Learning to Waltz (23 page)

“I’m surprised you did not go to London, ma’am,” Mrs. Moore asked her as they poked along. “Surely the Season is underway?”

“It is just beginning,” Elizabeth replied, “and I’m meeting Philip and the girls there after we leave Whately. But to be honest, London is not my favorite place. It’s noisy and it smells. The longer I’m away, the less I miss it. It’s heresy to say so, but there it is. You don’t seem the London sort, either, Mrs. Moore.”

Mrs. Moore shook her head. “I’ve never been there at all.”

“Oh! Well, you
must
go sometime. I complain about it, but there are so many marvelous things to see—the Tower, and the British Museum, and music, and the theatre, and the fashionable hordes with their noses in the air. Everyone should visit London once. And there is no place like it for replacing one’s wardrobe and seeing old friends.”

Mrs. Moore’s horse tossed its head. The woman frowned but said nothing.

Elizabeth supposed London would be a very different place for a widow without friends or financial means, though it was obvious Mrs. Moore could use a new wardrobe.

She tried a change of subject. “Have you always lived in the country, Mrs. Moore?”

“I spent some months in Plymouth when I was a girl.”

“What were you doing there?”

“Oh—learning dance steps and deportment.”

“You like to dance? That’s famous! Miss Latimer was wondering whether to get up an informal dance; I shall insist that she do so.”

Mrs. Moore’s eyes flared with alarm. “Oh, please don’t go to such trouble on my behalf.” Elizabeth watched, intrigued, as her face went blank, her voice flat. “It’s difficult for me to get away in the evenings.”

Mrs. Moore turned her mount around, and they rejoined the boys.

How strange, thought Deborah. Such slight acquaintance as Mrs. Dusseau claimed with Miss Latimer would hardly justify a two-week visit, particularly when the latter was spending most of every day with her betrothed. And Alexander’s presence compounded the enigma. There were no children at Whately Manor, after all.

Surely, it was not possible that Evan’s sister had journeyed to Whately to meet
her
?

Over the next week or so, Deborah found herself a great deal in Mrs. Dusseau’s company. On some days she and Julian walked to the Manor, on others Alexander and his mother joined them at the cottage. They rode, sometimes with the children, but sometimes alone while Jeremy gave the boys riding lessons in the paddock. They walked or sewed while the boys did other sorts of lessons with Alexander’s nurse, an inestimable woman named Miss Halley, who took them for nature walks on clement days and spun stories from around the globe on rainy ones.

At the conclusion of one of Miss Halley’s tales, Deborah sighed. She picked up the mending that had lain forgotten in her lap. “How I wish there had been someone like Miss Halley when I was small.”

If she had thought first, she would never have said it.

Her remark gave Mrs. Dusseau an opening to ask uncomfortable questions about her girlhood. Questions like, “What was your nurse like, then?”

Deborah looked at her for a moment, wondering what to say. Then she shook her head. “There was just Mama.”

Mrs. Dusseau talked freely about her own youth as she worked her embroidery, telling stories that astonished her listener. Most beguiling, naturally, were those that involved Evan.

Deborah worried that her face would give her away and longed for each one to end, but was cross when they did.

“My own poor nurse earned her keep, without a doubt. She raised all four of us, together with various governesses and tutors, but I was the most troublesome. When she finally retired, I’m sure I could have heard her sigh of relief from London, if I’d known just when to listen.” Her expression sobered. “Dear Laney. She didn’t get to enjoy it for long.” But then she was bubbling again, her face so clear and bright Deborah could hardly pull her gaze away.

“I ran away when I was about twelve. We had such a fight, Laney and I, and Mama supported her. I can’t even recall what it was about, but I’m sure she was right. My friend and I snuck into the stables when we thought no one was looking, saddled our ponies, and rode off. I don’t even remember where we thought we were going. But Melanie didn’t get her saddle cinched tight enough, and before we ever got off our own land, she fell.”

“Good gracious,” Deborah exclaimed, captivated as much by the woman as by her story. “Was she injured?”

Mrs. Dusseau nodded as she threaded her needle with peacock-blue silk. “She sprained her ankle. She couldn’t walk, and she wouldn’t get back on the pony. And I didn’t want to face whatever gruesome punishment might await me at home. We argued for what seemed like hours until we were desperately hungry. We hadn’t even taken any food, can you imagine? And then Evan appeared, riding over the hillside. One of the grooms told him what we’d done, and he came to find us.” She shook her head, chuckling, while the blood rose to Deborah’s cheeks. “Poor Evan. Melanie and I argued all the way home, and still he tried to take the blame.”

Deborah ducked her head and focused on her stitches but not in time to hide her blush. “What was the punishment?”

“Oh, my parents knew the truth of the matter all along. They just laughed at me, which of course, made me angrier still.”

Mrs. Dusseau’s openness made Deborah feel some obligation to respond in kind. Indeed, she
wanted
to, for she liked Evan’s sister very much. But it was a behavior that was essentially foreign to her, and often she was not as forthcoming as she herself wished.

The new acquaintance was uncomfortable in other ways as well. In the middle of refusing a dinner invitation from Miss Latimer, Mrs. Dusseau interrupted Deborah to say, “Oh, you
must
come, Mrs. Moore. I don’t know anyone in Whately but the viscount and Miss Latimer. I’ll feel quite lost without you.”

