Anne Barbour (12 page)

“Why, I must teach you how to tie flies for fishing, and bring you up-to-date on the latest archaeological finds. You’ll have to learn a smattering of Greek—he likes to read Homer in the original—and, well, perhaps you should learn just a little something about explosives.”

“Explosives?” she queried faintly.

“Yes. Sedge is always trying to find new methods to improve the efficiency of dynamite for use in mining and in military planning. I think a mere smattering would do in this area, however—no need to actually participate in the actual, er, process.”

Sally groaned. “Why couldn’t he be like every other man with a beautiful face? All glory and no brains?”

“I guess that’s his problem. With his looks, everyone expects him to do nothing but spout bad poetry and fall into striking poses. He does enjoy poetry, by the way. He admires Coleridge but thinks Byron is humbug.”

“A man of many parts, forsooth,” said Sally, smiling.

“Yes,” agreed Charlie eagerly. “Which makes it all just perfect since you enjoy poetry yourself. Now, here’s the plan. Sedge has spent Christmas at our place for donkey’s years. His parents always pick this time of year to go to Italy, and all his brothers and sisters are married with families of their own. We have about three weeks to teach you some of the basics. We can get started on the fly-tying and the Greek. I’ll bring him over when he gets here, and you can start luring him into your net.”

Sally shifted uncomfortably. “You’re assuming a lot, old friend. You have not asked if I’ll fall in with this dreadful scheme.”

His expression grew serious, and he placed his hands on her shoulders. “Sally, I know the plan is what one might call underhanded, but the results will be of benefit to all. You and I and Sedge will all be happier in the end.”

Sally gazed at Charlie for a long moment. She could never agree to such an underhanded, manipulative scheme. Could she? And yet, her heart leapt at the chance being held out to her. She had waited such a long time for this. She thought of Sedgewick and his heart-stopping, golden beauty. Charlie was right, after all. Everyone concerned would be happier if all worked out as he envisioned.

Sally stared unwaveringly into the dark intensity of Charlie’s eyes. “Yes,” she said at last. “I believe that’s true. All right, Charlie, I’ll do it.”

* * * *

Fanny, Lady Berners, relict of Sir George Berners, Bart., fairly squealed in her dismay. “Lord Walford is coming
here
? Why didn’t you tell me? The whole house is at sixes and sevens, what with William down with the mumps and Elizabeth’s patterns scattered all over the morning room. I don’t know why she cannot confine her dressmaking to the sewing room.”

She glanced reproachfully at her daughter Elizabeth, a dark, slender beauty seated across the table from her in the small breakfast parlor at The Ridings, the Berners’ family home. It was a large, pleasant house, the original Tudor domicle having been enlarged over the years to form a sprawling, comfortable dwelling place for many generations of Bernerses.

“Because there’s not enough light there,” said Elizabeth placidly in answer to her mother’s plaint. She took a sip of coffee before passing the jam pot to her younger sister, Chloe, a lively young miss of fourteen summers, who had nearly upset the coffee urn in her efforts to reach across the table. “I shall remove my mess and have all tidy before our guests arrive.” She turned to Sally, her deep blue eyes wide and questioning. “Why is Charlie bringing Lord Walford here? I believe he arrived only last night, and we’re all going over there for dinner tomorrow.”

“I would like the answer to that as well,” interposed Lady Berners. “It seems to me,” she continued, irritatedly waving aside the offer from a footman of more coffee. “That you and Charlie have become wondrous great of late. He appears at our front door as regularly as the postman. You two aren’t planning some mischief, are you?” she concluded suspiciously.

“My goodness, Mama!” Sally’s laughter sounded loud in her ears. “What makes you say such a thing? It’s been ever so long since Charlie and I have got up to mischief together.”

“Then why is Charlie here almost every day?” interposed Chloe, a saucy grin spreading across her freckled countenance. “And always with armfuls of the oddest things. Did I see turkey feathers the other evening?”

“Chloe,” remonstrated Elizabeth softly. “Manners.” She somewhat spoiled the effect by glancing questioningly at Sally.

