Danse de la Folie (39 page)

She went up to her betrothed, dropping a hint that she had
not danced with him this age, and he promptly held out his hand, his expression
of irony missed by her, because she was searching the room to see if Mr.
Devereaux was watching.

She did not find him on the periphery. She scanned again during
the second hands across, and discovered him dancing with Catherine!

At that moment, Mr. Devereaux was saying to Kitty, “Would
you do me the honor of favoring me with your opinion on a matter concerning my
sister?”

“If it is within my power,” she said, not hiding her
surprise. “I have lived so secluded myself, and having not had any sisters...”

“Your situation has been much like hers, I believe, until I
contrived to send her to school. And having spent as much time with her as
these past days as you have, you must have formed a tolerable estimation of her
character. Do you think she should be presented next year, as she so desires,
or should we wait until she is eighteen, as her mother wishes?”

Kitty's brow knit thoughtfully for a long moment as they
moved toward the top of the dance. When she saw him waiting for her answer, she
said, “I would be tempted to bring her out as soon as you can. You might wait
until she is eighteen to present her to the Queen, but going into society
appears to be a different matter.”

“Has she recounted some of the scrapes she has contrived to
get herself into?”

“Yes. She has been very forthcoming. I really believe most
of them stem from an excess of high spirits, and from being confined to a dull
place with too little to occupy her. I know what that is like, for winters at
home are very much the same,” she said with feeling. “But when there are things
to do, she is very good. And I believe she does understand the necessity of not
setting up the back of those in importance. As for scrapes, it is so easy to
fall into them, much easier than one would think, even when one has the best of
intentions. I think you know what I mean.”

She cast a doubtful look at Mr. Devereaux, and when he
smiled and said, “I quite understand. There was more than one person in that
scrape.”

Kitty smiled back. “I have used my own experience to try to
convince her that gainsaying one’s brothers can be fatal.”

“Capital,” he said with appreciation. “I hope she listened.
No doubt I will discover on the ride to Grosvenor Street on the day after the
masquerade ball. My mother will be in town, and she has made it plain that Bess
must come home at that time.”

The remainder of the dance passed in pleasant nothing-talk,
and when it was over, Mr. Worthington was waiting for the next.

Kitty did not look back to see who Mr. Devereaux danced with,
for she would never be so impolite to her partner, but she was thinking about
the conversation, and about how wonderful an evening could become when the
right pair of eyes smiled back at one.

And so she did not perceive the calculation in Lucretia’s
long gaze, as she tripped lightly down the dance.

Lucretia was tired of waiting in proper female delicacy. It
was time to matters into her own hands.

Two days later, on the eve of the masquerade ball, Kitty and
Clarissa were both surprised to receive an invitation from Lucretia Bouldeston
for an impromptu picnic to Richmond Park. They were especially invited to meet
Lucretia’s cousin Cassandra Kittredge, newly returned from France.

“I’m glad it doesn’t include me,” Amelia declared. “Every
day has seen a thunderstorm by sunset, and I do not know why today should be
any different.”

“I have been thinking the same thing,” Clarissa said.

Kitty sighed, feeling duty-bound to go, now that the
betrothal with Carlisle had been announced. She ran to the window and gazed in
disappointment at the pure blue sky. “There is not a cloud in sight.”

Clarissa had no inclination to see Lucretia in proximity
with the marquess, parading her engagement, but felt she must go for that very
reason. She must behave as normal. So they dressed for the weather, choosing
bonnets that would ward the glaring sun, and as an afterthought, Clarissa
fetched her umbrella. Shortly thereafter they found themselves in the parlor
awaiting the arrival of the Bouldeston barouche, which was prompt arriving in
Brook Street.

The ladies climbed in, and Lucretia introduced them to Miss
Kittredge, who looked very much like Lucretia with her honey-colored hair and
round face. Kitty gazed in curiosity, for she’d often heard Lucretia mention
this cousin from Hampshire. The Kittredges, Lucretia informer her and Clarissa,
were stopping only for a day or two in London before continuing on home.

The barouche was joined by a gig driven by the Bouldestons’
family friend, Mr. Redding, and a curricle containing Mr. Aston and his
particular friend, Mr. Nolan.