Deborah felt obliged to go. But as she expected, Mrs. Dusseau showed no sign of needing her. It was only a small group, by anyone’s standards except Deborah’s, comprised mostly of Restons. It was as comfortable a situation as she could have asked for, yet she felt out of place, like Romeo among the Capulets but without a mask to hide behind. She began to wish she had never met any Haverfields at all.

Elizabeth Dusseau

Whately Manor

March 12, 1817

Philip, my sweet,

I trust you are finding the fortitude to struggle on without me. It was rotten of me to steal Nurse from you, but I am sure that you and Betsy, between you, are managing to keep the girls out of harm, if not out of mischief! Betsy was excited to be given more to do with the children than simply clean up after them; she shows great promise, don’t you think?

Regarding Evan’s affairs, I believe it is time to put inquiries in motion. I was rather hoping to find this widow of his ugly, boorish, and loathsome. I’d prefer not to earn the family’s hatred for supporting a match they are bound to find unsuitable in every way. But sadly for me, I like her very much. Few people would use ‘Deborah Moore’ and ‘levity’ in the same sentence—though I have just done so!—but she is not dour, as someone here described her. I would call her sober and very disciplined.

She is sadly intimidated by rank and is quiet to a fault in company, which can generate a perception of severity, or perhaps even haughtiness. It is false, however. She is intelligent and good-hearted, and though she knows little about politics and less about art or music, she is well able to discuss science and nature and literature and history and education. Unfortunately, she is too shy to do so. And she has no small talk at all.

Before I proceed to a first-name basis or have any communication on the subject with Evan (assuming he ever emerges from whatever hole he’s hidden himself in), I must be sure that her breeding is not totally impossible. She dislikes speaking about her family—I gather her father is a monster, and I have been unable to extract his given name or any pertinent information about her mother. Given her reluctance, I have not tried very hard. But the surname is Carlington, in the vicinity of Lydford, in Devonshire. She had an aunt, Matilda—her mother’s sister, I believe—who appears to have had great influence.

Do find out what you can and let me have word as soon as may be. It will be a fine excuse for you to write, not that you need any; in fact, I expect a letter from you much sooner, bearing news of the girls and your undying love.

Enclosing mine—

Elizabeth

“Mama! We found a snowdrop!” Julian exclaimed, trotting into the parlor where Deborah and Mrs. Dusseau sat stitching. “At least,” he added conscientiously, “Miss Halley says it
will
be a snowdrop when the flower grows.” Alexander and his nurse followed him into the room.

“How lovely. Where did you find it?” Deborah was relieved to note that Miss Halley had made sure the shoes of all three were brushed clean before entering the cottage; fields and lanes alike were deep in spring mud. Pelleas must have been left outdoors or in the kitchen.

“Under a tree by the river. Miss Halley says we can go back tomorrow or the next day and see the flower.”

Alexander made a disgusted sound. “
Flowers
,” he groused. “
I
made a stone skip
three times
.” Julian looked abashed.

Mrs. Dusseau clapped her hands together. “I never could skip stones to save my life.”

Deborah admired the way she so adroitly praised her own son while making Julian feel better about falling short. “Neither could I.” She had never tried, but she didn’t say so.

Alexander’s companionship was transforming her son into a quite different child. He had so little intercourse with others his age that concepts like competition were alien to him. If
“Miss Halley says”
had become Julian’s new byword, “
Alex can”
surely ran a close second:
Alex can
jump his pony over a fence (albeit a very small one),
Alex can
climb way high in the chestnut tree,
Alex can
stand on his head, and do cartwheels.

When he bewailed his inadequacies at the end of a long, tiring day, Deborah pointed out that Julian could read far better than his friend, which was some small comfort. And Mr. Haverfield had taught Julian some card games his own nephew did not know, to contribute to their entertainment on rainy days.

Deborah’s feelings toward Alexander’s mother were similarly ambivalent. Mrs. Dusseau was like some foreign creature embodying all the happy traits she herself lacked. She was open and warm, talkative but always interested in what others had to say, comfortable in any company, and seemed always to be happy.

The days passed in a whirl, and each evening ended with a
whew
of relief. Deborah wanted time to reflect on this radical, if temporary, upheaval in their lives. Time to remember Evan’s face and the feel of his hands, to recall all the reasons she could not have him, to ponder the wisdom of friendship with his sister. But by the time she saw her bed at night, she was too tired to do anything but fall into it.

They enjoyed picnic lunches with the boys or took Mrs. Dusseau’s carriage to the next town for some shopping. One day they braved the dangers of a nearby fair, treating Alexander and Julian to a taste of the low life. There they drew the line at
A Giant, with All His Giant Parts on Display
, but paid the ha’penny fee to see a cat with two heads and a pig that could count, and they purchased several little books from the traveling chapman. In the daytime, with Mrs. Dusseau’s coachman and groom keeping an eye on things in the background, it seemed a grand adventure for all of them.

As they made their way to the carriage, Deborah realized Mrs. Dusseau had been calling her “Deborah” for most of the afternoon.

More prosaically, the women spent a good deal of time sewing. Elizabeth was embroidering a set of napkins for Miss Latimer’s wedding present. They looked very elaborate and ambitious to Deborah, who was a good enough seamstress but knew nothing of decorative stitchery. She spent her time on clothing for Julian, who was suddenly accumulating holes and stains in the garments he had not already outgrown.