Blessed Offense (Sixteen Seasons) (2 page)

“Your pride is going to be your downfall,” he says more seriously. “If you want to end up bitter and alone, that’s your lookout, but I don’t think it’s what you really want.”

“Neither do you, for that matter. Having to support your wife’s spinster sister would quite be the limit of your patience, I’m sure.”

“I hope I am not too proud to know when I might be of some use,” he says with a strain of defensiveness, and only after a long and tense silence, “even if that help is not particularly wanted or appreciated. I do hope this trait of yours is not shared by your sister as well.”

“Oh, Celia’s not proud. She may be vain, but she’s never proud.”

“Is there a difference?”

“Of course there is. Pride is a feeling of one’s superiority. Vanity is the desire that others should see you so.”

He looks at me very pointedly.

“I do not mean to be proud, Mr. Townsend. My feelings are easily hurt, by some more than others, and I do not like to be humiliated or shown my weaknesses. No one does.”

“But you are mighty slow to forgive, Caro. Dash it if you’re not.” He appears to truly regret it, but I will not be swayed by his speeches. They are no longer mine to hear.

I fan myself. It is hot in here, but more than that I need something to do while he stares at me so intently. It is as much as to say he means, somehow, to earn my forgiveness. But it’s too late for that. At least he should not want it. He should not!

“Well,” I say, at last finding it necessary to break the silence, “if you won’t find Celia, then I will.” And I leave him standing there. I would very much like to know he is watching me walk away, but I think he is not. I look. No, he is not. I cannot help it; I am disappointed.

WHEN I WAS
nineteen, Lynford Townsend kissed me. It was my birthday. It was his gift, he had said. It was the only one he had to give. I have never forgiven him. I certainly have never forgotten it.

How a young woman of eighteen can disappear from her own coming out party, I do not know, but Celia is in none of the receiving rooms, and I’ve just made up my mind to go upstairs and check her own room when I see her coming out of the curtained off cloakroom that has been set up in the back stairwell. She is looking curiously flushed and dishevelled.

Celia!” I say. “What is the matter with you?”

She looks at me, apparently ashamed, but for what I cannot quite imagine. Her cheeks are very red. Her lips redder, as if they’d just received some hard use. Worse still, she has not answered me. “Celia?”

“I– I was just discussing something,” she stammers. “Something rather personal. With a friend.”

“Who is this friend?” I demand and approach to see for myself.

The cloakroom curtains part once more and another figure stands before me. This is no confidante of the common—and commonly female—persuasion. The implication is quite shocking. All the more so as I see a similar pattern of blushing and redness and general dishevelment about the young gentleman’s person.

“Lord Avery . . . Whatever were you doing in the cloakroom?” I’ve asked the question, but do I truly want an answer?

His face grows redder as he replies. “I was merely looking for my coat. I thought I’d left something in the pocket.”

“And you were required to help him, were you, Celia? I’d hate to think what kind of confidences you were sharing with a gentleman in a cloakroom.”

Celia is suddenly before me, grasping my hand in hers. “Oh, Caro. You won’t say anything, will you? You won’t—”

But she stops quite suddenly. I turn to see what has arrested her attention and find, to my utter chagrin, Mr. Townsend standing in the open doorway. A thousand emotions rush over me. Mostly I am very, very sorry for the poor man. And I am very cross with my sister.

I take Celia by the arm and lead her upstairs, to my room, where she instantly bursts into a flood of tears.

“Now, now, dear. It’s all right,” I say, though I am certain things are most definitely
not
all right. “Tell me, will you,” I ask her when she has calmed enough to speak, “what it is you were doing in the cloakroom with Lord Avery?”

“Oh, Caro! I have done something very wrong. I don’t know how you can forgive me.”

“Me? I know I can be very hard, Celia darling, but I’m not the one to ask for forgiveness. Mr. Townsend is a good man. Perhaps the best I know. He’ll forgive you, I’m sure of it, but you must explain what happened. Can you?”

“I never should have told him I’d marry him.”

“Lord Avery! Good heaven, Celia, what
have
you done?”

“No, not Lord Avery. It’s Lynn, I mean. I never should have done it. It was wrong of me.”

“How can it be wrong to promise yourself to the man who loves you, to the man whom you love and have loved your whole life?”

Celia only shakes her head.

“Celia. I don’t understand you. You love him. You always have. Tell me I am not wrong.” There is an air of desperation to my voice. I regret it, but it is too late.

“I loved him because he loved you. And I was jealous.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“He never said, but I know. I can see it. Have always seen it. Everyone loves you.”

This is absurd, and most assuredly not true. “People are drawn to you,” I counter, and quite sincerely. “Can you not see what a prize your company is to those who would seek it? And everyone does. Quite naturally.”

Celia sniffs and dabs at her eyes. “At first, perhaps. But when they realise I’m not much more than a pretty face, that you have all the wit and conversational skill between us...”

“This is nonsense, Celia. And what of Lord Avery? How does he figure into this?”

“I’ve been corresponding with him for these past six months.”

“What?”

“It’s true. I met him while I was staying with Granny last winter.”

“And you’ve been writing all the while Lynn has been courting you?”

