Elizabeth Mansfield (12 page)

"It's not bride-clothes."

"Then what is it?"

"I think I... I need more time, that's all."
 

"Time for what?" he pressed.
 

"Time to... to be sure. To know each other. To ... grow up."

"But I thought we
were
sure," he said, running a helpless hand through his wild red hair. "That we do know each other. That we are grown up."

She looked up at him, her large, luminous eyes wet. "But perhaps I'm not," she said softly.

He stared at her for a long, silent moment. "I know what Harry would say to this," he muttered to himself.

"What would Harry say?" Deirdre wanted to know. Leonard didn't notice the flush that accompanied the question.

"He'd say, 'In the game of love, women, like the wind, are always changing course.'"

"No, he wouldn't. I've never heard Harry say offensive things about women."

Leonard shrugged. "I meant no offense." He got up from the table and began to pace about the room before he spoke again. "Do you know what I think, Deirdre? I think the comedown after all the betrothal excitement has made you fall into the dismals. That's all this is."

Deirdre sighed. "Kate called it prenuptial fidgets."

"Did she? I wouldn't be surprised if she had the right of it." He came up behind her and stroked her hair. "But whether your feelings are called dismals or fidgets, they will pass."

She shrugged him off and jumped up. "Perhaps they will," she tossed over her shoulder as she strode to the door, "but, Leonard, I would not count on a spring wedding if I were you."

He stood staring after her, bemused.
What on earth has gotten into her?
he wondered. "Women!" he muttered to himself. "How can a bag-pudding like me be expected to make head or tail of 'em?"

TWENTY

Just after luncheon, Sir Edward found his son sitting on a window seat in the east drawing room, staring out at the sun-lit landscape with so glum an expression on his face that one might suppose the rain was falling. "What's the matter with you?" he asked Leonard bluntly.

"Nothing," the usually cheerful fellow answered with a sigh. "Except that Deirdre is in a foul mood today. And Harry is leaving."

"Leaving, is he?" The older man's brows rose. "I thought he was planning to stay another sennight."

"Yes, he was, but he suddenly decided to return home."

"That's strange. Not that I blame him. I'd like to set out for home myself." Leonard turned from the window in surprise.

"Would you? Why? I thought you were having a grand time dallying about with Lady Isabel."

Sir Edward shrugged. "So I was. But she's cast me off. Seems to prefer the company of her blasted embroidery frame to mine."

"She liked your company well enough yesterday," Leonard said. "What happened?"

"She took offense simply because I told her she oughtn't eat those greasy lobster cakes. Silly woman."

"She's not in the least silly. You, sir, if I may be permitted to say so, are always much too prone to criticize."

"I? Criticize?" Edward's plumb, already-ruddy cheeks grew redder. "It's
she
who criticizes! She's always telling me to stop powdering my hair and to wear those new-fangled trousers."

"She's right, too!" Leonard said, unmoved. "I've been trying to convince you to change your deuced old-fashioned ways for years."

Sir Edward, unwilling to pursue this too-familiar argument, returned to his earlier subject. "Be that as it may," he said, "now that the festivities are over and Isabel has lost interest in me, there's nothing here to keep me amused for another week. I think I'd like to go home, too."

"I don't blame you," Leonard sighed, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "With Harry gone and Deirdre in the doldrums, there's nothing much for me here, either. I wonder if.,."

Sir Edward's eyes brightened. "Are you thinking you'd like to come home with me?"

"That I am."

"Won't your betrothed object?"

"I hope so. But even if she does, I think I'll go anyway. I had the distinct impression this morning that she felt she'd been seeing too much of me. Perhaps it's not a bad idea to let the lady miss me a little." He stood up and put an arm about his father's shoulders. "Yes, sir, let's both go home."

* * *

Two floors above them, Harry tapped at his grandmother's door. Her abigail, Miss Penniman, opened it and admitted him to a bedroom disfigured by a profusion of clothing strewn about the bed and over all the chairs. The abigail, a starchy, prune-faced woman who rarely relaxed her formal manner, unbent enough to whisper in his ear as he passed her, “Take care, m'lord. She's been snappin' at everyone like an 'ungry grey'ound."

