Authors: Cynthia Bailey Pratt
Harmonia Phelps had sent a note earlier in the day, requesting Sarah to come over before supper, so they might have the fun of gossiping together while they dressed. Sarah now replied to the invitation in person, with her mother's approval.
Unfortunately, as Sarah crossed the grounds of Hollytrees, Harmonia glimpsed her from an upstairs window. Throwing up the sash, she leaned out and hallooed. “Sarah, Sarah! View Halloo!"
Waving frantically for her friend to shush, Sarah hurried forward, clutching a brown-paper parcel under one arm. The sandy drive to the front door of Hollytrees seemed beyond human scale, like a never-ending path in a nightmare.
"Sarah!” her friend called again with a laughing face.
Increasing her pace, Sarah shot glances at the wood beyond the house, at the lake, at the stables just in view. She gained the safety of the pedimented portico and paused to catch her breath before entering the house.
Just then, Harold emerged from the small Grecian temple by the artificial lake. At the same moment, Harcourt sprang up from the bank, hurling aside his fishing rod. Like a thief seeking sanctuary in a church, Sarah turned the knob and burst, regardless of etiquette, into Sir Arthur's home.
"They're after me, Smithers,” she panted as the butler came forward.
"Up the stairs, quickly. Miss East. Once you've reached Miss Harmonia, you'll be safe."
She raced for the stairs, hiking her skirts nearly to her knees so that she could leap them two at a time. Yet Harcourt's legs were longer even than her own. She'd lost too many races to the boys to hold any false hopes she could beat them without a longer start than she had.
Their voices, calling her name, echoed from the hall below. Sarah beat a fierce tattoo on Harmonia's door. When it was jerked open, she all but fell into the room.
"Harcourt first to the door, Harold next by seven seconds! Remind me I owe Smithers two pence. I can't help wagering on an outsider. I think the trouble with the odds is we have no third party. Do you think you could make Harvey fall in love with you too, Sarah? It would improve the turf enormously."
Taking the glass of water Harmonia held out, Sarah sank gratefully into an armchair. “I wish you wouldn't do that,” she said. “If not for my sake, for your brothers'. It can't be good for them."
"They don't seem to mind. I'd say they need more exercise, after all their mooning over you.” Harmonia turned to look out of her window. “They've gone back to whatever they were doing. Are you going to dance with them tonight?"
"I suppose I'll have to, won't I?"
"Yes, I don't see how you're to get out of it, but I'd limit them to one set each. There's quite a few eligible gentlemen visiting Harvey. That's why Mama's giving this house party. She hopes one will want to marry me."
"Well, why not?"
Harmonia smiled at her friend. “Because one look at you, my dearest, and there lives not a man who'd look twice at me."
"Don't be so silly. Besides, do you want boys like Harcourt and Harold falling all over you? If they weren't your brothers I'd give them to you gladly."
"No, thank you. I don't care for hordes of young men, but it would be very pleasant to have one.” Wistfully, Harmonia sighed. Her smooth brown hair and short, plump figure had never troubled her until this year, when Sarah had blossomed into such overwhelming beauty.
"Well,” Sarah said lamely, “if you should like any of my admirers—though I don't see how you could—just name your choice and I'll give him to you."
Harmonia smiled again with mischief. “I'll remember that. There are second sons and lords aplenty. We've even a real earl staying here."
"An earl?"
"Yes, the Earl of Reyne. They say he was terribly wounded in Spain. Harcourt says he's going to try to get the earl to talk about it; you know how wild he is to join the army."
With a shake of her blond head, Sarah dismissed Harcourt's plans. She had not considered Reyne's rank, not caring whether he was a king or a woodcutter. She hid that she'd met him, for the hour in the woods was too precious to share with anyone, not with Harmonia, not even with her own mother. “This earl ... what is he like?"
"Oh, I don't know. Handsome enough, I suppose. He was at dinner last night, but I didn't pay much attention. Harriet kept me busy, moaning about how sick little Harry is. The doctor told her it's just the chicken pox, but you'd think it the end of the world. He's been confined to the nursery, poor little fellow.
"Oh,” she continued, as Sarah unwrapped the gown she'd brought and shook it to release the wrinkles, “I was hoping you'd wear that instead of your muslin with the blue sprigs. Remind me that Bumbleton owes me four pence; she said you'd wear the other, as it's only a family party."
