The Gilded Cage (3 page)

I do as she says. Just then, Jane's father calls her name. We look across the ballroom, to where he stands next to an earnest-looking young man in an aggressively green jacket. “Good Lord,” says Jane. “I believe he has hooked me another suitor. You must find out more about our mystery guest, while I make my father remember why he does not try too hard to throw men in my way. Here, take this.”

She hands me her pastry and sets off demurely through the crowd. I return my gaze to the young man. His quiet shape in the dim light has a curious gravity to it as I slip through the doorway behind him. The room is cool and quiet after the din of the ballroom, the dusky pinks and greens of its furnishings glowing flatly golden in the meager candlelight. Moving closer, I see that the man is studying a painting on the wall—one that Grace pointed out to me on my first day here.

It depicts my grandfather, the late Lord Walthingham, as a younger man astride a tan horse. He looks much like my father did, only narrower in the face. It would have been a rather classical portrait, but for one detail: crouching next to the horse is a lean black panther. Its body is almost lost in the background, but its steady yellow eyes gaze straight out from the canvas. While I find it strange enough in daytime, it is more unsettling still at night, touched by candlelight. My slipper squeaks on the floor a little, and the man spins around.

“Sorry!” I say.

For the half second he is silent, I take him in. His black hair curls up along his neck and the strong line of his jaw. A lock of it falls over his brow, and for one mad moment I long to push it back for him. “I'm sorry,” he says quickly. “I should not be in here. Excuse me.”

He turns to walk away.

“No, please stay,” I say. “It is I who should apologize, for intruding upon your private moment.”

He flushes with embarrassment. “I was just admiring this painting,” he says. “I'm afraid such gatherings”—he nods toward the party—“are not to my taste.”

“Nor mine,” I say. “I try to keep up with all the names, but I'm still not sure if one lady's name is Arabella or Annabella, and whether so-and-so is an earl or a viscount or a lord.” He looks unsure if I'm joking or not, half-smiling and half-frowning. “I warn you, if you tell me your name, I may forget it.”

He shuffles his feet uncomfortably.

“But, please,” I add, “do tell me it anyway.”

“I am William Simpson, a lawyer for your estate. I've been working to put things in order since your grandfather's death. I am very sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you, sir. I regret that I was never able to meet him.” I gesture toward the painted panther. “Though I find his choice of pet rather odd, don't you?”

For a moment Mr. Simpson frowns. “My lady, that panther symbolizes loyalty and courage. Your grandfather was an exemplar of both.”

My irreverence has offended him. “And the horse?” I ask quietly.

His voice softens. “The horse, I believe, is just a horse.”

His face, already rather nice, is much improved by a slightly crooked smile, which vanishes too soon.

“Your grandfather's death was a great tragedy,” says Mr. Simpson.

I nod slowly, feeling terribly guilty. In truth, I find it hard to summon feelings for a man I never met, and who, for all I know, never knew of our existence. Everyone has been at pains to say he died without suffering, though I wonder if that is wishful thinking. He wasn't found, Grace says, for half a day. It happened in the woods on the perimeter of the estate, and the loyal animal stayed with him until rescuers came looking. Thinking about it now, the portrait of the proud horseman takes on a macabre impression.

“I haven't been on a horse since I arrived in England,” I say, hoping to move the conversation on. “I love riding, though I'll have to learn the English way of it before I can go very far from home.”

“I'm afraid I'm not much of a horseman,” says Mr. Simpson. He looks at the floor, then at the painting once more, then the floor again. I realize suddenly that I still hold two canapés in my hands, and extend one lamely toward him.

Mr. Simpson looks confused but takes the glazed tier of golden pastry. When he bites into it, a flaking crumb falls onto his collar.

“May I?” Stepping toward him, I brush the flake gently aside with my gloved hand. He stands perfectly still, his chest rising and falling beneath my touch. The cloth, I notice, is rough, near homespun in quality, and slightly frayed at the seam.

“There,” I say. I look up at his face, my eyes lingering longer than they should. His skin is perfectly smooth, but for a tiny scar on his upper lip and the faintest grit of stubble coming in. His eyes, a deep blue, are trained on mine. My gaze falls unconsciously to his lips, expecting him to speak.