Kitty said, “Where is my brother, Lucretia? Is he not
coming?”

“He had other plans,” Lucretia said and added with a simper,
“I would not make myself a jest by always confining him to my elbow.” She then
turned to point out to her cousin all the famous sights and people she knew,
until the traffic began to thin.

Clarissa asked Miss Kittredge about Paris, and as this young
lady was quite ready to talk, the rest of the ride passed agreeably. They
slowed when they reached Richmond Gate, and then turned upward to King Henry’s
Mound. Here the horses halted, drivers tending to the heated animals as the
Bouldeston maid-of-all-work began the task of unloading the promising hampers
from Gunter’s.

Everything had been thought of for an elegant repast, save
the weather was hot and breathless, as it had been these several days. The
magnificent view over the Thames Valley in one direction showed a threatening
line of cloud on the horizon, but when Lucasta pointed it out to her sister,
they all heard the “Pho! Pho! It means nothing—we are quite safe—look above
us!”

Everyone glanced up at the bright blue sky to reassure
themselves, then wandered to the Mound to exclaim over the view, those who had
been there previously pointing out Saint Paul’s some ten miles to the east, a hazy
thumb jutting upward from the uneven horizon. When all had satisfied themselves
with the skyline of the London they had just left, they separated into smaller
parties to wander along the paths, seek shade under the spreading oaks, and to
talk and laugh.

Mr. Redding sought Kitty, who stayed by Clarissa’s side.
When he demonstrated a wish to take Kitty’s arm, the latter’s expression of
alarm prompted Clarissa to open her umbrella, with a claim that the sun was too
bright for comfort. She invited Kitty to get out of the sun, and the edge of
the umbrella perforce kept the ardent gentleman at a distance.

Lucasta’s voice rang through the glades as she wandered with
her swain, the two exclaiming snatches of Mr. Aston’s poetry (for he did not
willingly suffer comparison with other poets), and Mr. Nolan—who had also
ventured over the water earlier in spring— walked with Miss Kittredge, exclaiming
with comfortable horror over her descriptions of the destruction of the French
countryside by the revolutionary rabble.

It was hunger and thirst that drew them to the cloths spread
under a tree, with the hampers all unpacked. The repast was hailed with general
delight: there was wine for the gentlemen, lemonade for the ladies,
ham-shavings aplenty, with cakes, trifle, cheese and grapes.

As they sat down, some looked upward, discovering that the
line of clouds was much nearer.

“Pooh! Nonsense,” Lucretia declared. “We know how it is,
clouds, maybe some distant lightning, and no more than a drop or two. I hope we
are not to be afraid of a cloud.”

The ladies’ apprehension was satisfied, at least outwardly,
though a silent testament to the oppressive heat was in how quickly the
lemonade was drunk. Clarissa pitied the gentlemen, for Lucretia was pouring
wine into their cups as fast as they could down it. From what she had learnt
from her father, wine only succeeded in assuaging thirst for a short time,
whereupon the thirst would come back the stronger.

The approaching clouds stole up from the east, not
interfering with the golden slants of late afternoon sunlight until, quite
suddenly, the light vanished behind the clouds. The company felt on wrist or
face the first drops of rain.

Lucretia struck one of her affected poses, glancing skyward
as she thumbed a drop of rain from her cheek. “Oh, no, I was wrong,” she
declared. “Oh, you will forever hate me—I am so very sorry—I was quite
wrong—the storm is coming after all—let us hurry!”

“What about the lodge?” someone asked.

“It is locked up—I already ascertained when you were walking
about,” Lucretia declared. “We must go. Raise the hood on the barouche, Williams,
at once!”

Her sudden alarm had the effect of infusing everyone with fright,
the moreso as the storm smothered the twilight and darkness appeared to be
descending with sinister alacrity.

Clarissa opened her umbrella as Lucretia darted about,
thrusting people this way and that.

Kitty started toward the barouche, intending to catch up
with Clarissa, but Lucretia took her by the shoulders, exclaiming, “Not yet—not
yet—the hampers—Mother paid down a horrid amount of money for those hampers, we
dare not lose them—” as the poor maid-of-all work labored to gather the remains
of the picnic and thrust it into the barouche without any thought to neatness.

