Authors: Cynthia Bailey Pratt
The brilliant blue eyes darted right and left, scanning the feet of the women present. The fashion was for skirts to be extra long this year and his investigation met with defeat.
He smiled once more upon Lady Phelps, even as he drew out his handkerchief to wipe his brow, though Sarah had not noticed any perspiration upon it. Dropping the linen square, he laughed at his clumsiness.
After a moment, he waved to one of the footmen, keeping his own foot upon the handkerchief. She saw him point down and smile apologetically. The servant, young Fred, hesitated when he stooped and touched the square of cloth. He looked up from his bent position and said, “My lord?"
"My handkerchief, if you please."
"Yes, yes, Fred, what is the difficulty?” Lady Phelps asked. “Kindly pick it up for his lordship."
Lord Reyne wore a bland smile. Picking up the handkerchief in both hands, the footman handed it to the earl, who, in return, handed over something that glinted in the candlelight.
Folding the handkerchief with some difficulty, Lord Reyne tucked it once more into his inner breast pocket. The sandal had vanished, but Sarah had not seen it kicked away.
Pleasantly, Sarah said to her partner, “I think we shall sit down now.” The floor was cold, but she contrived to walk without favoring her right foot. She sat alone for a few moments after sending the young man off to fetch her a cooling sip of lemonade. Aunt Whitsun had said that this was the best method of distracting a man. Sarah felt a brief shock that Aunt Whitsun should be right about something.
Lord Reyne still stood beside Lady Phelps. Glancing at the card dangling from her wrist, Sarah realized she had only until the end of this second dance of the set, now beginning, to reclaim her sandal. Then some man, whose name she could not quite make out, would come to escort her through another.
Searching out Lady Phelps, very noticeable in a bright pink silk tunic over her evening dress, Sarah rose to approach the gentleman beside her hostess. Though she shrank from speaking to Lord Reyne about such an embarrassing subject, she could not pretend to have two sandals for the rest of the evening. The marble was very cold and quite slick beneath her silken stocking.
Hesitating behind the gentleman, she feared to break in on Lady Phelps’ conversation. But that lady, best friend of Mrs. East and, she hoped, future mother-in-law to Sarah, smiled as soon as she saw her. “My dear, do you know Mr. Breed?"
The gentleman turned, and Sarah wondered how she could have made the mistake. He was dark, but utterly different in every other respect to Lord Reyne.
"Yes ... I mean ... no ... how do you ... that is. Lady Phelps, can you read the next name on my card for me?"
"Why, yes. Oh, dear, my handwriting grows worse and worse,” said Lady Phelps. Craning her neck, she tried to spot the gentleman among her friends. “He was here speaking to me one moment ago. There he is, going out into the garden. He did say he wanted some air, but I thought he knew ..."
"Thank you,” Sarah said with a hasty bob. She saw the small door close, leaving no mark in the paneling to show where it had been. Having played nearly as often at Hollytrees on wet days as at her own home, Sarah knew the secret passage well. An earlier ancestor had not wanted to spoil the symmetry of the ballroom with any entrance other than the great main arch.
She scurried down a long stuffy hall, the music and laughter muffled behind the closed door. “Lord Reyne?” she called. The slowly moving earl paused.
"Miss East, isn't it?"
He remembered her!
"Yes, I ... I believe you have my sandal?” What a bald way of putting it. Sarah could have kicked herself, shod or not. Why hadn't she listened when Aunt Whitsun had taught her how to comport herself around men? She'd seen other girls lower their lashes and half-turn their heads, but these tricks only made her dizzy.
"Is this it?” he asked, as if the floor had been littered knee-deep with misplaced footwear.
"Yes, it was too big. I couldn't keep it on.” Taking it from him, she held it unsure of what to do. Without stays, she could have bent down at once or lifted her foot across her thigh to rebuckle it. She bit her lip in consternation.
Lord Reyne said apologetically, “Pray, forgive me for not replacing it on your foot, but as I told you ..."
They regarded the inanimate object with frustration. “I can't go back without it,” Sarah said.
"No, I quite see that. Permit me to give you my arm. Miss East. We'll step outside. It's too warm in this hall for thought.” He pushed open the door under his hand. They both inhaled instinctively as the cool, scented breeze curled around them “Lean on me. Miss East,” he said.