After showing Sarah her own choice for the evening, Harmonia asked, “Are those the sandals you bought while you were away?” She came around to the other side of the bed to admire the cut steel buckles flashing in the late sunlight. The sandals were no more solid than a soft sole of wash-leather could make them.
"Yes, my aunt insisted they were the latest mode. They're rather too big for me, though. I almost have to shuffle, and if I wiggle my toes, the buckles come open."
"But they are beautiful."
"Yes,” Sarah said, poking the silver satin with one finger. “I suppose they are."
As the hour for dinner drew closer, more young ladies of the county began to arrive, some already attired for the evening, others taking advantage of Harmonia's invitation. Soon her chamber was a riot of white muslin and giggling voices. In the window seat, Sarah nodded to the other girls, for she'd known them forever. She could not help but notice, however, that not even her most particular friends singled her out for a private coze. She shrank farther back into her corner, while the laughter went on without her.
Sarah came down the stairs as elegantly as a tall ship amidst a flotilla of lesser girls, all but a few dressed in pure white. The girls who had a Season already drifted last, languidly experienced if unwed. Sarah did not think for even a moment of her own Season, soon to come. She was looking for Lord Reyne.
As soon as she entered the salon, however, Harcourt and Harold came to her side.
"How are you, Sarah? You look ..."
"I swear there's not another girl here to touch you. What's that, Posthwaite? Of course, too pleased. Sarah, this is ... certainly. Sir Francis ... and this gentleman is ..."
Though they frowned horribly at their brother's friends, crowding about, they introduced them each in turn. Sarah quickly lost any sense of which face went with what name. To them, she seemed a remote goddess, wreathed in sky-blue ribbons, dreaming of her lost home on some mountaintop.
In all, twenty-four pairs of seats were filled. Though comfortably casual in most regards. Lady Phelps was not as yet certain she approved of promiscuous seating, so a long row of women faced an equally long row of men. As was usual at an evening at Sir Arthur's, there had been no pairing off in order of rank, so it was not until they were all seated that two members of the party were found to be missing.
"Smithers,” said her ladyship. “Kindly go tell Sir Arthur that we are all waiting. Politics,” she said with an apologetic laugh, echoed by her guests.
The empty chairs were at the end of the table, far from Sarah. She hardly noticed the soup ladled into the bowl before her. Every nerve awaited Lord Reyne's entrance. He would walk in, sit down—or perhaps his eyes would wander over the assembled guests until he looked upon her. She could not imagine what would happen when he saw her, but as she picked up her spoon, her neighbor said, “Sarah, are you quite well? Your hand trembles."
Sarah looked at the quivering spoon in surprise. “Yes, thank you, Mrs. Flint. I'm ... I'm a little cold."
"Cold? Yet it's such a warm evening. Quite unseasonable."
Putting the utensil down, Sarah folded her hands in her lap. Despite the noise all around her, she straightened the instant his voice sounded through the din. Perhaps it was wrong, unladylike as her Aunt Whitsun would have said, but her eyes went at once to the door, ignoring her right-hand neighbor.
"You know,” Mrs. Flint said. “My son, Nigel, suffers agonies from the cold. I'm always knitting him something warm. Why, last year ..."
Sarah had to turn back and face Mrs. Flint while that lady spoke. She could not be rude and turn her back, though no one could expect reasonable answers under the circumstances. When at last free to look again, she saw Lord Reyne, half-hidden behind a silver candelabra. He was listening to Sir Arthur. So far as she could see, he made monosyllabic answers. All she asked now was to be able to sit, chin in hand, and gaze upon him.
Evening clothes became him well, playing up his fair coloring against the black self-effacing fabric. His linen was white, bringing out his tanned skin. He was too thin but ate little. What was he thinking of, she wondered, to cloud his eyes so? She remembered well his brief smiles and longed to see one now.
All at once, as though he felt he were under observation, Lord Reyne ran his eyes down the table's opposite side. When his stern gaze passed over her, Sarah felt herself blush. Immediately, she began to talk to Miss Calpurnia Grissom on her left, although she had nothing to say to her.
"I ... I ... the hunting should be good this year?"
