Elizabeth Mansfield (21 page)

Harry knew he was fully to blame for the muddle they were now in—he'd jumped to a mistaken conclusion about the identity of the girl who'd been abducted, and that mistake had led to everything that followed. Those events had had a terrible inevitability about them. He'd been helplessly tangled in circumstances out of his control. He hadn't realized what a pawn he'd been in the hands of fate until Deirdre had come into the parlor of The Red Falcon Inn and thrown herself into his arms. He could still hear her cries ringing in his ears:
Oh, Harry, my dearest love, you do love me, you do!
How else could he have responded but to offer for her? And now, how could he maintain this friendship when he was taking for his bride the girl his friend so dearly desired?

He knew they should speak to each other openly about this. But perhaps this was not the time. For now, it was enough that they'd shaken hands. The rest could wait.

He picked up his greatcoat and started for the door. "Well, Leonard, I'm off. I've another score to settle this morning."

"That's strange," Leonard said, pulling on his boot. "So have!"

Harry stopped and wheeled about, at the same moment that Leonard jumped to his feet. Their eyes met, and they both grinned. "Percy/" they cried together, and, arm in arm, they strode out the door.

The prospect of "settling the score" with Percy was so satisfying that the vexatious problem they'd avoided discussing was pushed out of their minds. They were positively cheerful when they arrived at Percy's rooms. “Toss a coin to see who gives him the first blow," Leonard suggested.

"Heads," Harry said, tossing.

It was tails. Leonard chortled happily as they banged on the door.

But their good spirits were not to last. Percy, bag and baggage, was gone.

The two friends stood together on the street, chilled by the wind and the disappointment of not having been able to work out their frustrations with their fists. "Well, I've lost my bride, and I've lost my revenge," Leonard muttered, "but at least I still have my best friend."

Harry put up his collar against the wind. It was time, he thought, to face their problem openly. "Can I be your best friend while being wed to Deirdre?" he asked bluntly. “Tell me honestly, Leonard, do you still love her?"

Leonard kicked at a piece of ice still clinging to the pavement "I admit to my everlasting shame, that I do. And probably always will."

"It's strange, because—forgive me, old man—you know as well as I that she's as fickle as a bee in a flower garden. Last week she loved you. Yesterday, it was Percy. Today she loves me. How can you care so greatly for such a maggoty chit?"

"She's still a bit of a child, don't you see?" Leonard said, earnestly trying to defend what in his heart he believed was indefensible. "Perhaps she has to flit about in that flower garden for a while before settling down."

"But she
is
settling down," Harry muttered. "With me."

"Yes," was the glum reply. "I know."

There was nothing more to be said. They shook hands for an unspoken good-bye. "Well, don't look so down, old fellow," Harry said as he started off down the street. "With any luck, she'll discover another flower in the garden and jilt me."

THIRTY-FIVE

I
thought I was saving you!
Those words echoed over and over in Kate's head for days after returning home. At first they gave her comfort. She took them to mean Harry loved her. The look on his face and the crack in his voice when he'd said them made it plain. He might never be able to declare himself, but he loved her. She used that fact as a secret little talisman that she could carry inside her, to warm her through the lonely nights.

I thought I was saving you!
It meant he loved
her,
not Deirdre. It was only the dreadful circumstances of that evening—the fact that Deirdre had spent the night in the inn and could not be permitted to return the next morning with her good name soiled—that had forced him to offer for her. He could not have guessed that Leonard would arrive on the scene. If only she and Leonard had stopped at The Red Falcon earlier, her whole life might have been different.

But as the days passed, this comforting conviction began to fade.
I
thought I was saving you.
The words were not necessarily a declaration of love. They could be merely an explanation for how he'd happened to be there. Even though he had come after her, not Deirdre, it could merely have been the act of a gentleman. He might be the sort to rescue any young woman who'd been abducted.

I thought I was saving you.
What made her think those words had any significance beyond their literal meaning? After all, he was very quick to get himself betrothed. If he didn't love Deirdre, couldn't he have found a way to avoid offering for her? Couldn't he have taken Leonard aside and urged him to take his place?