His grandmother looked up at him from her place at the foot of the bed. "I wanted to be ready to leave at noon," she grumbled as she bent over a pile of undergarments, "but everything seems in a muddle. Benjy, the dear boy, is all packed, but as you see, my packing shall probably take us until three at least."

"That's actually fortunate," Harry told her with a smile, "since it will take me that long to get ready. You see, I've decided to go home with you."

"Go home?" She straightened up and stared at him. "I thought that you are promised for another sennight."

"I've cut my stay short."

Her eyes narrowed. "But I was under the impression that..." She stopped herself and turned to her abigail. "Penniman," she said, "will you please be good enough to take those hat-boxes down to the foyer?" She did not speak again until the maid had closed the door behind her. "Now," she said, perching on the bed and peering up at her grandson's face, "what is this all about?"

"It's nothing to be alarmed about. I've changed my mind about remaining, that's all." Then, responding to his grandmother's look of suspicion, he added, "Can't a fellow change his mind? You ladies do it all the time."

"Come, come, let's have none of your gammon," the old lady snapped. "You told me only this morning that you wanted to stay. And don't think I don't know why! You've been showing a decided interest in the Rendell chit."

"Have I?" He eyed his grandmother ruefully. "I didn't think it was so obvious."

"Not to the others, perhaps, but it was to me. I'm delighted, you know. She's just the sort I'd wish for you. So why take yourself home so soon?"

"Because your wishes won't wash. She won't have me.

"I don't believe it!" the old woman declared with a young woman's spirit. "She adores you. I can see it in her eyes."

"Balderdash" he retorted bluntly. "The adoration is in
your
eyes, not hers."

"Harry, don't you dare belittle my judgment! I've had seventy-three years to perfect it. Take my word, she's smitten with you."

"I've the highest respect for your judgment, Grandmama, but in this case I'm afraid it's off." He turned away, crossed the room to her dressing table, and absently began to finger the bottles lined up on it. After a moment, he looked up and spoke to her reflection in the mirror, "She thinks I'm a rake."

Her ladyship gaped. "A rake?
You?
Impossible."

Harry gave a bitter little laugh. "Not so impossible. I seem to have that reputation. Universally."

"I've never heard anything so ridiculous."

"That's what I thought, too. But I'm told that, among other sins, I'm reputed to have sent a certain Miss Landers into a decline."

Lady Ainsworth cocked her head interestedly. "Gussie Landers? Lady Elinor's second daughter?"

Harry turned round. "Why? Do you know her?"

"Yes, slightly. And I did hear that her Gussie was ill. Can the silly child have formed an attachment to you?"

"Of course not! I don't even know her."
 

"Yes, you do. You danced with her at Almack's last season."

"Good God!" Harry, appalled, sank down on the dressing-table bench and covered his face with his hand.

"But the world cannot fault you for it," his grandmother said, coming up to him and putting a hand on his shoulder. "If an eighteen-year-old romantic imagines herself in love, you can't be blamed."

"Evidently some can blame me. Kate does." He shook his head in self-disgust. "I shouldn't have kissed her," he muttered.

"Kissed her?" She snatched her hand away. "You
kissed Gussie Landers?
"

"No, of course not. I kissed Kate."

"Oh." She expelled a relieved breath. "That's alright, then."

"No, it was too soon," her grandson said glumly. "Much too soon. And then there was the business about Deirdre..."

"What about Deirdre?"

"Nothing." His shoulders seemed to sag. "But it occurs to me, Grandmama, that..."
 

"That what?"

"... that perhaps I am a rake."

That was more nonsense than the old woman was prepared to stomach. "My dear boy," she said in disgust, urging him to his feet by
a push on his back, "you are nothing of the sort. But from what you've said—and what you haven't said—perhaps it
is
a good idea, for the time being, for you to come home after all."

* * *

Isabel, going down the corridor with her embroidery cart trundling along behind her, was blocked by two footmen carrying a large trunk to the stairway. She looked at them curiously as they stepped aside to let her pass. "Who's leaving?" she inquired.

"The Tyndales," one of them answered.