“We’re engaged in a—a project. I have always wished to learn how to tie flies for fishing. That is—do you remember? Old Mr. Wigmore used to do that, and they were so beautiful, that I—I would like to— that is, I thought I’d try ...” She trailed off, taking refuge in the bottom of her cup. “Of course, we’re not up to anything, Mama,” she said a few moments later in response to mother’s continued expression of skepticism. “Goodness, you’d think we were still ten years old!”

“I don’t think anything of the sort,” replied her mother at length. She sighed. “Goodness knows, you rarely get up to anything at all these days. You spend most of your days buried in your garden plots and greenhouses. So unnecessary, my dear—I don’t know what people must think!”

“Mama, I enjoy growing things, and as for what people think, you know the decoctions and infusions I make up are much in demand. Did you know that a London apothecary has sent to me for some of my preparations?”

Lady Berners squirmed in her seat. “But so beneath one, my dear.” With one last sip of coffee, she rose hastily. “I must see to William. He has already driven three maids from his room in tears. I believe he is even more full of mumps than he was earlier in the week.”

Elizabeth also rose, declaring her intention of repairing to “the mess in the drawing room,” and after some coercion from her sisters, Chloe trudged up to the schoolroom.

Left to her own thoughts, Sally allowed herself to drift over the events of the last several weeks. True to his words, Charlie had become almost a permanent fixture at The Ridings. On the day after Sally’s capitulation, he had ridden over with an armful of textbooks, culled from his father’s library, on the study of ancient Greek. Unfortunately, after days in which Sally’s ears rang with, “Alpha, Beta, Gamma, Delta ...” her grasp of the tongue of Homer and Sappho remained tenuous at best.

The fly-tying effort had met with more success. To Charlie’s vast delight, Sally picked up the intricate technique quickly, and after a few initial failures, she began producing acceptable specimens almost immediately. He was particularly pleased with her Dark Cahill, a wispy concoction of pheasant and turkey feathers.

“Of course,” he stated quickly, cupping her fingers in his as he led them through a particularly convoluted knot in the silk thread used for binding the feathers together, “we don’t want you to become too proficient.” At her questioning glance, he continued. “Well, you certainly don’t want to do a better job than Sedge. Puts a fellow off, you know. He will fill the role of instructor—with you fluttering your eyelashes in pretty admiration of his skill.”

At this, Sally expelled an exasperated sigh. “Charlie, I don’t know if I can go through with this. You’re asking me to turn myself into a complete widgeon. When is the last time you saw me flutter my eyelashes?”

Charlie frowned. “Well, then you ought to do it more often. God knows, they’re long and thick enough.” He looked into her eyes for several moments, and when he continued, his voice had taken on an odd note. “Long and thick,” he repeated. “Sort of like—like a fringe.”

He swung away with a jerk, turning back to the array of flies lying before them in various states of construction. His tone became businesslike as he demonstrated yet another method of affixing feathers to the fly’s hackles, and his confidence in her growing ability was apparently such that he no longer saw the need to guide her fingers. He left the house at an unusually early hour.

The next evening, Charlie chose to review Sally’s knowledge of poetry. Here she felt herself on firmer ground, for she truly enjoyed poetry, and had discovered in past conversations with Lord Walford that they shared many favorites.

“Nonetheless,” said Charlie, pulling a volume from the pile he had placed on the desk, “we shall take no chances. Here, how about this one?” he asked, having selected a poem at random. “It’s by Coleridge, Sedge’s favorite. “A L
ETTER
TO
M
ISS
S
ARA
H
UTCHINS
,
’ ”
he began.  “That doesn’t sound very interesting, but let’s go on. ‘O, Sara! in the weather-fended wood thy lov’d haunt! Where the stock-doves coo at noon, I guess that thou hast...” ‘Stock-doves coo’?” he repeated in revulsion. “Good God, what drivel. And what’s a weather-fended wood?”

“I expect it’s a sheltered place in the forest,” replied Sally with the merest tremor in her voice.

“Pho!” Charlie had declared. “The fellow’s a fraud—can’t put two words together that make any sense.” He slammed the book down in disgust and had continued to animadvert against the fat-headedness of poets for the rest of the evening.

Sally smiled at the memory and reflected on her good fortune that at least the Earl of Frane’s library contained no material on explosives. That subject, said Charlie ruefully, would have to be left for later instruction by Sedgewick himself.

