Lady Elizabeth's Comet (25 page)

"Th-thank you." I hiccoughed and indulged a last sad sob.

I heard her giving crisp instructions to the groom and then she extended her hand to me.
"Come, my lady, there's a cool stream beyond this little hillock. You can bathe your eyes."

I struggled to my feet and stumbled along beside her.

The stream was so cold the water stung my hot face. It felt wonderful. Miss Bluestone
soaked the faithful handkerchief for me and made me sit quietly holding it to my eyes until she
was satisfied that the puffiness had begun to go down.

"There. That's much better."

"Miss Bluestone."

"Yes, Lady Elizabeth?"

"You must think me a great fool."

"I think you've been very unhappy," she said gently.

"It's worse than that. I love Clanross, and I've made such a m-mull of things." My mouth
quivered, but I'd had quite enough of crying so I waited for it to stop.

"Oh my word, what a relief!"

"I b-beg your pardon?" I looked up. I thought I could not have heard her aright.

She flushed. "I don't know what came over me, Lady Elizabeth. Pray disregard my
remark."

"I should say not. I've opened my budget. It's your turn."

She sighed and came to sit beside me. "Very well. Mrs. Finch thought...that is, you must
know your well-being is important to the members of your household. Alice speculated that you
would finally wed Lord Bevis. I could not help feeling some anxiety. Lord Bevis is everything
that is amiable, but Clanross is worth ten of him." She closed her mouth with a snap and looked
surprised at her own vehemence.

I noticed that in her agitation she omitted Clanross's style, a lapse she would not have
allowed herself under other circumstances. I wanted to hug her. I repressed a mad urge to defend
Bevis and smiled. "Explain, please."

"It wouldn't become me to be anatomising either man's character. Lady Elizabeth, but I
know you were troubled as to whether Lord Bevis approved your work."

"Whether he would allow it, if I married him."

She nodded. "Lord Clanross would not merely allow it. He would be proud of it, and of
you. He is a very unusual man."

She was right, of course. I said ruefully, "Should I shock you if I said that I'd take
Clanross on any terms, whether he approved my work or no?"

"Yes, my lady, it would shock me. You must not betray your gift. Besides," she added
reasonably, "he wouldn't ask you to give it up, so the question doesn't arise."

I gulped. "It won't arise at all. Clanross knew of my promise to Bevis, and I've sunk any
regard he might have had for me by throwing Bevis over. They are friends."

"If you quarrelled with Lord Bevis about your telescope, his lordship will
understand."

"Perhaps that's true." I was, briefly, comforted. "But he would never be able to see how I
could fancy I loved Bevis at one moment and find myself head-over-ears in love with
him
the next. No man could think that anything but ficklemindedness. I'm not sure I
credit it myself."

"It's not at all difficult for me to understand, my lady."

I stared. "It isn't?"

"No. Though you may be correct in thinking no man could understand. Lord Bevis was
known to you. Clanross was a stranger. You understood Lord Bevis and knew how far to trust
him. When you learnt to trust Clanross you became aware of your feelings for him."

"Yes, even if knowing my feelings doesn't solve anything. Clanross regards me as a
worthy opponent at chess and a meddlesome nurse."

"I'm sure he likes you very well, my lady."

"Likes!" But I was comforted.

"That's surely a step in the right direction."

I sighed.

She said carefully, "You mustn't imagine me deep in his lordship's confidence, my lady.
I'm sure I would never have known of his dead sister had we not been thrown on each other's
sole company at Christmas. I was puzzled when he encouraged me to talk about Jean and
Margaret, for gentlemen are rarely very interested in schoolroom misses. I think he sensed my
wariness, and that's why he explained."

"He could have chosen no better confidant."

She flushed. "Thank you. Indeed, I'd never have told you had I not believed you
unnecessarily worried for Jean and Margaret. He is a reserved man, and he spoke in
confidence."

I assured her that no one could doubt her discretion.

We sat quietly for a time. Presently she said, "Clanross has a fear for your sisters. I'm
not sure he is even aware of it."

I stared. "What is it?"

"He thinks they're too dependent on one another. If something should happen to one of
them..."

