wall you up in the country. Girls get rather silly if they live completely bucolic lives. That's half Sarah's trouble, I'm sure. She doesn't know how to get on in society. You know, she hardly spoke to me at dinner. Rather rude, really."
"I like the country very much."
"Oh, you'll be an ornament to Reyne, I've no doubt. Did you say your father is dancing on the green?''
"Yes, just over there. Or at least, he was."
"I must see it. I'm afraid I'm rather in awe of your father, you know. Did I tell you he called on me after the theater the other night?"
"No. What did he say?"
"He wanted to be certain of my intentions toward you. I believe I reassured him that my heart had not changed."