"Oh, without doubt. My father says ...but I think ...” Fortunately, Miss Grissom was the sort of woman who possessed profound opinions on every conceivable subject. Safe from having to comment beyond a yes or no, Sarah dared to raise her eyes again to Lord Reyne. He jabbed without interest at the sliced beef that had replaced the soup. She wondered if he was thinking about pineapples. Would it be too forward of her to offer to go at once to Tahiti for one?
Embarrassed, Sarah recollected she could not spend the entire dinner staring at Lord Reyne, dearly though she would have liked to. When she at last turned her attention to the gentlemen across the table, it was to discover Harcourt Phelps staring back at her with a scowl. This cleared immediately upon her smile.
"I say, you will keep a dance clear for me?” She was about to answer yes, when from beside him, Harold said, “And for me?"
"I get her first dance, because I'm oldest and asked first."
"Oh, have it your own way. I prefer to claim the final dance. Perhaps I can see you home, Sarah? Or did you come with your parents?” He half-waved at Mrs. East.
"I'm staying with your sister, tonight.” The young male faces brightened. “Along with half a dozen other girls.” Harcourt surveyed the long line of ladies opposite with the air of a sultan invoicing the latest bunch of harem beauties. “I shan't dance with anyone but you,” he announced at the end of his appraisal.
"Neither shall I,” his brother answered at once.
Lady Phelps had other plans. Between the older gentleman who did not dance and the younger gentleman who did not wish to dance, her duty was clear. Too many girls with their backs against the wall would ruin her party. Except for war, she found men preferred to shirk unpleasant duties. She glided about the ballroom, influencing her sons to do the pretty. Even Harvey, highly indolent as a rule, was persuaded by maternal authority to step out onto the floor with every female in the room.
In his adolescence, he had shot up two feet in one year, without growing the strength to match his length. He chose Sarah almost at once. “I have been many places,” he said in his rather snuffling, drawling voice, aped, had she known it, from some of the finest bucks in the country.
"Yes, I know you have, Harvey."
"I mean to say, that I have
danced
in many places, and it is rare to find a girl who is ... well, tall enough for me. It's a dreadful thing to talk down to a female. Quite ... quite enervatin'.” He smothered a yawn and smiled into Sarah's eyes.
"It isn't right,” Harold muttered to his rival. “Harvey's the heir. He could sweep her away, and we'd never have a chance."
"True,” Harcourt replied. “But he's dreadfully weedy. Sarah likes the outdoor life.” Inhaling, Harcourt imperiled the seams of his tight evening coat.
Unconsciously, Harold imitated him. Poet he might be, but there was nothing wrong with his thews or sinews. He'd kept up and sometimes surpassed his twin in many athletic feats, though he might despise mere brawn. Many young girls sighed.
Catching Lady Phelps’ stern eye, the twins separated to perform duty dances, though they spent more of that set glaring at their eldest brother than flattering their female partners. During the rest of the sets, they glared at each other.
Though Sarah knew all the steps, her attention was neither on her dancing nor on her partners. The compliments passed around her like shreds of mist, because they did not come from Lord Reyne. After dinner, he had disappeared. No, wait, there he was, talking to Lady Phelps. Looking over her shoulder at the earl, Sarah stumbled.
With a bow, her partner took responsibility for the mistake, then proceeded on, releasing her hand to turn away. Sarah began to follow. At her next step, however, the cold floor communicated itself to the sole of her foot. Sarah paused, as the dance went on without her, and looked down. Her delicately colored stocking peeked out from beneath the hem of her gown. She wiggled her toes, to be certain she saw what she saw.
One sandal had definitely come off. Looking about, she beheld it, only a foot away. Sarah began to bend for it, but the stays Molly had insisted she wear precluded any deviation from perfect uprightness. With a stricken look, she glanced up at her partner. Finding she had not followed him through the dance, he came over at once, kicking the sandal away, unaware he'd done so.
It slid across the slick floor, was checked by another girl executing a turn, and then was sent skidding backwards by another male dancing pump. Hastily, Sarah shoved out her shod foot to stop it, only to misjudge the distance. The sandal went shooting on. Revolving slowly, it came to rest against the foot of the Earl of Reyne.
Sarah saw Lord Reyne look down and then back to the face of his hostess. For a heartbeat, he continued to talk pleasantly before he glanced involuntarily downward again, a tiny frown drawing his brows together.