Isabel could not hide her surprise. "Both of them?"

"Yes, m'lady, both of 'em. They decided quite sudden-like."

"Mebbe it was the weather," the other footman offered. "It's startin' in t' sleetin' something fierce."

Her ladyship continued down the corridor in apparent calm, but she couldn't hide from herself her feeling of sharp disappointment. She went into her bedroom, slammed the door, and walked over to the window. From that vantage point she could see the goings-on below. As she watched, the two footmen placed the trunk into an old-fashioned but elegant coach with the Tyndale arms emblazoned on the doors. It was a fitting vehicle for a stodgy old fellow who powdered his hair. "Well, a good riddance, you old fool" she muttered aloud. But her hands unconsciously lifted themselves to her breast, and her fingers clenched right on the placket of her apron where her needles were stored. She was pricked by at least three of them. As she sucked away the drops of blood, a trickle of tears wet her cheeks. The tears were, of course, caused by the pain of the pinpricks, not by Sir Edward's imminent departure. At least, that's what she told herself.

Just below her, Deirdre and Kate were both gazing out of the east sitting room window, watching the sleet transform the landscape. All the tree branches and the blades of winter-browned grass were whitening with tiny balls of ice. Icicles were forming in the eaves, and with every breeze the air crackled with a sound like glass being crushed underfoot. It was amazing to Kate to see how much the landscape had transformed itself since her morning walk. A walk would be quite impossible now. Nevertheless, it was lovely to gaze out of the window at the suddenly emerging frost kingdom. Nature, Kate thought, was both cruel and beautiful.

Deirdre didn't see the beauty of it. She sat on the cushioned window seat, stared out of the frost-fogged pane at the loaded carriage, and sighed. "I suppose," she confided to Kate after a long silence, "that, if he were truly taken with me, he wouldn't go off so suddenly."

"Are you speaking of Leonard? Of course he's taken with you." She sat down beside her depressed cousin and took her hand. "He adores you."

"I'm not speaking of Leonard. It's Harry I'm thinking of."

"Oh."

"I'm quite sick at heart about him. I thought, from his manner in the library with me, that he truly cared for me."

Kate stiffened her shoulders. "I have something to confess to you, Deirdre. It's my fault that Lord Ainsworth is going home with his brother."

"What do you mean?" Deirdre asked. "How can that be?"

"I revealed to him..." She dropped Deirdre's hand and turned her face to the window. "I... I told him what you admitted to me last night."

Deirdre froze. "About my ... my ..."

"About your feelings for him, yes."

The color drained from Deirdre's cheeks. "But, Kate, how could you?" she asked, utterly confused. "Surely you understood that everything I said was told to you in confidence!"

"Yes, but I couldn't help myself. He accused me, quite unfairly, of flirting with his brother. I was so furious I completely lost my head. I came back at him with a similar accusation—that he'd been flirting with you."

Deirdre could hardly believe what she was hearing. "You
said
that?" she asked in horror.
 

"In so many words."

"And how did he respond?" the younger girl asked, her curiosity temporarily staving off her anger. She knew she was going to be furious with her cousin about this, but she had to grasp the full story before she'd permit herself to explode.

Kate knew what Deirdre wanted to hear. If she could say that Harry's face lit up with joy, all would be forgiven. But she couldn't say it. "I'm sorry, Deirdre, but he seemed utterly astounded. He claimed to have no intention of attaching you. He decided at once to depart."

Deirdre gulped. "No intentions toward me? None?"

Kate reached for her hand again. "What could you expect, my dear?" she asked gently. "After all, Leonard is not only his cousin but his close friend."

Deirdre stared at Kate with an arrested look. "And he left to... to avoid me?"

"To keep from making matters worse. It was wise, don't you agree?"

"No, I don't!" Her fury now burst forth, "This is all your fault," she cried, rounding on Kate with hands and teeth clenched. "You had no right to tell him what I told you in secret! You betrayed me! And for that, I shall never, never, forgive you as long as I live!" And she stormed out of the room.

After sitting for several minutes in stunned silence, Kate went up to her mother's bedroom. "Mama," she said, "if you don't mind, I think I'd like to go home."