“But he wasn’t. Not at first. He was a friend whose attention I coveted. But it wasn’t me he wanted. And then... Well, then he came to me as a friend, I think. He was seeking consolation, and I was happy to give it. But it was never my intention to take him from you. Why would you not have him, Caro? Why did you refuse him?”

“It doesn’t matter at the moment, Celia. What matters is that you have broken the heart of a very good and honourable man. And what of Lord Avery? Is he good? Is he honourable? I hardly see how he can be! What are his intentions? Has he even made them clear?”

“He has never offered to me. He has only before said he was unable to speak. I believe his parents have someone in mind for him. Or did. I don’t know.”

“And now?”

“Now? Well ... he has certainly spoken, but not... not of—” She breaks off with a sob and the tears start afresh.

This, of course, is what I feared most to hear. “And if he should? Do you love Lord Avery, Celia? Do you care for him more than you care for Mr. Townsend? Do you mean to throw poor Lynn over?”

“Don’t say that, Caro.”

“What are you going to do?”

“What can I do? Was anyone else witness to my degradation? Or am I safe in supposing the secret is between us four?”

“What society knows and does not know is irrelevant to the matter of personal honour. Surely you realise that?”

“What must Lynn think of me?”

“I do believe he will forgive you, if you confess to him. And if you are truly contrite. You will marry him?”

“I think I must. If he will have me.”

“But you are not certain you want him?”

She did not answer this, and I was not sure I wanted her to. Whatever the answer, I was not prepared to hear it.

I left Celia to rest, though she was unsure she could prepare herself for a reappearance. But I would not allow her to repeat my mistakes. She would return to her guests. She would recover herself, one way or another, and the party would go on. Or, for her, there would never be another.

I descend the grand staircase, examining carefully the crowded reception rooms. No one seems particularly concerned with my reappearance. I do not see Lord Avery, and so make up my mind to find Lynn. I do find him, and without much trouble. He has been looking for me, it seems.

“How is she?” he asks.

“She’s a wreck.”

“I’d ask what happened, but I suppose I can guess it easily enough.”

I cannot bring myself to answer.

“It seems I’ve the worst luck, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, but you keep trying. That’s the admirable thing. What will you do?”

“It’s entirely up to her.”

“Your offer still stands?”

“You know the answer is yes.”

“Because you love her.”

“Because I am a man of honour, even if it seems no one else knows what the word means,” he answers rather bitterly. Of course I cannot blame him.

“And no one knows?”

His face turns a little pale. “Lady Ponsonby, it seems, saw just enough to draw a fairly accurate conclusion.”

“Then it’ll be all over the rooms in ten minutes.”

“And in the London papers by morning.”

“Good heaven, what do we do?”

“I think, perhaps, I should go to your father. And of course I’ll want to know what Celia’s wishes are. And what are the intentions of that infidel Avery.”

“Yes. Go to Papa now. I’ll send the others to you in the library. Go.”

At the base of the stairs stands Lord Avery. Waiting, no doubt. But for whom? Or what? The look on his face speaks volumes, but he appears more frightened than concerned.

“I overheard you give directions to Mr. Townsend. He is going now to speak with your father.”

“It is right he should. Did she tell you she’s engaged to marry Mr. Townsend?”

“She did.”

“And you imposed anyway?”

“I do care for her, despite what you may think.”

“And what do you mean to do about it?”

“I meant no harm. I’m afraid I’ve always been of an impulsive nature. It’s gotten me into trouble more times than one.”

I close my eyes as the implications of this crawl upon me.

“I did not mean—” he begins, but I will not let him finish.

“I know very well what you meant, sir. If you will be so good as to join Mr. Townsend in the library, you can work out what is to be done between you. I will send Celia shortly. A footman will show you.” He knows the way, I am well aware, but I will not take the risk of his bolting. He must answer to his crimes, the same as anyone.

WHEN I WAS
one and twenty, Lynford Townsend asked me to marry him. I refused. I had no very good reason to do it. I simply did not like the way he asked me, as if it were already a foregone conclusion that I would accept him, and he therefore had no reason to exert more effort than a guest at a dinner party requesting the salt.

Papa stands at the landing of the grand staircase, all the guests have gathered around. The air still rings with the sound of his spoon against the crystal glass he has carried with him from the refreshment table. I hold my breath as he prepares the words. I’ve heard this announcement before, after all. Why should it cause me such anxiety now? Perhaps because an hour or more has passed in which I have been left to my own fatal imaginings. What has happened in the library with my father and that blackguard Avery, I haven’t a clue. All I know is Papa has the announcement on his lips. Celia is there, too, with Mama’s arm wrapped tightly about her waist. To one side stands Mr. Townsend. To the other Lord Avery.

The announcement is made. The air fills with oohs and ahs and excited chatter. My sister is to marry Lord Avery? Is it possible? I am offered congratulations by the guests, but I’m afraid I’m only vaguely conscious of their words. The faint strains of music fill the background and I feel suddenly alone and lost. I feel as though I’ve aged a decade in the last two hours. I am in a bit of a daze, to be honest, and I do not fully realise the state of my shattered equanimity until I feel a hand on my arm. Unawares to me, the dance floor has cleared for my sister and her husband-to-be (looking very white and not entirely pleased with the turn of events) and I am standing very nearly in the middle of it. No longer alone.