Kate Noble (26 page)

AND
thus the unusual friendship of Gail Alton and Max Fontaine came to be. They didn’t stop bickering with each other, as some had hoped, nor did they fall dramatically into each other’s arms, as some had feared. Rather, when they bickered over intellectual pursuits, it was all in good fun (even though Max was known to get rather red-faced every time Gail corrected his pronunciation of some arcane past participle translation), and they found they could speak more freely with each other than any other person in their lives. When they were in public, they were uncommonly well mannered and were known to seek out the other’s company, but nothing beyond what was considered appropriate.

However, the whispers still began.

At a card party hosted by the Fortings, Gail was sitting in on a rubber of whist, with Max at her table. As he divested himself of his three of diamonds, he chanced to look up at Gail, and saw on her face an expression that took his breath away.

She wasn’t looking at anything in particular. She was lost in her own mind, remembering some other place and time, and it caused her to smile in a wistful, long-off sort of way. A little upturn of her lips, promising secrets. What was she thinking of? Max wondered. Exploring the ruins of Athens? Riding her horse wearing that silly hat? A joke that she holds on to just for herself? Him?

Gail suddenly snapped back to reality when Lady Charlbury prodded her with her walking stick. Gail played her card and turned to Max. Seeing that he stared, she blushed. After he played another card, he leaned in and said very casually, “I saw that.”

Gail tried to school her features into impassivity, but failed, smiling even as she kept her gaze on her cards.

“So what?” she spoke just as casually, but with a hint of bold humor. Her turn had come around again, and she played. “Why shouldn’t I smile and laugh? It’s not illegal, after all.”

“No, it isn’t,” Max agreed and played another card. “I’m simply glad I got to see it.”

Lady Charlbury kept her smirk hidden behind her cards. She was intrigued to see such an easy exchange. She kept her countenance about the friendly manner between Lord Fontaine and Miss Gail, but most certainly felt justified in her earlier observations about the pair. However, Mrs. Fortings, who made up the table’s fourth, did not have Lady Charlbury’s foresight, nor did she have her desire for reticence. Later that evening, when all the guests had left, she took a moment to mention the exchange to her husband, adding, “But I thought he had compromised the elder sister.”

Later the same week, at a musicale hosted by Mrs. Brenton, Max had taken refuge from a truly horrific young flutist making her stage debut by hiding in a far, darkened corner of the room near the refreshment table. He was edging his way toward the door and freedom, when a low whisper reached his ears and a gloved hand took hold of his.

“Don’t you dare leave.” Gail’s fingers squeezed his palm, holding him still in his steps. The darkness veiled such a familiarity, and he felt the warmth surge through their connected hands.

“Where did you come from?” he whispered, taking a silent step toward her.

“Behind the potted palm,” she replied. “I got up to use the powder room before the last concerto, but Mrs. Brenton came in, and so I had to return. I thought if I hid back here I could at least put my fingers in my ears and no one would see.”

Max looked at the potted plant. It could conceal one person easily, but not two. Just as he was entertaining notions of squeezing back there and standing very, very close to Gail, the young flutist hit an obscenely sharp note, causing all the guests to visibly cringe.

“I think my ears are bleeding,” Max hissed, once the fatal note had passed.

“The worst of it is, my father specifically said we weren’t going to attend this musicale,” Gail whispered. “But I suppose Romilla got a hold of the social schedule, and…here we are.”

The flutist paused, and the pained audience took the offered chance to applaud loudly, hoping to end the torment. Unfortunately, the girl was so very pleased with this reaction, she immediately launched into an encore, thus starting the torture all over again.

“I will pay you if you help me escape,” Max pleaded lowly to Gail, who grinned evilly.

“And what would you be willing to forfeit?” she asked too charmingly for his peace of mind. Oh, the images in his head, the innocence of those golden eyes! Before he could explore that tantalizing line of thought, she shrugged and turned her gaze back to the performance.