"The other would be lost. Oh lord, Miss Bluestone, he said something to me..." My mind
raced. There was one thing I could do for Clanross, after all. Indeed, I should have drawn the
connexion sooner. I was ashamed of my self-absorption, but at least there was a remedy to hand.
"Should you object to taking on more pupils, Miss Bluestone?"

She cocked her head.

"Lady Kinnaird has charge of the three littlest girls, Caroline, Frances, and Georgina.
They are ten, eight, and seven now and certainly ready for instruction. I could bring them south
at Christmas."

"An excellent plan. The great difficulty in dealing with girls your sisters' age--Jean's and
Margaret's, I mean--is that they grow up too soon."

I looked at her. Her eyes gleamed. I believe she was already planning lessons.

I surveyed my crumpled walking skirt ruefully. "I daresay I look a fright. And my
face!"

"Your face will do very well when you've tied your hat on again." She turned briskly
and dipped the kerchief in the stream once again. "Press that to your brow occasionally, my lady.
We'll say that the heat was too much for you."

I smiled. "Ingenious. I hope it works."

"It will," she said tranquilly. "The girls will be too full of their beastly cavern to pay
much heed."

"Miss Bluestone..."

"Yes?"

"Thank you. We must speak further of my little sisters."

She brushed off her skirt and tidied her own hair. "I daresay something can be contrived,
Lady Elizabeth, though I must warn you that the level of noise in the house will rise."

"That's to be expected. And you'll need another maid as well as Miss Mackey--she's
their nurse." We walked slowly back up the hill, planning as we went. I felt much better, and I
resolved not to despair of Clanross until I saw him at the altar with someone else.

It is usual for a wedding to take place in the bride's parish, but Cecilia, understandably,
refused to go home. She was to be wed from Briarlea. It fell to Aunt to entertain the wedding
guests, and she did so in old-fashioned style. I brought my entourage from Brecon in the
carriage, and we meant to stop the night, a plan the girls regarded as a high treat. My feelings
were more ambiguous.

I do not know how it is, but when one has been looking forward to something with
desperate eagerness, one sometimes feels a revulsion of mood just as the long-awaited moment
arrives. So it was with me, and suspense did not improve my temper.

Clanross came late to the wedding. Perhaps he made a habit of coming late to weddings.
He had been expected at Briarlea the previous night, and Aunt was seriously displeased with
him, for he had sent no messenger to excuse his absence.

The Briarlea party was large, consisting of Cecilia's mother in full feather, her married
sisters and their uninteresting spouses, two or three of Aunt's cronies, Miss Whitby, and a
black-haired beauty of my own age whose lavender half-mourning suggested both taste and
affluence.

I scarcely recall the ceremony. Cecilia, on Willoughby's reluctant arm, looked ravishing.
Charles was goggle-eyed with importance and nerves. I daresay they said their vows. My
attention was wholly occupied fancying Clanross drowned in a Scotch loch or struck down by
assassins on the Great North Road.

In brief intervals of sanity I found myself peering over the old-fashioned box pew at
Aunt's party and speculating as to the dashing widow's identity. I could see the back of her
bonnet. Very likely she was a kinswoman of Mrs. Conway-Gore's, I assured myself, or some
connexion of one of Aunt's cronies along for the ride, or one of the late Lord Whitby's by-blows.
In fact, I began to suspect she was Clanross's Intended.

Aunt had by no means given up her design to marry Clanross suitably, but she could not
very well mount a full-fledged campaign while he was in Scotland. I ought to have foreseen that
she would seize on Cecilia's wedding as the opportunity it was. Aunt had laid a handsome trap
for him and meant to spring it. I saw it all very clearly.

Charles and Cecilia having said all that was proper, and Willoughby having bit back
whatever impulse he may have had to announce an impediment, the ceremony wound to its
destined end. The bridal pair frisked down the aisle, beaming, and their connexions followed
them at a more sedate pace. Waiting impatiently for the Briarlea party to move on, I glanced
down the aisle to see what was slowing our passage and caught sight of Clanross.

I did not betray myself to the company, but my heart thudded in my throat, my knees
wobbled, and for a moment I saw and heard no one else.

Maggie poked me.