Kitty obligingly stepped out of the maid’s way, as Miss
Kittredge exclaimed in fright at a branch of lightning.

“Quick! Quick! Get in!” Lucretia appeared in front of
Clarissa, pushing her toward the barouche. Because of the umbrella, Clarissa
lost sight of the others as she was propelled toward the vehicle.

Kitty felt a strong hand under her elbow. She experienced a
moment of gratitude, as everyone around her seemed to be in a panic, and
lightning flared in the distance.

A breeze had kicked up, causing her to clutch at her skirt
with one hand and her bonnet with the other. She found herself not at the
barouche, but beside a gig. “This is not my place,” she protested to Mr.
Redding, who had guided her.

“T’other appears to be full,” Mr. Redding observed. “The
servant has flung the hampers on the benches. You will have a much finer ride
with me,” he added in a meaning voice.

She was going to pull away, then thought of Lucretia
scolding and the seats in the barouche all tumbled with hampers. Though she did
not like Mr. Redding, he was a friend to Sir Henry. What harm could come to her
in the gig, following directly behind Lucretia’s carriage? And Mr. Aston
trotting right behind.

So she consented to be handed up. Mr. Redding climbed to the
seat next to her and released the brake on the gig, which enabled his restless
horse to put the vehicle in motion. Turning her head, Kitty was startled to
discover Mr. Aston’s curricle, being drawn by a restive pair, vanished into the
gathering darkness.

The barouche pulled ahead, its four horses given the office
to gallop, and for a few moments Kitty thought with heartfelt pity of Clarissa
inside being tumbled about with the serving maid, the Bouldestons, and their
cousin.

But the gig did not pick up speed. The horse walked
sedately, and Kitty watched in growing indignation as the barouche gradually
vanished down the tree-shrouded lane.

As the barouche vanished, an unfamiliar weight settled
around her shoulders. It was Mr. Redding’s arm!

“Sir!” she protested.

“I’ll protect you from the rain.” Mr. Redding’s breath was
warm and smelling of wine-fumes.

Revulsion flashed through her with every bit as much
electricity as the lightning flaring overhead. She tried to shake off Mr.
Redding’s arm, but there was nowhere to go—the gig was designed for a single
person.

The hand squeezed again. “Give us a kiss, now.”

“Mr. Redding! I must request you to unhand me at once!”

She attempted to pry his fingers off her arm, her efforts
causing the gig to swing. The horse jobbed at the bit, and Mr. Redding perforce
must use two hands to subdue the beast. He said, his words slurring, “Save the
fight for the wedding night, my beauty. I like it fine then, but right now, you
must sit still.”

“
Wedding
night?”
Kitty repeated in horror.

“Sir Henry’s girl said you was looking out for a wealthy
marriage, and I will give you a generous allowance, the more if you look out
ways to please me.”

Kitty’s throat closed. Tears stung her eyes as she tried to
speak steadily. “I am sorry, sir, but you misunderstood, that is, Lucretia must
have misstated my wishes.”

“Seems to me you stepped into the gig readily enough.”

“Because I thought you would follow the barouche,” Kitty
retorted. “Pray let me be clear: I do not want to be married to you.”

Mr. Redding laughed again, a sound she was beginning to
hate. “I am content with that, and you will find me generous, but I must say, I
did not foresee your wishing to come on the town. I would have spoken before.”

Kitty gasped, then said in strong accents, “I do not wish to
be with you at all!”

“But here you are, my pretty. Just save the tussle for when
we—”

“Oh!” Kitty seethed with rage. And then, remembering what
had happened the last time she thought she assisted at an abduction, she
gathered her skirts in one hand, and with the other, she balanced against the
side of the gig.

And then she sprang out.

The gig was not moving very fast, for the horse had already
traveled from London on a hot day, and Mr. Redding had other things in mind
besides the drive, but even so, the movement of the gig was enough to send her
tumbling into the dirt.

She rolled to her knees and then stood dizzily as Mr. Redding
uttered an oath and pulled up the horse.

“Lady Catherine,” he said. “This display pleases neither of
us. Get in the gig.”