“If I’m forced to stay, so are you. We’ll bear the torture together.”

“What good is that? You bear the torture, and tell me about it later,” Max countered, but Gail rolled her eyes.

“Men. Honestly, you get squeamish at the veriest bit of pain and leave women to do all the hard labor.”

At that moment, the flutist was the worst torture Max could imagine, so he readily agreed. “Yes, you are correct. Men are weak and cowardly in the face of bad music. Women are strong and resolute. Now may I sneak off?”

“Well, since you asked so nicely…” Gail said sweetly, “not a chance.”

At his answering cry of outrage, heads turned, and the music fumbled. However, Max gave credit to the performer—she rallied, playing louder than before in the hopes sheer volume would cover any mistakes of technique. A few sets of eyes, including Mrs. Brenton’s, scanned the darkness near their hiding place. But soon enough, everyone’s attention returned to the unblinking horror before them, and Max felt safe enough to exhale.

Gail smiled at Max in the darkness, her hand still grasping his. She leaned up, her mouth very near his ear, her breath warming his cheek.

“Learn to enjoy your torture, Max. It’s the only way to get through it.” Her voice was barely more than a series of breaths. Max’s head turned, his eyes searching her impish ones in the darkness. It was really no more than a matter of inches, to lean down…

The “music” stopped. Mercifully, the applause began, and the extra candles were employed, quickly bringing up the light in the room and cutting off the performer with the finality of a long-hooked cane.

Mrs. Brenton was the first to whip her head around, looking for the source of the recent distraction, and spied Lord Fontaine and the younger Miss Alton, nonchalantly picking up glasses of refreshment. As she commented to Lady Hurstwood later that week, Lord Fontaine was spending a great amount of time with the younger Miss Alton. Wasn’t he courting the elder?

It was unfortunate that when this comment was being made over hatboxes on Bond Street, Romilla was within audible distance, concealed behind a pile of striped cambric.

AND
so it was, that when Gail hopped down the steps on a Tuesday morning shortly thereafter, her stepmother met her at the bottom.

“Good morning,” she said, in a cheery tone. “Am I late for tea?”

“No, Abigail,” Romilla began, meeting her happy countenance with a sober resolution.

“Excellent. I should hate to keep Lord Fontaine and Evangeline waiting. We are to go to the botanical gardens today.” As Gail smiled and began to move past Romilla toward the drawing room, Romilla caught her arm.

“They aren’t waiting,” Romilla said quietly.

Gail turned inquiringly to her stepmother.

“I sent a note to Lord Fontaine last evening that he should escort Evangeline out at ten o’clock, so she wouldn’t miss her afternoon appointments.”

Gail’s mouth worked for a few moments without any sound. “They’ve already gone?” she finally croaked out. At Romilla’s nod, Gail sputtered, “But who will see them at ten o’clock? And what about a chaperone?”

“They’ve a maid with them,” Romilla replied.

“You…you said they needed to have a family member with them, to ensure that it seemed the family was accepting Max.”

Gail realized her mistake, even before she saw the scowl blacken Romilla’s face. She shouldn’t be surprised to see steam pouring out of her stepmother’s ears.

It was a few moments and one visibly deep breath before Romilla spoke.

“Abigail,” she began, her voice pitched low and soothing, “I’m glad you are getting along with Lord Fontaine now. It would not do to have bad blood stand between him and this family. But being friends doesn’t allow such extreme familiarity as calling him by his Christian name, does it?”

“No, ma’am,” Gail mumbled, her eyes downcast.

“I think it’s time,” her stepmother continued, taking Gail by the arm and leading her toward the drawing room, “that we allow Lord Fontaine and Evangeline to go out in public alone together. Now that everyone knows our family welcomes him, we shall show society that we trust him. Don’t you agree?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

If this was all part of Romilla’s grand plan, then Gail had no choice but to go along with it, but, for some reason, it hurt. She had been looking forward to this outing ever since Max had suggested it.

