Cynthia Bailey Pratt (7 page)

“Have your parents ever been to Bath?”

“I don’t know. They haven’t come to England in years. Not since I came to live with Grandmamma, when I was six. Mama went back to Barbados almost at once, so I don’t think she had the chance to visit. Why?”

“Perhaps then, you could describe the city. Tell them of the places you go, and what you do.” Danita called upon her schoolmistress days, when she’d often prompted students reluctant to write to inquiring parents. “I’m sure your mother would be interested in hearing of your new gowns.”

“I have heard they are dreadfully behind the times on the island. I hope I never have to go back there. I remember it as being very hot, but the sea was pretty.” With her tongue peering out from the corner of her mouth as though to supervise, Berenice continued laboring over her letter.

She was inquiring of Danita whether her new dress was cerulean or azure—and in either case, how did one spell it?—when Figgs, the butler, interrupted. “Pardon me. Miss Clively. The gentleman asked me to inquire whether this handkerchief belongs to either of you.”

“The gentleman?” Danita asked, taking the scrap of lace. It certainly was too fine to be one of hers.

Berenice flew at once to the window and peered out through the gauze. “I don’t see anyone.”

“The gentleman is waiting in the hall. Miss Clively. It’s Sir Carleton Blacklock, of Number 15.”

Danita knew she goggled at the butler, who waited for instructions. Recalled to herself by Berenice’s behavior, she said, “No, dear, you mustn’t open the door to the...”

“It is him,” Berenice said, looking out. “Show him in, Figgs. The handkerchief is mine. I must thank him for his honesty.”

“Wait, Figgs.” Ignoring the servant, Danita asked, “How can you say it is yours? You never even glanced at it.” She could not meet Sir Carleton again, but neither could she leave Berenice alone with any man. The more she reflected on the circumstances of her first meeting with Sir Carleton, the more unconventional her behavior seemed to her. No matter how one dressed the matter, offering her bed to a stranger smacked of scandal, even though her motives had been of the highest.

“Of course, it’s mine,” Berenice declared, taking it and squinting briefly at the design of the lace. “Or Grandmamma’s, which comes to exactly the same thing. Figgs, fetch the gentleman in.”

The butler bowed and passed Berenice, who all but danced back to the writing desk by the window. “Do you think I look pensive?” she asked, straightening the ribbon in her hair.

“A perfect bluestocking,” Danita replied, seating herself. Berenice did not seem flattered.

When the door opened, Danita engrossed herself in studying the upholstery of the striped settee. The rugs across the floorboards muffled the sound of his top-boots, but she knew they stopped within three feet of her. Turning her head slightly, she could see them, straight, shiny and deep black.

“Good morning. Miss Clively,” he said, bowing.

Berenice waved the handkerchief. “Thank you so much,” she said, fluttering her golden lashes. “It’s quite my favorite one. I thought it gone forever. How did you come to find it?’’

“It lay in the street outside. Perhaps you dropped it.”

“Oh, yes, I must have.”

Overcoming her sudden attack of timidity, Danita raised her eyes to Sir Carleton’s face. He was smiling at Berenice who looked unconscionably lovely with the light behind her. For an instant, his attention shifted to the girl on the settee, and Danita could have sworn she saw one lazy eyelid droop the merest trifle.

Berenice had not noticed. She said gaily, “Climbing in and out of those silly chairs, I’ve dropped all sorts of things. I can never seem to hold onto fans and bouquets.”

“That must be a great trial to you. But every gentleman is grateful you go through it on our behalf.”

“Your behalf?” Berenice said, giggling. “I’m sure I never thought of carrying a bouquet for any reason save that I’m so fond of flowers.” Berenice held up the square of lace to admire it better. “How pretty!” she exclaimed. “It’s the one from Callendar’s, Danita, that Grandmamma said only—”

Danita said quickly, “Yes, I remember how you pleaded for it, until Mrs. Clively agreed to purchase it for you.” Really, couldn’t Berenice remember her own lie for more than five minutes? Mrs. Clively had not bought the handkerchief for her because only married women, according to her severe ideas about propriety, could carry a lavish bit of lace and call it a useful article. Nice young girls kept plain cambric, that they sewed themselves with no more than a quarter-inch border of lace.