"Oh, I don't want to hurt you."
"I think I can support this burden.” The smile she'd waited for touched the corners of his lips and pulled powerfully on her heartstrings. Beneath her hand was pure muscle. She could feel it flex as he clenched his hand. Lord Reyne escorted her at once to a stone bench at the edge of the terrace.
"What are we to do about your ... ?” He flicked his fingers at the sandal.
"I don't know. I'm ...” She longed to seem competent in his eyes, as she had when climbing the tree, but it was impossible. With heat rising into her cheeks, she confessed, “I'd do it myself, but I'm wearing stays."
Had this interview taken place but one month earlier, it would have still been light enough at ten o'clock to see Lord Reyne's face. Now, however, there was only the darkening sky of twilight above them, the crescent moon hardly noticeable through a misty haze. Therefore, Sarah could not be certain of the meaning of the choked sounds coming from him. “You're all right? I didn't hurt you?” she asked in some anxiety.
His coughing fit ended. Lord Reyne said, “Why this concern. Miss East? I assure you I have offered support to far heftier ladies than yourself."
"You said you'd been wounded. Harmonia said horribly wounded, and I thought perhaps your arm ... ?"
"So, I am the subject of girlish gossip?"
"Oh, no, I asked her about you."
"Well, permit me to put your mind at rest. My wounds are not horrible, but honorable. I was shot, I fell, and was ..."
He'd received a ball in the thigh during the first charge. He could not recall now what it had felt like. That moment was too quickly overlaid by other memories, though he knew an obscure pride at having kept his seat and at turning about to lead the next attack.
The dust and the heat and the sharp smell of blood, cutting through everything else. The scream that he strove to keep behind his lips, only to fail as he tumbled from the saddle. The face of the dead Spaniard beside him on the field. And above all, the feel of a bayonet in his back, swelling up to override every other sensation, even of the pain of the ball in his chest.
But he had lived, and that was something. He could look down and see the gleam of bright hair beneath the rising moon and know the beautiful eyes of Miss Sarah East were looking back. He knew many men who would never see anything more, nor hear the gentle voice of a naive girl, nor, for that matter, breathe the scent of an English garden. Thinking of them, Alaric wanted to cough, to go back to that stuffy hall, for there at least he could inhale without remembering those others.
"Lord Reyne?"
He shook his head, and she saw a quick gleam of teeth. “I was decorated. Miss East, for my regiment took the hill we were after. And that is the total sum of my military career. The doctors assure me I should soon be as flexible as any acrobat. I do, however, regret that day has not yet come, for your foot's sake.” He half-bowed, wryly.
"I think I know what we could do about that.” How sweet to be able to combine herself with him, even if only for a moment. She stood up, the big toe of her right foot just brushing the ground. “You see how we are at the very edge of the terrace? There's a ha-ha down there. It's not very deep. If I sort of dangled my foot, could you ... ?"
"Attach your sandal? I think I could. Where does one get down?” He took the sandal from her gloved hands.
"There are some stairs over there."
Looking up a few minutes later, Alaric saw a white oblong object hovering in mid-air. “Can you come down any further?” he whispered. Obliging, the object dropped a trifle.
Though he could feel the strain across his back when he lifted his hands, Alaric realized the girl was balanced precariously on one foot. If he made too many demands, she might tumble off the wall. Touching her foot, he felt her tremble and hoped to God the chit wasn't ticklesome.
"Good evening,” she said from above his head. Alaric stayed his hands on the slim ankle. For the first time, he realized the strangeness of his position, deep in a ditch, looking up like a decadent Romeo at the girl above. “Oh, no,” the girl said. “I'm just enjoying ... enjoying the view. I mean, the night. Isn't ... isn't the moon lovely?"
Sarah fought down a giggle. If only he wouldn't touch her so gently. She said to the elderly couple before her, “Mother? I know she's about some ... somewhere. I saw her inside. No, no, she'll be glad to have you call at any time.” She felt another laugh bubbling up. Containing it was painful.
Now her left knee began to shake with the strain of sole support. And the dear woman before her was telling her the entire recipe for eel soup that Mrs. East had requested. Then, the tormenting touch on her foot was gone, and in its place, a palm pressed under her right sole, pushing up to offer a steady platform on which to stand. Gratefully, Sarah rested against it, though by no means putting her full weight down.
