Amy Lake (5 page)

Lord Davies did not yet know that Lady Regina was normally an infrequent attender of
musicales
.  His explanation for their common presence at two such events was as innocent as Cassandra had promised; they both liked music.

The latest such, at the house of the Marquess of Landess, had featured—finally! thought Talfryn—a quartet, and he and Lady Regina had discussed the merits of the two violinists at some length during the first interval.  She was intelligent and thoughtful regarding music, without claiming to know more than she did.

“I must confess,” Lady Regina said at one point, “that I cannot say who is the superior in technique, but Mr Tarisio seems to feel the melody, and to produce it with great sensitivity.” 

They then entered into a spirited discussion of whether ’twas possible for music to be
too
emotional, and Lady Regina laughed several times during this, which sent unaccustomed shivers down the length of the viscount’s spine.  He was unaccountably reluctant to hear the notes signaling that the music would begin again, and to return to his own seat, which was on this occasion on the opposite side of the room from the young lady.

Perhaps he could search out the next performance and discover if she would like to accompany him, at least if Miss Barre could make a third.  London was large, and its society provided so many different entertainments, that it would not be unusual for a gentleman to go without seeing any particular young lady for weeks at a time.  Talfryn felt disinclined to . . .
not
see Lady Regina.  His mother and sisters were intelligent, his friends good company, but his conversations with Lady Regina had been something apart.  As if they understood each other’s deepest thoughts without struggle.

And all this after mere minutes in her company.  You are being a fool, Talfryn told himself.  She is one pretty girl among many, and you’ve not yet decided ’tis time to take a wife.  He had thought to spend a year or two at least in London, to reacquaint himself with town ways and the young ladies of society.  It seemed the careful path, and Lord Davies was determined to be careful.   You have spoken to only a few of the
ton
females after all, he told himself, forgetting that a day or two past he had declared himself tired of them.  He should search out as many as he could, and perhaps they would take his mind from its seeming obsession with Lady Regina. 

So that was settled.  But ’twas only the next morning that he again heard the name of the Earl of Aveline’s daughter.

* * * *

“Talfryn,” said the dowager viscountess, at the breakfast table, “I wish to pay a call or two this morning.  Would you be so kind as to accompany me?”

“Hmm?” said Lord Davies, stalling a moment.  His mother so rarely asked for his escort that he wondered what she was about.

“I’d like to visit Lady Knowles, in particular.”

The viscount, a veteran of many verbal fencing matches with his mother, parried.  “The Countess of Aveline do you mean?” he asked, his tone one of careful disinterest.  He rose from the table and moved to the sideboard, taking some time to choose a likely cutlet.

Lady Davies looked up from her coffee, and her blue eyes—bright and shrewd—fixed on his face.  One corner of her mouth quirked.

“Ah.  So you know the young woman?”

Talfryn sighed inwardly.  The viscountess seemed to possess some uncanny ability in reading his mind.

“Don’t bother to dissemble,” said Lady Davies.  “I heard all about the waltz.”

“’Twas a waltz, nothing more.”  The viscount tried not to think of those wide, intelligent eyes, the feel of silk under his hands, but of course that effort was impossible, and the best he could hope was that no colour came to his cheeks.

“And two
musicales
, I believe.”

“A chance meeting.  There are any number this time of year.”

“So you say.”

“I do.” 

“It’s settled then,” said Lady Davies.  “Excellent.  Shall we arrange the coach at half past eleven?”

Talfryn did not attempt to disagree, and as he left the breakfast room the viscountess added, “And your sisters will come with us, of course.”

Better and better.

Chapter 7:   A Visit from Lord Davies

’Twas a warm morning, bright and with the hint of a breeze, and Cassandra and I met for a ride in Green Park.  My own mare, Cleo—short for Cleopatra, the result of a schoolgirl infatuation with Egyptian history which I had not quite shaken off—was delighted at the expedition.  She pranced sideways and pulled at the bit, wanting her head. 

“I’ve been remiss this past winter,” said Cassie, patting the neck of her own horse, an enormous gelding named Samuel Johnson.  “He should be ridden every day.” 

