Encounter with Venus (17 page)

He did not need to look back. He recognized Harriet’s voice. “Yes, I can,” he said angrily as he continued his laborious descent. “Thank you for an entertaining evening.”

“But the evening is far from over.”

“It is for me.” He continued his awkward way down the stairs, uncomfortably aware that the two footmen, standing stony-faced at each side of the doorway, could hear every word.

Harriet was too distressed to concern herself about the footmen. She lifted her skirts and ran down the stairs after him. “Please, Bernard, don’t go! I need you. Your name is on my dance card. You’re to take me in to supper in a little while.”

“Sorry. I’m sure you can find someone else to accomp—” In his agitated haste to escape a confrontation with her, he’d misjudged the placement of his left crutch. He’d placed the tip too close to the edge of the stair, and at this moment he leaned his weight on it. The tip slipped, the crutch dropped to the step below, and Bernard, losing his balance, tumbled down the three remaining steps and landed flat on his face on the entryway floor.

Harriet screamed in horror. The two footmen ran across to him, but Harriet, having flown down the stairs, motioned them aside and knelt down beside him. “Bernard, speak to me!’ she cried. “Are you hurt?”

“Hurt?”
Poor Bernard almost laughed at the word. His chin was throbbing, his elbow was giving off sharp pains, and he was sprawled like a speared fish on the floor in front of the woman he loved. “No, I’m not hurt,” he muttered in an agony of humiliation. “Just permit your footmen to help me up.”

He did not look at her while they lifted him up nor when he was restored to self-sufficiency on his crutches. He merely brushed off the helping hands, mumbled thanks to the men, and hobbled out the door.

Harriet watched him go. “Oh, Bernard!” she whispered miserably. That choked whisper expressed all the empathetic pain she was feeling. But only the footmen heard her. They had to turn away, not only from the tormented sound but from the look on her face. Her tear-laden, stricken eyes revealed all the anguish in her heart. If Bernard had turned around and seen her face, he might have found some comfort.

But he wouldn’t look back.

TWENTY-THREE

The night after George had taken his final departure, Livy lay awake mulling over the disastrous few days they had spent together bringing her home. Everything had gone wrong. She hadn’t wanted him to take her home in the first place, but she certainly hadn’t wished for him to be compelled to stay. She was ashamed of how her uncle ran his household. She’d never invited Felicia or any of her school friends to visit her, nor had she ever told them how dismal her life was. She didn’t want her friends to pity her. Even her friends’ pity, however, would be more bearable than pity from George. To have him pity her was an unimaginable pain.

Yet circumstances had conspired to bring her worst nightmare about. George had learned firsthand the awful details—that no fires were permitted in most of the rooms, that every servant had to do the work of three, that her uncle was thoughtless and selfish, and, worst of all, that she didn’t have the will or the character to assert herself. George had even found it necessary to give her uncle the scolding that she herself should have given him years ago.

Ever since she’d met George, his behavior toward her had troubled her. She didn’t know what to make of him. She knew he thought of her as a pathetic spinster, but he nevertheless paid a great deal of attention to her. It was plain that he enjoyed her company. But she knew she had to keep him at arm’s length. She was too attracted to him for her own comfort. Nothing but pain could come of an attraction that was doomed to be one-sided. The pain she’d suffered when he kissed her was a warning. She didn’t understand why he’d done it, but it had thrilled her to the core. She remembered how, in spite of her intention to free herself from his embrace, she’d melted against him. It had been a delicious moment, and in truth, she would have wanted it to go on forever, but her instincts for self-preservation had come to the fore, and she’d pulled herself away. The only logical reason for him to have kissed her was pity. Kindness—that was the only thing he could offer her, and it was the one thing she couldn’t abide his offering.

Ah, but it had been lovely for a moment. A moment she’d have loved to relive. She pulled her comforter close about her and tried to imagine she was in his arms again. And with that, she fell asleep.

The next thing she knew, Bridie was shaking her. She opened her eyes. From the light seeping in between the draperies, she could tell the morning was quite advanced. “What is it?” she asked the abigail sleepily.