When Sarah was once more alone, Alaric quickly fastened the last two buckles, forcing his fingers to hurry where they would have lingered, strictly of their own volition. Golden Sarah East, dressed in a white gown that hinted at the firm curves beneath, was as lovely as any woman he'd ever seen. But a blossom in her first youth was not the sort of girl a man of character engaged in a flirtation. Especially when he had but recently pledged himself to another.
Now that they stood together, Sarah realized it had been worthwhile to spend extra care over her appearance. Nothing less than perfection would do if she were to dance with Lord Reyne. With her sandal secured, she felt she could redeem herself in his eyes by stepping lightly over the floor. He had brought her in from the garden with considerable haste, and she hoped it meant he was eager to partner her. But here he was, bowing away.
"Lord Reyne,” she said, crushed. “Lady Phelps wrote you down for this dance.” Fumbling for the card, she showed it to him as though it were a writ from on high.
"Did she?"
"Yes, see?'’ When his face betrayed not even polite interest, Sarah felt like a fool, gauche and forward. Aunt Whitsun had often called these her faults.
"Very well, then,” he said, touching his cravat. “If she wrote me down, I must fulfill my duty."
"If you are unable ... if it will pain you ..."
"Confound it. Miss East. I am not an invalid.” Alaric held out his hand to her, commandingly. Yet, he'd danced little since returning home, not even at Brighton, gayest and giddiest of watering-places. He watched as the other couples took their places. “Do you know this one?"
"I learned it a few months ago, at Leamington Spa where I stayed with my great-aunt."
"Ah. Well,” he said, swinging her hand a little as though unsure of what to do with it. He smiled at her. “I suppose I can stumble through somehow."
Sarah was astonished to see that Lord Reyne never put a foot wrong, though he acknowledged the steps of the
chassez bagatelle
were new to him. She'd had three weeks with a dancing instructor and still sometimes made a fiasco when embarked upon it.
No sensation had ever been so delightful as that of Lord Reyne's fingers upon her ankle. Yet, that had been nothing. In the course of the dance, he lightly clasped her waist with one arm to him, and held her shoulders with both hands to step forward and back in time to the music. Looking up at his face from the vicinity of his shoulder, Sarah thought he was more wonderful than ever, though his eyes did not meet hers. They were too busy flicking little glances at the other men's feet.
Bowing, he sent her down the line. She wondered if he would miss her. Plodding past man after man, Sarah did not smile until she reached him again.
"You have always lived in Brandeton?” he asked.
"All of my life, Lord Reyne. Where do you live?"
"I have a house in Essex. And another in Middlesex. Did you enjoy Leamington Spa?” Briefly, he dropped his gaze to her heated face, only to look away once more to attend to the steps.
"No.” Before she could explain her bluntness, it was time to proceed again down the line. For a moment, she had to concentrate on catching the correct next pair of hands. It shouldn't be hard for him to understand that city pursuits were unimportant to her. He rode like a man used to the country, and he certainly shot like one, which is to say he lifted his gun to nothing he did not see clearly.
Looking back, she stumbled when Lord Reyne put his hands on another lady's shoulders. Never mind that it was Calpurnia Grissom, never mind that his next partner was at the age of spots, Sarah watched each girl, waiting for a smile to light Lord Reyne's face. It was not the polite smile she minded, for she had one now affixed to her own lips. She feared to see that brief radiance of humor, like the swift flash of a shooting star, which had once been focused on herself.
As she returned to him the final time, he asked with a little bow, “Sandal all right?"
"Yes, it's fine, so long as I do not wiggle my toes."
"Please don't disturb them. We were lucky to get away with that antic once; I would not dare try it again. I know what I would think if I saw someone down there.” His voice was low.
"I imagine,” she said, “anybody who lived here would think it was Harold or Harcourt. They'd often hide in the ha-ha so they could leap up and frighten whoever came to look at the view.” She added sadly, “They don't do it any more."
"Of course, I'd forgotten I was in the country.” He bowed a last time, for the music reached its final bar. Sarah frowned at him as she rose from her curtsy. It had been a very strange thing to say.