“Now, shore up your disappointment, my dear,” Romilla said with forced enthusiasm. “If you still desire to see the botanical gardens, I will have your father escort us next week. Will that do?” Gail could only nod numbly, and Romilla forged ahead. “Besides, we have quite the morning planned ourselves.” She flung open the drawing room doors. “Look who’s come to visit us! Mrs. Pickering and her two daughters. We shall spend a delightful tea together, and after, Mrs. Pickering has promised to take us to the most adorable new millinery, where we’ll find some excellent ribbon for your new green frock.”

Gail could only smile weakly. Mrs. Pickering and her twin daughters, Lilly and Lavender, sat in the front parlor, yawning into their hands. These girls were easily the simplest, most empty-headed females in the northern hemisphere. Add their company for shopping for ribbons—Gail could not picture a more horrendously boring waste of time.

She forced her shoulders back, perfectly straightening her posture.

“What fun,” Gail said, smiling tremulously at the ladies before her.

BY
three o’clock that afternoon, it was Romilla, not Gail, who was ready to throttle the Pickering ladies.

Being this insipid must be a crime. Oh, they were nice enough, she supposed, but there was not a single original thought in their heads. They debated shades of gray, as if they were discussing matters of life and death, for heaven’s sake! While in Markham’s Millinery (which Romilla was quite unimpressed with, as she had been there at least thrice before and never found what she wanted) Lilly had been threatened with not being allowed to attend the next Almack’s assembly if she did not make a decision between two gray-colored velvet ribbons. The weight of the decision had the girl near to tears, and even Romilla, who prided herself on her fashion sense and attention to detail, wanted to scream:
What does it matter? It’s just a silly ribbon!

Indeed, it was just a silly ribbon, singular. Gail pointed this out, when she noticed that Mrs. Pickering was unknowingly holding up two ends of the same length of gray velvet. Romilla wanted to cheer her daughter for putting an end to the circuitous hell of choosing between the same ribbon, but alas, Mrs. Pickering picked up two more, this time in revolting shades of pink and assaulted Lavender with them.

Luckily, time did not stop moving, as it often threatened to do on particularly horrendous afternoons, and the Pickerings and the Altons were soon forced to part company.

“We simply must do this again!” Mrs. Pickering said, clasping to her bosom the hand of her newest, best friend, Romilla, who was doing an admirable job of not yanking her appendage away.

“What a, pleasant afternoon, Mrs. Pickering. I’ll look forward to our next meeting,” Romilla replied, and, with a sharp kick to Gail, prompted a wry, “Can’t wait.”

“Such a pleasure!” and, “That green ribbon is perfect for you. Never had a better time shopping!” were the hurried good-byes from Lilly and Lavender, and the Pickerings departed the carriage and walked into their own home, Mrs. Pickering dictating to the footman about their parcels and to her daughters about their evening along the way. Once the door to Number Eight was closed, Romilla signaled to the driver to go forward the sixty feet to Number Seven. Silence reigned in the carriage, until Gail, as was her marked habit, simply had to say something.

“Please tell me we are never doing that again.”

Romilla shot her stepdaughter a quelling glance, but then weariness pushed all the bluster out of her.

“Never in a million years would I subject us to that again,” she intoned seriously.

Gail smiled. And then she chuckled. And then she laughed. And Romilla couldn’t help it—she laughed, too.

“Why?” Gail asked through her laughter. “Just,
why
?”

“Oh, they are nice enough when we see them at parties”—Romilla was nearly crying, she was laughing so hard—“or when we’ve had them over for a morning with a dozen other people, for only a half hour at a time—but a whole day? Of undiluted Pickerings? I must have been mad!”

“Oh, that is too cruel, Romilla! They weren’t all bad. Lilly took quite an interest in hearing about Lisbon.” The carriage had rolled to a stop, and Romilla and Gail headed up the walk.

“Yes,” Romilla agreed, “but you may want to correct the impression you left that all Portuguese women have extra toes.”