“Very well, old friend,” she had replied, “but I draw the line at mixing a batch of black powder. I fear I may find it difficult to flutter my eyelashes if they’ve been singed off to the roots.”

Sally grinned again in remembrance, but a moment later, her expression grew serious. She had agreed to Charlie’s plan much against her better judgment, admitting to herself only much later that her deception was as much likely to destroy her chances for happiness as it was to promote it.

She sighed and took herself off, her mind on the gown she would wear to welcome her future husband.

* * * *

“What do you think, Charlie? Shall we be able to get a spot of fishing in this afternoon after our visit?”

“Sedge, it may have escaped your notice, but this is December,” Charlie responded patiently. He cast a sidelong glance at the man who rode beside him, trying to view him with the eyes of a female—hopefully a susceptible female. Golden hair—intense blue eyes ... Broad shoulders admirably filled his elegantly tailored riding coat, and he rode his horse with a casual grace. Sedge was undoubtedly the handsomest fellow of his acquaintance, Charlie thought with satisfaction. “If you will look about,” he continued patiently, “you will notice there is a light covering of snow on the ground. This is not a good day to expose oneself to the elements, not even for a sizzling plateful of trout— not even for a glutton for punishment like you.”

Charlie allowed his horse to settle into a placid walk and glanced again at his friend’s perfect profile. For the hundredth time, he considered Sally’s unexpected capitulation to his plan.

To be sure, she’d almost always been willing to fall in with his schemes, but she had a deuced inconvenient conscience, and had dug her heels in on more than one occasion. There was no doubt, he reflected uncomfortably, that there was an element of dishonesty in his plan, yet she had surrendered after he had expended less than half the effort he had thought it would take to win her agreement.

Charles Darracot was not a man given to introspection, but he was struck with the unwelcome thought that in talking Sally into going against her conscience, he may have been doing her an irreparable wrong. Good God, he’d never want to hurt Sally. She was more dear to him than anyone else in the world.

He could not even remember the first time they had plunged into trouble together. Luckily, both sets of parents were of a forgiving nature, and each looked with fond eyes on the child of the other family. All their lives it had been expected they would wed. Indeed, they had both been almost conditioned to an eventual union. Sally would not have done for the heir, of course. No, his brother Tom had been leg-shackled long ago to the daughter of a marquess. He and his somewhat boring bride resided for most of the year in London.

The daughter of a neighboring baronet, however, was the perfect choice for younger son Charles. Such a little lady, said his mother. Good stock there, said his father. It had taken Charlie and Sally the better part of a year to convince their parents that, while the two young people would always be the best of friends, they were in complete agreement that marrying each other would be too much like being joined to one’s sibling.

Sally was a pearl beyond price. Was it rationalizing, he wondered, to assure himself that in grooming her to win Sedge’s affection, he would be creating for her the life of elegance and wealth she could never otherwise obtain?

For there was no getting away from it, if left to her own devices, Sally would end up a spinster aunt to her sisters’ children, or she would find herself leg-shackled to someone entirely unsuitable, such as— what was the feller’s name—Squire Jeffers, or Jeffreys or some such. Pompous blighter with a red face and a long nose. He’d been making sheep’s eyes at Sally for a couple of years—ever since his second wife had died, leaving him with a brood of unruly children. Charlie was sure the man’s attentions were unwelcome, but Sally was too tenderhearted to discourage him. And there was Horace Pilcher. He stood up with Sally at all the assemblies. Everyone knew he was well up in the world, but there was something about him Charlie could not like.

No, he thought, once more contemplating Sedge’s magnificent physique, he had found the perfect man for Sally. In fact, they would probably want him to stand as godfather to their first child. He found this thought oddly unsettling. It was hard to picture Sally as a mother, after all.

“What?” he asked blankly, suddenly aware that Sedge was addressing him.

“I said, why were you so suddenly taken with the urge to go visiting? I hardly had time to pay my respects to your mother and father.”

“Ah. Well, it’s too fine a day to lurk about indoors.”

“But you just said ...”

To Charlie’s vast relief, they had drawn up before the large front doors of The Ridings. He dismounted and sprang immediately to wield the door knocker with imperious abandon. By the time Sedge had joined him, Carlisle had opened the door to usher the gentlemen, with great gravity, into the entrance hall.