I made my feet move. How inconsiderate of him to be putting everyone in a pelter of
anxiety and then to be sneaking in the back. Had he no sense at all of what was owing to his
position? He was standing in the rear of the church with the lesser guests from the county and,
good God, the Chactons. I cringed at what Willoughby would make of that.

For my part I thought Clanross might be a little less free of his favours. Charles and
Cecilia would have every right to resent his singling Chacton out in public. After all, it was their
day. They had counted on him. Aunt had counted on him. He could at least have come in with
the Family. I was fuming, I daresay, because I was so relieved to find that he had not drowned or
been stabbed by footpads or overturned on the high road.

I stole another glance. He was standing beside Chacton, head bent, listening to the mill
owner. As we drew nearer, Maggie and Jean also saw him. Jean emitted a stifled squeal and
Maggie giggled. Clanross looked up. Catching sight of them, he flashed them a grin and returned
to his conversation. The girls twittered like sparrows.

Hoydens. My cheeks burnt but I hadn't the heart to reprove my sisters. I wished he had
smiled at me. Covered with unreasonable embarrassment I kept my eyes cast down and crept the
interminable distance out to the porch and into our carriage, Maggie and Jean chattering
excitedly in my train.

When we finally reached Briarlea, I made the girls go up to their room with Miss
Bluestone to tidy their hair. Mercifully, Alice had been given a bedchamber of her own, and once
I had dismissed my abigail, I had time to compose myself. I stood in the center of the cool green
room. My reflection, dim and also rather green in the shadowy light, stared back at me from the
gilded mirror above the vanity table. "Is this the face that launched a thousand ships?" Definitely
not. There was a burst of girlish giggling in the hall and an impatient knock.

"Come."

"We're ready, Liz. Come on." Maggie, pink-faced.

"In a moment."

"Lizzie!" Jean's soprano wail.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, go down with Miss Bluestone. I'll follow you. And try to behave
conformably."

Miss Bluestone stuck her head in the door. "Are you feeling quite the thing, my lady? I
thought you looked pale."

"I'm all right," I snapped and bit my lip. "I beg your pardon. Please, Miss
Bluestone."

She hesitated, then said gently, "Very well. I'll collect Mrs. Finch, too."

"Thank you," I whispered. I doubt she heard me for the door closed on her words.

This will not do, my girl, I told myself grimly. You are not eighteen and a
milk-and-water miss. Collect your wits and your courage and march straight downstairs.
I wondered what I would do if I were to bump into Clanross on the stair. Faint?

I swallowed my self-disgust and made myself walk slowly three times round the room. I
looked in the press at my gowns. Neatly bestowed. I tidied my hair. I went to the window and
peered through a crack in the drapes at the line of carriages, curricles, and phaetons inching up
the drive. I did not see Clanross.

Presently, my nerves steadied, and I felt sufficiently in command of myself to open the
door. The hallway was deserted except for Sir Ainslie Pettigrew, one of Aunt's ancient beaux,
who was creaking to the head of the stairs. I startled him very much by demanding his
escort.

When we finally creaked out onto the terrace, most of my maidenly flutterings were
subdued and I felt mature, even slightly antique. Clanross I still did not see.

Aunt had caused the reception line to extend across the terrace to the steps. I progressed
down it, gaining in confidence as I uttered the expected fatuities. I felicitated Cecilia sincerely
and Charles somewhat less sincerely, for I thought she had the better of the bargain. They were
both too daffy with happiness to be critical-minded. Willoughby was not.

"My heartiest congratulations, Willoughby dear."

He twitched his upper lip. "Dear Elizabeth. You're looking a trifle hagged, Liz. Shall I
call for a cordial?"

"My, my, is it feeling spiteful? I perceive you decided to bestow your blessing upon
Charles after all. How very sensible of you."

Willoughby rolled his eyes expressively in Aunt's direction. "A little softer, Liz, if you
please."

"All is forgiven?"

"Yes." He cleared his throat. "Well, well, I daresay you've spent these past months
worthily, Elizabeth. Discovering planets and so on."

"And so on," I said affably. I almost began to enjoy myself.

Aunt Whitby extended a jewel-encrusted hand. "Elizabeth--in good time." She turned
her head and emitted a stentorian roar. "Bella!"