“I imagine so.”  Both animals were restive, and Sam would have given trouble to a lesser equestrian than Miss Barre.  “Cannot Sir Reginald ride him?”

“He prefers his own mount.”

Cassandra’s parents—Sir Reginald and Lady Cynthia Barre—were two loving and generous souls, but rather slapdash in their manner of child-rearing; their daughter had chosen the largest animal possible, and I doubted if either one had entertained a second thought over the matter. 

Miss Barre was their only child, and what Cassie wanted, she got.  It came in useful on occasion.

“Are your parents well?” I asked her, although I had seen them only a few days before.  I am extremely fond of Cassandra’s father and mother, who remind me—’tis a bit bittersweet, I admit—of what parental feeling can be.

“Extremely so.” 

Sir Reginald is, in a round-about way, the reason Cassie and I are friends.  Miss Barre had insisted on our being introduced, years ago, saying that she had always wanted to meet the girl with ‘the same name as her father’.  Another young lady might have made the remark catty; in this case it was said with such obvious goodwill that I did not mind.  And I was accustomed to curiosity about my first name.  It is a source of amusement for a few in the
ton
who have nothing better with which to occupy themselves, as ‘Regina’ is thought rather august, and ‘Reggie’ is considered entirely too devil-may-care.

“Why is the weather not always
exactly
like this?” said Cassie.  “’Tis perfect.”

“’Tis.”  I inhaled deeply, which would be a poor choice of activity in a busier part of London, but the air is fresh in the park.  The mornings in late May are beautiful, and spring is my favorite season, a thing hardly to be wondered at.  London winters are dreary; rainy and dull, and it even snows from time to time.  There was a frost fair on the Thames a few years ago, and ’twas so cold that even the great fireplaces of Roselay were hard put to keep us warm.  One would think the summers better, but summer dust is the bane of every city-dweller’s existence, and nearly worse than the rain.  The dust is kicked up from the streets, and what is found in the streets does not bear close examination.  It makes its way into and onto everything.

“I
could
ride every day,” said Cassandra, tilting her head back to stare up into the trees.  Her hat promptly fell off.

“Your hat is on the ground,” I told her, adding,  “We can meet again tomorrow, then.  As long as Perry has no objection.”

Perry was one of the Sir Reginald’s groomsmen, and more or less permanently attached to Cassandra, which meant, I suppose, that her father was not quite as oblivious to her well-being as first glance might suggest.

“Perry,” said Cassie, “was polishing the silver when I asked him to accompany us on this
lovely
spring outing.”  She thanked the groomsman cheerfully for retrieving the hat, and he returned her smile with his own.

“He does seem content,” I said.

“He hates the silver.”

* * * *

We rode as long as we dared, and when we returned to Roselay there was an unusual stir and bustle on the main floor.  It was with some surprise that I learned the countess would be receiving visitors that morning, and that my presence was expected.

“You must stay,” I begged Cassie, who made a face, but agreed.

My mother’s usual time for social calls tends to the late afternoon, which has always suited me extremely well, as I can occupy myself for most of the day with little interference from her ladyship.  She was insistent on this occasion, and had given instructions to Primrose to pay particular attention to my dress—as I was just now learning.

 “Her ladyship wants the green batiste,” said the maid.

Cassandra and I both groaned.  The green batiste was a disastrous combination of ruffles and bows that my dear friend refers to as ‘a millinery toadstool’—Miss Barre is not one to mince words—and out of the many gowns in my possession which do not suit me, this one suited me the least.

The heavens only knew why it was a favorite of my mother’s.  I refused to put it on.

Primrose was obdurate.  “Her ladyship says.”

Cassie began to protest, but I surrendered to the inevitable.  Besides, what did it signify?  ’Twas likely to be only a few of the countess’s many acquaintances come by for a game of whist, which was the only activity that seemed to rouse my mother before noon.  Perhaps one of them might suggest, tactfully, of course, that her ladyship try a different approach in the matter of my dress.

Cassandra had not given in.  “You really must insist that I be allowed to choose your gowns,” she muttered, as she rooted around in my writing desk for, as it turned out, a pair of scissors.

