Danse de la Folie (2 page)

“Then I shall remove myself, and permit you to rest in
comfort.”

Clarissa smiled gently on her fuming aunt, and slipped out. Her
maids were sorry to observe the familiar faint line between their mistress’s
brows, but when Clarissa turned their way, it was with her ready smile.

“Mr. Bede says we’ll sail at once, Miss,” Rosina said. “Becky
has your wrap right here, should you be wishful to take a turn in the air.”
Rosina indicated the deck.

Clarissa smiled gratefully. “That is exactly what I was
about to do, and I didn’t think of a wrap. Thank you.”

In comparison to her four half-sisters’ beauty, no one but
her fondest relatives could find anything to compliment outside of her classic
nose and forehead, and her elegant posture. Her eyes were well spaced, but not
cornflower blue, and as for her hair, her grandmother had stated firmly that tresses
a quiet shade of chestnut were not as
showy
as her sisters’ guinea-colored curls, one of many hints that her grace did not
find Lord Chadwick’s second wife as well-bred as his first.

Clarissa, very aware that her step-mother’s pedigree was
perfectly respectable, had grown up regarding these matters with a sense of
humor. How else could one regard such absurdities? It was either that or
descend into a fretful and futile temper against the vagaries of fate, as
demonstrated (for instance) by her aunt.

It was also true that Clarissa took little interest in her
own appearance—there were days when she did not glance in the mirror once from
the moment she woke up until she was ready for bed.

It galled Rosina, once her mother’s maid and now hers, that
to keep the peace Clarissa permitted her aunt to have the ordering of her
clothes. The dresses that Aunt Sophia chose were meant to make Clarissa look as
young as her sisters, but the whites and little furbelows that looked well on
the younger girls turned Clarissa sallow, and aged her unmercifully.

When Clarissa peered into the mirror and noticed how limp
were the short side-curls dangling next to her long face, she sighed and went
out.

Her heart full, Rosina muttered to Becky, the young lady’s
maid in training, “It breaks my heart, it does, to see her head dressed so
ill-suited.”

Becky agreed.
Dressing
mutton for lamb just makes the ewe look the older next or nigh a real lamb
,
Becky’s mother had stated bluntly, as she gave the butter churn a hard wring.

“At least this blue kerseymere looks well, and not a word
could the old tabby gainsay, when the lengths were sent by her grace the
Duchess-grandma herself,” Rosina said with satisfaction to Becky, who—the
perfect assistant—always agreed with her senior.

o0o

Clarissa stood on the deck, watching the last of Folkestone Harbour
vanish. She loved the swell and sinking of the billows, the salty bite of
brine, the ever-changing patterns of the sea in motion. So this was why men
left their warm homes for the sea! She turned around once, looking up in
admiration at the complication of ropes and spars and curving sails. How
glorious!

Mr. Bede, Lord Chadwick’s steward, saw her looking about,
and recognized in his lord’s quiet daughter one who had fallen instantly in
love with the sea. No stranger to this spectacle (Mr. Bede’s brother had run
away from a print shop at fourteen, and was even now a master aboard a tea
wagon on the far side of the world), he pointed out several sights to her and
chatted genially about travels he’d made before the French ruined such jaunts,
until the weather turned foul. He then adjured her to go below.

Clarissa found her aunt in a stertorous sleep. Grateful for
the respite, she cast aside her bonnet and muff, and picked up the new edition
of Wordsworth’s
Lyrical Ballads
. She
read and dreamed over the poetry until the light began to fade.
How I wish it were possible for a lady to
own and sail a ship
, she thought wistfully.

The sun was setting, and wisps of fog were drifting across
the dark grey water, bringing the enclosing gloom of gray sky meeting grey sea
even closer. The prospect of two months of travel cheered her immensely, in
spite of the fact that Aunt Beaumarchais’ held an old-fashioned respect for
fathers ordaining suitable marriages for their daughters.

But as the fog thickened and the sun set somewhere behind
them, she tucked herself up more firmly, finally nodding off over the book.

She woke abruptly when she heard a loud cry from somewhere
above.