“There you are, Katherine, at last!” Grace calls from the doorway. “What
are
you doing, lurking in the … Oh! Mr. Simpson.”

He steps back sharply, as though I've pushed him.

“We were just admiring my grandfather's portrait,” I say quickly. Too quickly, perhaps, because Grace's eyes narrow.

“Well,” she says, her lips pursed, “Lieutenant Hastings has been asking after you. The dancing is about to start, and you have promised him the first.”

I nod, though I can't remember which one Lieutenant Hastings is, and I long to stay another moment in this quiet room. Instead I must follow her back to the ballroom, leaving Mr. Simpson behind.

“Good-bye, William,” I say.

He bows discreetly. “I hope you enjoy your evening, Lady Walthingham,” he says. “It's Arabella, by the way. The name you've forgotten.”

“What
is
he talking about?” mutters Grace.

The music has shifted to a higher tempo. The lieutenant turns out to be a tall man with pale eyes and a high forehead, whose fingertips brush my bare arm as he leads me into the row of dancers.

“How are you enjoying your first ball, Lady Randolph?” he asks.

“Very much,” I say. “Though you must forgive me if I step on your feet.”

“I'll forgive you in advance. You look light as a feather, Lady Randolph.” He drops his hand to my waist as the rest of the couples line up.

“Were you in my cousin's regiment, sir?” I ask. “He has spoken very highly of his fellow soldiers.”

“I am a military doctor, my lady.”

Henry stands alongside us, partnered with Jane Dowling, and he leans toward me. “This is the man who saved my leg, Katherine, after I took a musket ball from the French. If it weren't for him, I wouldn't be fit to partner anybody.”

Though the music is unfamiliar, the lieutenant guides me into it effortlessly. Even Henry, on his lame leg, manages ably enough with Jane. Is it just my imagination, or are they standing slightly closer than the other dancers? Certainly, her cheeks have taken on a high flush.

After a few turns, the lieutenant releases me, and another man in uniform takes my arms. I think we've met before, but I can't remember his name.

“And what do you think of England, Lady Randolph?” he says smoothly.

“I'm sure it will feel like home in time.”

The soldier laughs. “I'm sure it will. And your brother? He seems to be enjoying England very much indeed.”

I look down the line, to where George is gazing at his partner, a beautiful raven-haired girl.

Before I can respond, we have swapped again, and I'm partnered now with Henry. We spin and turn in time with the others.

“You're a natural!” he says. “I hope you have a hard heart.”

“Why?” I ask.

“Because you're going to have to refuse an awful lot of proposals before this season is out.”

I'm still wondering how to reply to that when he passes me on to a captain called Wilson. I'm starting to enjoy myself. It's nothing like the dances at home, with toothless Christopher on his flute, but the music is easy to follow, and I see Grace smiling proudly from the edge of the room. Jane and my brother dance together, both laughing aloud.

When it's time for Captain Wilson and me to part, he says, “I hope you will have many balls at Walthingham Hall, Lady Randolph. I'll be sorry if this is our last dance together.”

I look along the line to my next partner—and my eyes meet Mr. Simpson's. As I raise my brow in surprise, he looks suddenly flustered. His feet halt, then start again, out of time with the music, then tangle with those of Lieutenant Hastings to his right. He can't stop himself from falling at my feet.

The music plays on for a few bars, but when the dancers come to a halt, it does, too, in a discordant stutter.

“I think we have a tumbler!” bellows Lord Flint. His wife beside him lets out a peal of laughter.

As Mr. Simpson picks himself up, I reach to help him. But he pulls himself away, his eyes blazing blue.

“The lawyer's had a bit too much champagne, I think,” says Captain Wilson.

“No, it was my fault,” I say. “Forgive my clumsiness, Mr. Simpson; I think it distracted you.”

He brushes himself down, unwilling to meet my eyes. “The fault is mine, Lady Randolph. I should not be here at all.”

He's gone before I can speak, darting quickly through the main doors. As I watch him go, my mouth lifts into an imitation of a smile for the guests still watching me.