The most logical probability, she decided, was that he did love Deirdre. Perhaps he'd loved her all along, but he'd kept his feelings in check because Leonard was his friend. When he discovered he'd rescued her from Percy's clutches, he undoubtedly jumped at the opportunity to claim her for himself. So the words
I
thought I was saving you
no longer held the same resonance they'd had at first.

Bereft even of that small consolation, Kate knew there was nothing further to hope for regarding Harry Gerard. He was spoken for, and she had to put him out of her thoughts. She found, to her dismay, that it was very hard to do. Little scenes of the moments they spent together constantly replayed themselves in her mind. The memories, some delicious and some painfull, made the days long and the nights endless. She felt listless and depressed. This was not like her. She had to take herself in hand.

What was required, she knew, was self-discipline. She forced herself to follow her usual pursuits: riding her mare like the wind over the back fields, walking briskly to the village on little errands, visiting acquaintances in the neighborhood, dealing with the household staff and the accounts. She did all these things with determination but no pleasure. The result was that she presented a face to the world that was curt and impatient. Everyone noticed the change in her, even her mother.

But Isabel did nothing until the day she overheard one of the gardeners remarking to the stableboy that Miss Kate was turning into a sour old maid.

Isabel could not ignore that. "Do you know, my dear girl," she remarked that evening when they both were together in the sitting room, Isabel with her embroidery and Kate with a book, "that you have not a jot of romance in you?"

Kate did not look up from the page. "I haven't?" she asked absently.

"No, you haven't. Any young woman who's been crossed in love would wander about the house trailing a fluttery silk scarf behind her, moping and sighing and wiping away her tears. You, on the other hand, frown and stride about and snap people's heads off."

Kate merely turned a page. "One copes with one's problems in keeping with one's character," she said. "My character is not romantic, I suppose."

"I know you're suffering, my love," Isabel admitted, "but this hard veneer you've put on to protect yourself seems a bit too thick."

This caused Kate to look up. "It's easy for you to say. You've had a missive from Edward almost every day and—" She pointed to an elegant, inlaid ebony music box placed at the center of the mantelpiece, open at this very moment and emitting a tinkling Haydn melody. "—and that gift box as well."

"But how can I enjoy my letters and gifts when my daughter's turning into a sour old maid before my eyes?"

Kate gulped. "A sour old maid?"

"That's how you're beginning to appear to everyone." It was a hard truth to point out to a beloved daughter. Isabel stitched away at her needlework for a few moments in order to restore her serenity. When she felt she'd regained it, she went on. "I don't know why you're taking Harry's betrothal so badly. After all, you should take some consolation in knowing the fellow loves you."

"I know no such thing," Kate said, and tried to resume her reading.

"Of course you do," Isabel insisted. "Harry told you so himself."

"No, he did not. Just because he thought he was rescuing me, it does not follow that he cared for me."

"He cares for you. I have it on very good authority."

Kate threw aside her book. "Have you indeed? Whose, may I ask?"

"His grandmother's."

"Hmph!" Kate snorted. "What a source! Lady Ainsworth is a dear old soul, and I know she's fond of me. I suspect she'd wish for Harry to care for me the way she does. But you should know better than to take seriously the fanciful ravings of a doddering old woman."

"She's not doddering," Isabel argued angrily. "And they were not fanciful ravings. Why, I'd wager she knows Harry better than anyone else does."

"Rubbish! What independent, self-confident young man would share his deepest feelings with his grandmother? Use your common sense, Mama, and try not to indulge in foolish fancies."

Having delivered that old-maidish scold, Kate picked up her book and buried herself in it. Isabel, however, was too shaken to resume her needlework.
Was Kate right?
she asked herself. She'd placed all her hopes for Kate's future happiness in the words Lady Ainsworth had spoken that day on the street in Bath. There was to be a message. An invitation or some such thing. Here it was, more man a fortnight later, and she'd had no word from Ainsworth Park. Was it possible that those hopes were based on the 'fanciful ravings of a doddering old woman'?