“Heesht ye, miss,” Bridie said urgently. “Mrs. Nicol be in a curfuffle. Somethin’s mishanter wi’ yer uncle.”

A mishap? Alarmed, Livy threw a robe over her nightdress and ran down to her uncle’s room. She found him sitting up at the foot of his bed, staring with dazed eyes straight ahead of him. Mrs. Nicol stood on his right with his bowl of gruel in her hand, and Peters, on the other side, was attempting to put a woolen lap robe over his shoulders. “What is it?” Livy asked. “What’s wrong?”

“I found ‘im like that at daybreak,” Peters muttered. “Don’ know how long he’s been sittin’ here in this icy cold.”

“It’s as if he doesn’t hear a word we say to him,” Mrs. Nicol added, “and not only that, but he won’t eat a morsel.”

Livy sat down beside the grizzled old man and put an arm about his shoulder. “What is it, Uncle? Does something trouble you? A pain, perhaps?”

He turned slowly toward her, as if he were about to speak. Then his eye fell on her bandaged forehead. “Wheesht!” he rasped, peering at her aghast. “ ‘Twas I did that to ye, didn’t I?”

“It was an accident, Uncle. Nothing serious. I’ll be removing the bandage this morning.”

He took her hand in his. She could feel him shaking. “I wish t’ talk to ye, Livy, lass,” he said. “Tell the others t’ gie owre.”

“If you’d not lapse into your Lowlands brogue, you could tell them yourself,” Livy suggested, hoping to urge him back to his normal behavior.

The old man frowned at her for a moment and then shrugged. He looked up at his worried housekeeper, at his valet who was still holding on to the shawl, and finally at little Bridie who was watching from the doorway, her tiny mouth pursed with alarm. “I’m fine,” he said, a slight note of apology in his tone, “so go away. All of ye.”

Mrs. Nicol went promptly to the door, but Peters, with a quick, nervous movement, dropped the lap robe on Sir Andrew’s shoulders before scurrying out. Mrs. Nicol paused at the door. “I’ll be right outside if you need me, Miss Livy,” she declared with flinty resolve.

When the door closed behind them, Livy looked back at her uncle to find that he’d relapsed into the dazed state in which she’d found him. “They’re gone,” she said, pressing his shoulder firmly to regain his attention. “What is it you want to tell me?”

He seemed to shake himself awake. He leaned toward her and peered closely into her face. “You dinna believe, do ye, Livy, that I was forced to take ye in?”

“Take me in?” she asked, surprised. “Do you mean back when I was a child?”

“Aye.”

“I don’t know, Uncle. Were you?”

He stiffened in offense. “Nae, I was not. ‘Twas my joy to take ye in. My joy, I tell ye! Y’ were my dear sister’s bairn, and I loved ye from yer birth.” Tears filled his eyes. “Do ye recall how I played wi’ ye when ye were small? And the birthday parties we had, wi’ clotted cream fer the scones? And did I not hire the best tutors for ye, no matter the cost? And when ye turned sixteen, did I not send ye t’ the very best girls’ school in all England?”

“Yes, you did, Uncle,” she said, kissing his forehead. “You were very good to me.”

“Then why did that blasted gomerel break into my bedroom yesterday and accuse me of mistreating you? Did you complain to him about me?”

“No, Uncle, you know perfectly well that I’d never do that.”

He dropped his eyes from hers. “Aye, I know. He must’ve seen me bruise yer forehead.”

“No. But he bandaged me. I explained to him that it was an accident.”

Sir Andrew’s brows came together thoughtfully. “Howsomever, he must’ve seen enough t’ conclude that I’ve been a brute t’ ye. And I suppose I have.” He eyed her guiltily, a look of sincere regret. “It was when I came on ill, y’ see. The chest pains. I thought I was done for. I suppose I turned grumly.”

“I wouldn’t say grumly, Uncle,” Livy said with a smile, patting his hand comfortingly. “More persnickety than ill-natured.”

“Whatever ye wish t’ call it, the truth is I began t’ think more o’ myself than o’ anyone else. ‘Twas from fear, ye see. I didna wish t’ die.”

“But the doctor says you seem to be in quite good health.”