“
What
are you doing?”

“I’m going to cut them off, of course,” said Cassie, advancing on my left shoulder, where one of two large bows was presently situated.

“Oh, miss—” said Primrose, looking at the scissors. 

Cassie ignored her, examining my shoulder from several angles.  “The countess dresses beautifully enough herself,” she said, “so I do not understand—”

“Perhaps she thinks if the gown is ugly enough no-one will look at my hair.”

The maid suppressed a giggle.  Cassandra glared at her.

“Your hair,” she said, “is perfectly lovely.”

“Perfectly frizzed.”

“Stop spouting nonsense.”  The first bow was now gone and she had started in on the second.  The loss did not help the colour, but I had to admit the lines of the gown were improved.

Cassandra was thoughtful, scissors still in hand.  “We’ve not enough time to cut off all the ruffles, I suppose,” she said.

Primrose was scandalized.  I grinned.

* * * *

We noticed them at once, although it took a few moments before I fully grasped what I was seeing.  My mother and a group of four individuals, three ladies and one gentleman.  All of them fairly tall, beautifully dressed, and the two younger women oddly similar.

My mind made the calculation and I blinked, biting back an exclamation of dismay. 

Twins.  And the only twins I knew of, as of only a few weeks ago, were the sisters of the Viscount of Cardingham.

It was he. 

Cassandra whispered, “Good heavens, Reggie, it’s—”

“I
know
,” I hissed back at her, trying to smile at the same time.  The
improved lines
of the green batiste were abruptly inadequate, and I felt an itching in my feet, the impulse to turn and run.

What would he think of me in this hideous dress?

The countess was hurrying forward, beckoning us to join the group.

“Regina!  Darling!  And Miss Barre as well, what a lovely surprise!”

I heard Cassie’s stifled laugh; the countess rather disliked her, as we both knew.  Cassandra was too independent for my mother’s tastes.

I somehow survived the introductions, alert for any sideways glances regarding the batiste.  I sensed none, thank heavens.  Lord Davies took my hand and kissed it, and for the next several minutes the skin burned where his lips had touched.

The older woman was the dowager viscountess, Lord Davies’s mother.  The twins were the misses Isolde and Carys, both names as unusual as their brother’s, and deriving, we learned, from the Welsh background of Lady Davies. 

“We don’t stand on formality,” said the viscountess, explaining why neither daughter was addressed as Miss Davies.  “To tell you the truth—”

“Mother!” exclaimed Carys, blushing.  She had apparently heard Lady Davies on this topic before.

“—I hardly remember which is the older.”

The two young ladies were remarkably similar in appearance, not only in height and face but also in the manner in which they stood and sat—for the tea had arrived quickly, thank heavens, and I had something with which to occupy my hands.  Both were fine featured, with eyes of a deep blue, like their brother, but hair much darker than his, a soft chestnut brown.  They were elegantly dressed in muslin gowns, the same dress, I think, but of different colours.  Carys, who seemed quieter and even a little shy, had the yellow, and Isolde wore a robin’s egg blue.

The comparison with my own gown was not a happy one. 
I should have given Cassie free rein with the scissors
, I thought, glancing down at the odious ruffles.  After a moment I managed to put my own feelings to the side and concentrate on making our guests feel at home.  Cassandra began chatting with Isolde.  I turned my attention to Carys.

“Are you newly in London like your brother?” I asked her.  I thought I would have noticed twins, and in fact society gossip would have made it certain.  They were younger than the viscount; perhaps this was their first season.

“Oh.  Ah . . . no.  Well, yes.”  

Carys seemed tongue-tied, which surprised me, as I don’t believe my conversation is often considered daunting.  I smiled and made a second attempt, feeling—somehow—the viscount’s gaze turn my way. 

He approached, saying, “My mother and sisters have been rarely in London, of late.  They’ve spent most of the last few years in my company at Pencarrow.”

Pencarrow must be the name of his estate, I thought.

“That sounds delightful.”  I did not need to feign interest; if Miss Davies and her family had indeed spent several years in Cornwall I would be delighted to hear every detail.  In my mind I saw warmth, and sunshine, and fresh air.