Then the music starts up again, and Mr. Simpson is forgotten.

 

CHAPTER 3

A
FTER THE LAWYER'S
sudden departure, I find I have little energy for a ball. Though I do my best to dance, to smile, I'm relieved when, at a signal from the butler, the musicians begin to pack away their instruments. Grace sends servants to wake the sleeping coachmen, women in wilted silks lean drowsily into their husbands, and at last the long night is drawing to a close.

George, rosy with drink, throws an arm around my shoulders. “Nothing like being branded, Kat,” he says, kissing me on the cheek. “But the only one with a pain on his backside is that lawyer fellow.”

I frown at him, teasingly. “It's a long ride to London tomorrow, and I expect you to stay awake for it.”

He gently musses my hair and leaves the ballroom, walking with the deliberate gait men use to disguise tipsiness.

I see Henry nodding farewell to Mr. Dowling, who is deep in conversation with a gentleman I know to be a judge. Henry then bows to Jane, taking her hand. I watch the way his fingers linger, wrapped in hers, and the way Jane lifts her eyes to meet his. Yes, there's something there, for certain. I might be unused to this country, but love looks the same everywhere.

“A safe journey home,” he says to her.

A few officers are departing together, and they jostle me lightly as they pass.

“My apologies, my lady,” one of them says, turning. “But you can't blame us for our haste. The Beast of Walthingham preys on the wicked, they say, so we must rush straight to our beds.”

“The Beast of Walthingham?” I say, my skin prickling at the strange name. For a moment I can see the strange shape in the trees again from my window.

“Gentlemen, please,” says Grace from her place by the front door. “I advise you not to add the needless frightening of young women to your list of sins tonight.”

The men bow at her as they exit, but I can see the sardonic curl of their smiles.

“What did they mean?” I ask my cousin. “What is the Beast of Walthingham?”

Grace sighs heavily. “It's a lot of nonsense. Your grandfather kept a small menagerie of exotic creatures on the estate, and they were sold off after his passing. Some of the servants like to fancy that an animal or two escaped first. Imagining the woods full of ravening beasts gives a bit of flavor to life, I suppose.”

Several ladies waiting to make their good-byes look discomfited by her words. Henry has joined his sister, and he breaks in. “The only animal Grandfather was unable to sell was our African elephant,” he says. “His rampages have been the ruin of our west wing, and we go through an extraordinary number of peanuts.”

Grace shoos at her brother dismissively, and a few of the guests laugh. But a middle-aged woman in green satin pauses beside me, her lips pursed. “Your cousin's elephant can't explain what happened at Longbrooke,” she says darkly.

I know that Longbrooke is a large farm that links to the eastern edge of the estate, a few miles from the house as the crow flies, but this is the first I've heard of any happenings there.

“Enough of that,” says Grace, placing a hand on the woman's shoulder.

The visitor tugs it away. “A dozen head of sheep torn up in the night,” she says. “Not even eaten. Just torn up, as if in spite.”

The jollity of the conversation has suddenly turned ugly, and the faces around me are ugly, too: red with drink, features cast in shadow.

Then the illusion passes. These people are just tired, this woman overwrought. A young man attempts to pull her away from me, toward the door. “Mother, come. It's too late for silly stories.”

“Where I'm from, wild animals are a regular nuisance,” I say, with as much brightness as I can muster. “George was always running things off our land, and I've killed several rattlesnakes with a shovel.”

The young man's uncomfortable silence is more than made up for by Jane's unladylike guffaw. She turns it unconvincingly into a yawn and looks over to where her father is still engaged in conversation with the judge. “I'm nearly asleep on my feet. Take the air with me, Katherine? I'd like to see the damage done to the west wing up close.”

A signal to a servant to bring my coat, and we pass down the front steps into the cool of the night. The parkland is cast in darkness, shadows on shadows. A small part of me is afraid, but deliciously so, thinking of a wild beast stalking the grounds just beyond the house.

Jane takes my arm in hers as we pick our way across the quiet lawn. The air is fresh and cold, and the stars burn icily overhead. We cross great patches of lamplight thrown down from the windows, interspersed with silvery swaths of moonlight.