“HO! LIGHTS AHEAD, LIGHTS—”

The shouter was interrupted as the yacht lurched, viciously.
There was a terrible sound of splintering wood and groaning metal. Aunt Sophia
rolled into a wall and woke screaming. Clarissa, trying to stand, was entangled
in blankets and shawls and lost her balance. As the ship rolled, she pitched
forward toward the door, hit her head on the jamb, and slid into darkness.

She woke to the scent of strong cologne, which made her head
throb. Opening her eyes, she looked up into a stranger’s face.

“Just lie still,” the stranger whispered. “You’ve had a
knock on the head.”

Clarissa’s gaze traveled over the face, noticing in a
detached way that its features were beautiful. Large hazel eyes reflected a
wavering light with a kindly expression. Long fringed dark lashes framed these
eyes, with winged dark brows above, and below, a fine nose and a mouth
beautifully curved. These features graced a heart-shaped face that came to a smallish
but well-defined chin, determinedly set. Yes, it was a beautiful face.

Clarissa then noticed that tendrils of black hair were
escaping from a battered cap, and that a worn and outmoded great-coat covered
the rest of her rescuer. He was a boy, no, a young gentleman. His small hands,
as he gently wiped Clarissa’s brow with the damp handkerchief, were smooth and
light in their touch.

“No doubt you have sisters,” Clarissa said in a faint but
conversational voice.

Instant laughter quirked the hazel eyes. “If you wish,” the
soft voice soothed.

Clarissa glanced beyond the boy to a lantern set on a shelf.
This was not a familiar cabin.

Her host said, “The fog was very thick, and your yacht ran
into our cutter. No one was hurt, though your yacht was sadly damaged. We
brought everyone aboard, and as the weather is getting worse, we will take you
to Tarval Hall.”

“Tarval Hall?”

“Our house. It is—”

“Kit! “ A door beyond Clarissa’s range of vision opened with
some force. She winced as a voice said in a forceful whisper, “You were
supposed
to lie low. Now he’ll ride
rusty, and no mistake.”

Her companion looked up apologetically. “Oh, Ned, I
couldn’t
let her wake up, and not know
what happened.”

“Hey day! Come help me with the—the trim. We have to bring
her in, and the wind is up something fierce.”

Kit got to his feet with a swift and apologetic smile, and
left.

Clarissa tried to move her aching head as little as possible
while taking in her surroundings. She lay on the floor of a bare cabin. Her
gown had been thoughtfully smoothed about her ankles, and a sack of some sort
had been folded and put beneath her head. Where were Mr. Bede, Rosina, Aunt
Sophia and the others?

Presently the door was opened again with a clatter, and this
time two men came in. A lantern swinging in one’s hand played light crazily
over his grizzled features as he said, “Come, missy, and pull your cloak about
ye.”

As Clarissa got slowly to her feet the second figure sprang
into the room to offer an arm. The light of the lantern on the shelf showed Kit’s
concerned face. The ship under her feet was rolling steadily, and Clarissa
fought for balance.

As soon as they stepped up on deck the cold air turned into
a strong, icy wind. Sleet ripped at her clothes, and yanked her hair free of
its loosened pins. Clarissa squinted about her, and Kit shouted, “This way! The
rowboat is waiting.”

“My aunt,” Clarissa replied, but the wind shredded her
feeble voice at her lips.

“Please! You must come away!” Kit shouted.

“My aunt—my father’s steward.” Clarissa lifted her voice.

“They’re in the other boat,” a new voice spoke at her elbow.
She looked up as lightning flickered, meeting a searching gaze, grayish green,
the color of the sea. This gentleman was older than Kit. “I’m desolately sorry
for the accident but we shall contrive to get you to safety,” he shouted, and
Clarissa thought he sounded like a gentleman.

The grizzled man took her arm, and guided her to the side of
the yacht. There was only a rope ladder, which swung as the ship rolled and
tossed. Sprays of water splashed up to sting her face. “Can you manage?” Kit
called, his voice high.

Clarissa gripped her skirts firmly at the knee with one hand,
too frightened to reply. With her other hand she grasped the rail and eased one
foot over the side, feeling for the swaying rope. The older man took a strong
grip on one of her arms as she felt her way down, rung by rung. The wind pulled
at her, and the movement of the ship made it seem she would fall into the
darkly boiling water below, and be lost forever.