THIRTY-SIX

On the evening after the abduction, Harry presented himself to Charles and formally asked for Deirdre's hand. Charles gave his grateful approval. Madge, fluttery with excitement, suggested that they all sit down together for a celebratory dinner. "Isabel and Kate have gone home to Norfolk, the Tyndales are gone, and my friend, Mrs. Compton, has returned to London, so I've no guests to invite, but if you could coax Lady Ainsworth to join us—"

"My grandmother finds late-evening dinners a bit too much for her, I'm afraid," Harry said apologetically.

Madge forced a smile. "Then there will be only four of us at table, but I'm certain we can make a celebration anyway."

Through the first three courses, it did not seem much like a celebration. Harry's manner was impeccably polite, but he seemed to Madge to be too restrained. Deirdre, although very happy at the turn of events, was still feeling the effects of the laudanum and kept yawning. Charles, who was somewhat in awe of Harry, did not prattle on in his usual manner. And Madge, who suspected that Harry might have been forced by circumstances into this betrothal, was almost miserable. She tried her best, but the dinner conversation was far from sparkling. "This is not much of a celebration for such an auspicious occasion," she admitted ruefully after the Apricot Russe had been served. "We must have a proper one at Claydon as soon as it can be arranged."

"My grandmother has a suggestion," Harry offered. "Rather than your doing that—and reminding everyone of the past—she would like to hold a ball for Deirdre at Ainsworth Park."

Here was good news at last! Madge clapped her hands together in delight. "What a wonderful and generous idea!" she cried, beaming. Her dinner had become a success after all.

The next three days, however, were not a success. Harry had every intention of living up to his bargain, within limits. He would do all that was necessary, but not more. In that way, without actually
encouraging
Deirdre to find another flower in her garden of suitors, he would certainly do nothing to prevent it.

He called on his betrothed every day at mid-morning and took her up in his curricle for a sedate drive through Bath's lovely curved streets and charming parks. If she requested his presence in the evenings, he dutifully presented himself. The first two evenings he managed to entice Charles into games of chess before Deirdre came down, and by the time Charles excused him from the chessboard, it was too late to go out. When it happened the second time, Deirdre became considerably annoyed. "This is too much inactivity, my love," she complained.

Harry, ever the gentleman, apologized. "I'm sorry, Deirdre. I fear you've attached yourself to a stodgy old stay-at-home. But please believe that I shall make every effort to change my ways, if it pleases you."

It pleased her to be taken to a dance at the Assembly Rooms that very night. Harry stood up with her for two dances, and she had willing partners for the others. One of those partners, a certain William Quiddington, was so taken with her melting eyes and golden tresses that he tripped over his feet and fell on his face, giving everyone in the room a reason to laugh and to cast admiring glances at the cause. The recipient of those admiring glances preened. She found the evening utterly delightful. She went home in the happiest of tempers.

But Harry was not one to miss an opportunity. The next day she received a note from him, expressing his regrets at the necessity of absenting himself from her. He had to go to London on urgent business, he wrote. He hoped he would not be gone for many days. A fortnight at the most.

Deirdre threw a tantrum. She stamped her feet, beat on the wall with her fists, and kicked over a pedestal, causing a crystal vase containing fresh flowers to crash to the floor. "How can he have left me like this?" she cried petulantly to her mother. "Here I am, on the first truly springlike day of the year, imprisoned at home with no escort, no amusements, and nobody to talk to!"

"You can come with me to the Pump Room," her mother suggested calmly.

"Oh, pooh! I dislike going to the Pump Room more than anything. Being forced to chat with a gaggle of old biddies is more than I should be expected to bear!"

But she did go to the Pump Room, and she was not forced to chat with a gaggle of old biddies. Instead, she came face to face with her admirer of the evening before—William Quiddington, Esquire. Within half an hour she was happily riding in his gig. And that very evening, she accepted his escort to a concert in the Upper Rooms. When her mother objected, she had an answer ready. "Just because Harry is not available does not mean I must suffer," she told her mother flatly. "We came here to Bath for the pleasures it offers, and I, for one, intend to enjoy them."