Reminded of Danita’s presence, Berenice said, “Sir Carleton, permit me to introduce my companion. Miss Wingrove. She is a former schoolmistress.” Plainly, nothing could be less interesting. “Please, Sir Carleton,” Berenice went on rapturously. “Won’t you tell me all about the wonderful horse-race? I’ve heard about it secondhand, but I’m dying to know ...”

“Berenice,” Danita said. “You mustn’t keep Sir Carleton. He only came to return your property. I’m sure he has many other engagements today.” Danita stood up, to signal that his visit must come to an end. She met Sir Carleton’s eyes. Their amber color had deepened and she realized he was aware of her discomfiture, and absolutely enjoying it.

“I have often thought,” he said, “that a schoolmistress must lead a varied life. Sometime you must tell me all about your former duties.” He bowed to Danita and then took Berenice’s hand. “I hope to meet you again. Miss Clively. Good afternoon.”

Even when Berenice pouted she was enchanting. “At least stay for some tea. Danita, why don’t you tell Figgs?” The girl invited Sir Carleton to sit, patting the cushion next to her as she herself sank down onto the vacated settee.

“Your grandmother doesn’t like your drinking tea so early in the day. You know she thinks it makes you nervous.’’ Danita knew about nerves. One word from Sir Carleton could put her at the mercy of her great-aunt. She felt as though buzzing bees were swooping dangerously close. Only the hope that they would not sting kept her from slapping out.

“I’m sure Grandmamma would not mind in
this
instance.”

“Shall I ask her?”

Berenice caught her breath. “Um, no, let us not trouble her sleep. Poor Grandmamma, she needs all the rest she can find.” Berenice’s eyes were round, but the look she sent Danita belied her innocent expression.

Danita could easily have withstood the sharpness of Berenice’s look, if Sir Carleton’s black eyebrow had not floated up for an instant as he glanced her way. She felt he was laughing at her, calling her coward. “I shall ring,” she said, walking over to the mantel and reaching for the bell-pull.

Berenice prattled on with cheerful unconcern, admiration for the gentleman in every word she spoke and every gesture she made. She flirted, pouted, smiled and giggled, finding no need to blush as Danita did it for her. As the gentleman sipped the last of his tea, Berenice said, “I must be blind never to have seen you at the Assemblies, Sir Carleton. You will come and ask me for a set, won’t you, the next time you attend?”

“I have not attended before now. Miss Clively, because I never knew such beauty could be found there. Assemblies are usually dull affairs, but I shall certainly attend the next one.”

Danita groaned softly as Berenice preened herself. Sir Carleton seemed to hear. “I think Miss Wingrove is unwell. I shall take my leave now.”

Declining Berenice’s invitation to stay longer, he rose. Berenice looked like a china shepherdess beside a basalt Egyptian statue as she followed him into the hall. “Do call again. Sir Carleton. I shall always be happy to see you.”

“You are too kind. Miss Clively. I shall come again, if Miss Wingrove approves.” Almost absently, he took Danita’s hand and bowed over it. At once, she tried to withdraw from his touch, but felt the smooth curve of a square of paper pressing up into her palm. Closing her fingers over it, she backed away.

After he’d gone, Berenice flew again to the window in the front room, lifted the curtain and waved to him. Danita said, “Such behavior! What will the neighbors say?”

“Don’t be so fussy, Cousin.”

“Your grandmother expects you to behave like a proper lady, and proper ladies never hang out the window after gentlemen.” Danita stuffed the small note under the clock on the mantelpiece. She could not read it with Berenice in the room and her morning dress lacked a pocket. Crossing the room, she twitched the thin gauze from Berenice’s hand.

“Don’t be angry,” the younger girl said.

“I’m not angry, but, really...”

“Your face is red.”

The light breeze through the window felt cool against her cheeks. “I find it rather warm. July usually is, you know.”

“I don’t think it is so warm.”

Danita hadn’t thought so either, until Sir Carleton had raised the temperature. “Perhaps I feel it more than you. You should finish your letter, Berenice. I know Mrs. Clively wants to send it with her own on this afternoon’s coach to London.”

Obediently, the girl resumed her seat at the desk, taking another sweet from the jar and popping it into her mouth. Danita rang to have the tea dishes cleared away. Seating herself once more on the settee, she began to study the fashion plate on the inner page of her monthly periodical. But she did not see the enchanting evening dress of lilac silk and black lace.

