Lois Menzel (10 page)

“Waking and sleeping.”

“You were in battles in Spain. They faded with time.”

“Yes. But without sight, without the opportunity to see your lovely face, or a sunset, or the rise of a bird from the undergrowth, I find that all I see are those same scenes over and over again. The face of my friend George Wainwright as he died in my arms, the broken and bleeding bodies of the men in my command, the thick smoke, the noise, the carnage caused by volley after volley of heavy artillery . . .”

His voice trailed off, and for a long moment neither spoke. Finally Celia could bear the silence no longer. “How can I help?” she asked.

“Take me for a drive.”

“Tony says you have never been driven by a woman.”

“True enough. But as long as I cannot see, it should not be too terrifying for me.”

She smiled despite the gravity of their earlier conversation. “You are cruel, sir.”

He seemed to consider. “Perhaps. I will decide that when the drive is over.”

“Then we will go now, before you change your mind,” she said. “I will order the carriage and be back for you in ten minutes. You will need a coat. There is a chill in the air.”

She was gone before he could reply. He rang for Gregson to fetch his greatcoat and was waiting at the top of the stairway when Celia came from her room. He offered his arm, which she took, and with his opposite hand on the handrail they descended the stairs together.

The carriage with the bay horses was already waiting outside. When Celia stopped beside the phaeton, Wexford said, “Allow me to hand you up, Miss Demming.”

“Thank you, my lord,” she said as she took his arm for balance and climbed into the carriage.

As he walked unassisted around the back to the other side, he asked, “What vehicle is this?”

“It is your old phaeton, my lord,” the groom answered. “Mr. Anthony thought it would do for the young lady.”

“I am surprised the mice have not eaten it through.”

“Not at all,” Celia said. “It polished up beautifully and is most respectable.”

As Wexford pulled himself up and settled beside her, she said, “Where shall I drive you, sir?”

“I shall direct you, Miss Demming, to one of the most charming drives in the neighborhood. That is, if Tony has not already taken you there. We shall not need you, Shale.”

The groom released the horses and stepped aside as they moved past him. Celia could see from his expression that he would have preferred to accompany them, but she could say nothing to contradict Lord Wexford’s orders.

“Turn left outside the gates. In a mile when the road divides, take the left fork. Has Tony taken you that way?”

“No. I do not believe so.”

They drove for more than an hour. He directed, and as she described the landmarks, he pointed out each farm, each hillside, each tree that held a memory of Tony. “We went sledding there one year after a heavy snowfall. . . . Do you see the tall elm that overhangs the water meadow? Tony fell from that one when he was about ten. I told him not to climb it.”

During the entire drive, they never once spoke of the army or of Waterloo. When they had arrived home and were ascending the stairs together, she asked, “Will you drive with me again?”

“Certainly. I was not frightened in the least.”

She turned to see him smiling, and then added impulsively, “Come down after dinner tonight. All of your friends miss you. Each night someone mentions that the gathering is not the same without you.” They had reached the top of the stairs; she turned and placed both hands on his arm. “Please say yes. I will come up and fetch you myself after dinner.”

Her voice was so eager, her grip so insistent that he yielded to her entreaty. “All right. I will come down, but I won’t bide till the wee hours as you all do.”

“Certainly not. No one would expect it. Till after dinner, then.”

Celia left him at the door to his room. He looked tired. She hoped he would rest.

Celia had missed luncheon, but she was not hungry. She collected the yarn she had purchased on her drive with Anthony and hurried downstairs to join the other ladies in the India sitting room. It was given this name for good reason. The carved furnishings and brightly colored wall hangings, even the carpets and ivory knickknacks were Indian, collected and displayed by a younger Lady Walsh during her period of enchantment with India and all things Indian. Celia suspected that some of the carpets, in particular, were very valuable. They certainly were beautiful.

The other ladies were all there before her: Lady Walsh, Lady Aylesbury, Lady Matlock, and Emily Crowther. Ursula, who often joined the party in the evening, seldom visited in the afternoon.

“You are late, my dear,” Lady Aylesbury remarked, “Could it be that you were driving with my nephew?”

Celia smiled resignedly. It seemed to her that nothing in the household escaped the viscountess’s notice, “I was indeed. How did you know?”

“I saw you leaving myself, from the window in the salon.”

Noticing the very beginning of a knitting project in Celia’s lap, Emily Crowther asked, “What is that you are starting, Miss Demming, a muffler?”

“No, indeed. I am starting a sock.” Four pairs of eyes were lifted toward her.

Lady Matlock said, “How curious. I have never made a sock.”

“Nor I,” Emily added. “I would not know how.”

“I did not know, either,” Celia replied, “but I asked Mrs. Beebe, and she gave me a few quick instructions. Then I borrowed this sample from one of Lord Walsh’s grooms.” She held up a coarse gray sock, well-worn but clean. “I don’t think it will be too difficult.”