“Aye, so he says.” He put a shaking hand to his forehead. “Then how am I to explain meself? Can it be I
like
bein’ an invalid?”

“I don’t think so, my dear,” Livy said hesitantly, aware that something crucial was occurring in the old man’s mind. “Perhaps it’s only fear, as you say. And you, Uncle, are not the sort to cringe from fear.”

The old man took a deep breath. “Nae, I’m not.” He rose slowly to his feet. “Thankee, lass. Things will be different here from now on. I’ll not stay abed anither day.” In a grand gesture of defiance, he threw the lap robe off his shoulders. “Don’t sit there gawkin’ at me, lass. Go tell Peters to find my old walkin’ stick. And ask him t’ bring in my old kilt. I mean t’ get myself dressed!”

Livy, exhilarated by this promising conversation, ran to do his bidding. But just as she was about to go out the door, he called her name.

“Yes?” she asked, looking back over her shoulder tensely. Had he changed his mind?

“That fellow who gave me that tongue-lashing yesterday—”

Livy’s eyebrows rose. “The ‘blasted gomerel?”

“Aye. What was his name?”

“Frobisher,” she said. “George Frobisher, Lord Chad-leigh. Why do you ask?”

“Because ye should invite him back.”

“Good God, Uncle, whatever for? So that you can return the tongue-lashing he gave you?”

“Nae, lass. Because he’s brave and braw. And, if my old eyes dinna deceive me, he dauts on ye.”

“He may be brave and handsome, Uncle,” she retorted as she scooted from the room, “but if you think he dotes on me, you’d better have the doctor examine those old eyes.”

TWENTY-FOUR

At midmoming the next day, the carriage-turned-sleigh finally arrived in London. George was up on the box, weary, unshaven, and chilled to the bone. Timmy was curled up inside on the backseat, taking his turn to sleep. George yearned to fall into his own bed, but his conscience would not permit it. He had to stop first at Bernard’s rooms and apologize for breaking his word.

He drew some amused jeers from the passersby as he pulled up in front of Bernard’s place, for the sleigh runners—making loud, scraping sounds against the cobbles of the streets that were now almost free of snow-had become embarrassingly unnecessary. Ignoring the jibes, he ran up to the door and knocked urgently. Pratkin responded to his knock. “Ah, your lordship,” he said with formal politeness, “welcome back to London.”

“Thank you, Pratkin. Is Bernard in his study? I’ll run right up.”

But Pratkin barred the way. “Sorry, my lord, but Sir Bernard is not receiving today.”

George hooted. “Since when does that apply to me? Stand aside, fellow, and let me pass.”

“I regret, my lord, that I cannot. Sir Bernard is... er... sleeping.”

“Sleeping?” George asked in disbelief. “At eleven in the morning?”

“Yes, my lord. He retired quite late last night.”

“Did he?” George frowned at the valet suspiciously, but slowly his weary eyes brightened. A delightful possibility was dawning on him. “Good God!” he burst out excitedly. “You don’t mean—! Are you saying he went to the Renwoods’ ball after all?”

Pratkin remained impassive. “Yes, my lord, he did.”

“Why, that’s
wonderfulV
George pounded the valet on his back with hearty enthusiasm. “The best news I’ve had all week! Very well, I’ll let him sleep. Tell him I’ll be back in a few hours to hear all about it.”

Without disturbing Timmy, he drove the phaeton home, the runners scraping the almost-dry streets roughly. As he came scrunching into his driveway, he saw Harriet Renwood emerging from his front door. He jumped down from the box and ran over to her. “Harriet,” he greeted her cheerfully, “were you paying me a call?”

“Oh, George, you’re back!” she said with a strange little quiver in her voice. “Your butler just informed me that you were still in Yorkshire.”

“I only this moment returned,” he said.

“We had hoped,” Harriet murmured, dropping her eyes from his face, “that you’d be back yesterday.”

“I’d hoped so, too, but we were forced to take a long detour. However, my delay was not as damaging to our plans as I feared.” He smiled down at her. “I’m told that Bernard attended your ball without me.”

“Yes.” She looked up at him but did not return his smile. “That’s why I’m here. I must speak to you.”