Instead, she wondered fruitlessly what Sir Carleton wished to communicate in such a furtive way.

She shot frequent glances at the shining brass pendulum that swung above the sharp point of paper peering out from under the clock’s claw-like foot. In twenty minutes, Berenice would want to change her clothes for the walk to Sydney Gardens. A watched pot, she reflected, seemed in a fearful rush compared to a clock that refused to chime.

Hearing a heartfelt sigh, Danita looked toward Berenice. The girl had her elbows propped up on the desk, her pen unregarded on the sheet of paper before her, and her eyes followed airy dreams traced on the ceiling. “What are you thinking?” Danita asked with a smile.

Heaving yet another sigh, Berenice said, “I think Sir Carleton is the most marvelous man. Imagine, going to all that trouble just to meet me.”

Stifling her own fear that this was exactly Sir Carleton’s motive in visiting, Danita said, “Don’t you know you were wrong to claim that handkerchief? What if someone else lost it? You have no right to hold onto someone else’s property. How will you feel if you use it at the next Assembly and another girl says it is hers? You’ll be thought of as a thief, practically.”

“Don’t scold so. No one else
will
claim it. I know he bought it just so that he could have an excuse to call. He’s so clever. Well, it stands to reason he must be. A gambler has to live on his wits, I imagine. How thrilling it must be to gamble your entire fortune on a single turn of the card! Grandmamma won’t even let me play at forfeits. But Sir Carleton must play such exciting games, don’t you think?”

Danita thought of the man she’d met in Miss Massingham’s hotel, who laughed when defeat was imminent, and who could be generous when his own fortunes were in seeming inevitable decline. He seemed taller in her eyes then rather than now when all was right in his world. “Yes, thrilling,” she said. “Except when you lose.”

“Oh, I suppose.” But the girl’s eyes were still bright with dreams. Dreams in which the stalwart figure of Sir Carleton Blacklock played a large part.

At last, the golden clock consented to give a whirr before striking. Before the first note had even begun to sound, Danita said, “You’d better hurry and change if we are to go to the Gardens today.”

“Oh, I don’t feel like riding,” Berenice said, her eyes still fixed on the handkerchief.

“Don’t feel like it! You must be unwell,” Danita said with a further glance toward the clock, silent once more.

“I’ve simply decided you were right all along. Grandmamma wouldn’t approve of my riding, not when she has brought me all the way to Bath just for me to meet society. But if you want an outing, dear cousin, we shall go to the Gardens and walk about them. Do go and change, while I finish my letter.”

Sitting with self-conscious grace, Berenice dipped her silver-chased pen once more into the inkwell. She was already wearing a walking dress of pale blue muslin with embroidered frills flirting with her ankles. A darker blue spencer, made tight to her petite form, brought out the color of her eyes. Add half-boots, a shawl and French bonnet, and Miss Berenice Clively could walk from New Bond Street Buildings to the banks of the Ganges in the most perfect accord with fashion and ease.

Danita thought of her own walking dress, hanging forlornly in the wardrobe. Brown, bombazine, and boring. She could have taken her place in any mourning party without question. It did not make her feel any better to know that half the fashionable visitors to Bath were still wearing court-ordered mourning for Princess Charlotte. Danita tried to stifle the envy in her heart. After all, if it were not for Mrs. Clively’s kindness, she should have no attire but that which she had purchased for herself. “Very well, Berenice, I shall join you shortly.”

Danita hesitated. Had the girl seen her put the note beneath the clock? Was that why she had not gone to change her clothing? If only there were some plausible reason for her to go to the clock. Berenice was not distracted enough by her letter, not nearly as interested in it as she had been in the departing form of Sir Carleton.

“I think this clock has lost a few minutes,” Danita said slowly. “Can you see the church clock from there?”

While Berenice pushed aside the drape to peer down the street, Danita snatched the note from beneath the pendulum. Sir Carleton had cleverly folded the paper to be no larger than the
square inside of her palm.

“No,” Berenice said. “I can’t see it.”

“How stupid I am. St. Michael’s doesn’t have a clock. Well, I shall have Figgs attend to it. I won’t be long, dear.”

Danita took the steps to her third-floor bedroom far more quickly than usual, taking care, however, to pass Mrs. Clively’s door on the landing without a sound. Once in her own room, she opened the note to discover only two lines scrawled in black ink.