But then someone yelled, “Hi there! Drop now!” as arms
clasped around her middle. She was lowered to a wooden bench in a pitching
rowboat. Other figures were dim lumps about her; there was a high, thin sound,
like a kitten in a closet, which she recognized as Aunt Sophia’s wailing voice.

The rowboat was pushed from the side of the cutter, and it seemed
that the wind redoubled its fury. Clarissa could not discern any division
between the high sea-waves and the low and thunderous clouds.

Aunt Sophia sat as rigid as a stone, and so Clarissa took
hold of her, using her own weight to try to get her aunt to move with the movement
of the boat.

Clarissa was frightened, more than she had ever been in her
life, but even as the boat was tossed and huge spumes of winter-cold water
splashed across their faces she was aware of a feeling of exhilaration.

Two men rowed mightily, often ruddering the little craft as
the storm flung them toward the shore. Then the men jumped over the sides, and
held tightly to the boat so that the fast breakers would not push it to crash
on the shore.

The rowboat beached itself with a swift motion, jarring them
from their benches to the hard sand. Aunt Sophia fell, shrieking, and would not
get up. Clarissa tried but could not budge the heavy, rain-soaked woman. Bulky-coated
sailors came to Clarissa’s aid, and she gestured wordlessly toward her aunt. Supported
by the two men, the older woman was lifted to her feet.

Clarissa followed, joined by three bent figures: she barely
recognized Rosina and Bardle, Aunt Sophia’s maid, Becky behind them. They stepped
carefully; their thin half-boots did not protect their feet from sharp stones.

When they stopped, Clarissa made out the welcome sight of
two carriages, and horses stamping and shaking their heads. Weak yellow light
flickered in several storm lamps.

One of the carriage doors was pulled open, and a lamp set on
its floor. Aunt Sophia was handed in first, where she collapsed at full length
across one of the seats, moaning piteously. When one of their rescuers held out
a carriage rug for the women to put across their laps, Aunt Sophia snatched it,
and wrapped it securely about herself.

“Aunt Sophia, you will have to make room for another,”
Clarissa said breathlessly as she stepped in and took the seat opposite her
aunt. “It will be warmer, so.” Clarissa motioned Bardle to take the place next
to her aunt, and beckoned her own maids to crowd in beside her.

The lantern light shifted wildly as the man who had helped
her began to shut the door. His face was obscured by a high, thick muffler and
a hat pulled low over his forehead and ears. All she saw were two sea-hued eyes
looking back at her appraisingly. She recognized the eyes as belonging to the
commander on board the cutter.

“I apologize for the inconvenience, ladies,” the man said,
speaking in the accents of a gentleman. She had to admit, if only to herself,
that she felt a degree of easement in this fact, though she was very well aware
that persons of high degree could be as untrustworthy as anyone else.

As she studied him, he studied her.

Braced as he was for vapors and hysteria, instead he found
the youngest of the rescued females calm, with a faint air of question in an
intelligent face. She seemed unaware of her sodden clothing and hair
half-tumbled down her back.

He half-stretched out a hand. “The steward said the yacht
belongs to a Lord Chadwick.”

“My father,” Clarissa said.

“Whither were you bound?”

“To Holland,” she said, her lips bluish, and the lantern
light creating dancing light motes in her eyes.

“Then you were very much off course,” he said, recollecting
himself. “I am afraid that your luggage was lost as well as the yacht. But your
Mr. Bede informs me that all persons are accounted for.”

“I am truly grateful to hear that.” Clarissa spoke with
feeling, shivering in the cold air coming inside the coach. “May I know who is
our benefactor?”

“Hardly that, in the circumstances.” The man bowed with a
rueful air. “I am St. Tarval, and I assure you — little as we look it — we are
indeed civilized. With your permission, I will take you to my home, Tarval
Hall, where my sister, Lady Catherine —” His voice betrayed a tremor of
laughter. “— will look after you.”

St. Tarval? Had she not heard that name before? Clarissa’s
head hurt too much to think past the conviction that she had not met anyone of
that name. She thanked him, then before any further words could be exchanged, a
man yelled incomprehensibly from somewhere outside the coach.

The gentleman touched his hat courteously, and pulled the
door shut.

After a couple jerking false starts, the carriage began to
move.