“Who is Mrs. Beebe?” Lady Matlock asked.

“The matron at the Little Graydon children’s home,” Lady Walsh answered. “I assume you plan the socks for the children, Celia,” she continued. “Is the need great?”

“It is, my lady. Most of the ones they have are worn into holes; some of the older children have none at all.”

Lady Walsh nodded her head knowingly. “If you give me some yarn and teach me the pattern, I will help you.”

Emily Crowther looked down at the delicate silk embroidery in her lap. “I promised this pillow covering to my aunt, but as soon as it is finished, you must teach me as well.”

Celia possessed an evening gown fashioned of deep emerald satin. Her mother had ordered it to be made up during the campaign for Lord Trevanian. Since he was rumored to fancy green, Mrs. Demming hoped he might admire Celia in this particular shade. Celia had never worn the gown. When it was finished and she tried it on, her mother declared it to be “too fast” and hung it away in the wardrobe.

Celia wondered now why her mother had sent it along. Perhaps now that Celia was safely engaged, the frugal Mrs. Demming thought the dress could see some use.

Celia took it from the wardrobe and fingered the sleek satin. If she was honest, she had to admit that she had never cared for the pale pinks, soft yellows, and several tones of white that her mother felt suitable to her position. She had been thrilled when her mother chose this particular fabric and downcast when she was not permitted to wear it.

Since that first horrible evening when she could not decide what to wear, she had simply instructed Wylie to lay out something appropriate. Now she carefully spread the emerald dress across the foot of her bed. Tonight she would choose for herself. She would wear the emerald gown.

When Wylie entered the room some minutes later and saw the gown, she said, “You will wear this tonight, Miss Celia?”

“Yes. If you think it suitable.”

“It is most beautiful, miss.”

Celia had to agree. Once the dress was on and her hair carefully arranged, she felt sophisticated indeed. In the corridor outside her room, she met Mr. Hardy on his way downstairs.

He stopped and bowed, a smile lighting his handsome face. “How lovely you look this evening, Miss Demming. May I escort you down?”

“I would be delighted, sir,” she replied as she linked her arm in his.

Most of the houseguests were already gathered in the drawing room when Celia and John Hardy made their entrance. When they came in, all heads turned in their direction and conversation ceased. For one lowering moment, Celia thought she had made a dreadful mistake in wearing the emerald dress. It did not occur to her to consider what a stunning couple she and her handsome, impeccably dressed companion made.

When Anthony came toward them, her concerns fled. There was no disapproval in his eyes, only admiration. “How beautiful you look tonight, Celia. What a striking gown!” Then, with a glance at his cousin, he added, “And you, John, are no less splendid; you cast us all in the shade.”

Mr. Hardy surrendered Celia to Tony, and then brushed an imaginary speck from his dark sleeve. “One must not allow one’s standards to slip, dearest Anthony, even in the country.”

Then as John was about to walk away, Celia detained him. “Please wait, Mr. Hardy. There is something I wanted both you and Anthony to be aware of. Today, when I was with Lord Wexford, he said that he might come down to join the company after dinner tonight. If he does, I think it is important for your guests to know that they should not mention the recent hostilities. He told me that it is all he thinks about, all he sees in his mind’s eye. He even dreams of the battle. He needs relief from that; he needs to think of other things, speak of other things.”

“I will be certain that everyone is aware,” John replied. “And thank you, Miss Demming, you have accomplished what Tony and I could not.”

“I am not sure he will come,” she said, “but I am hoping he will. I told him I would come myself to fetch him after dinner.”

When the dinner had concluded, the ladies adjourned to the drawing room, leaving the gentlemen to their port. Shortly thereafter, Celia excused herself and went upstairs to see if Lord Wexford was still willing to come down. When she arrived outside his door, it stood half open. From inside she could hear Wexford’s voice raised impatiently, “Go away, Gregson, this task is beyond your ability.”

Celia stepped into the open doorway and knocked lightly on the door. She saw instantly what the problem was. Gregson was attempting to tie the Wexford’s neckcloth. From the pile of discarded attempts on the floor beside them, it was clear he had met with difficulty.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” she asked as the valet turned toward the door.

“Good evening, Miss Demming,” Wexford said as he pulled off the latest ruined neckcloth and cast it aside like the others.

“I am so pleased you have decided to come down,” she said pleasantly, as she walked into the room. “Here. Allow me to help you with that.” Gregson folded another neckcloth and positioned it about the viscount’s neck.

“I can do it from this point, Gregson,” she said. “I occasionally help my father with this task. I can do only one simple style, but I flatter myself that the result is respectable.”

As Celia stepped forward to take the cloth into her own hands, Wexford said, “You may go, Gregson.”

“And your coat, my lord?”

“Miss Demming will help me.”

“Very good, sir.”

Gregson then disappeared into the adjoining dressing room.

Celia concentrated on her work, her fingers pressing delicate creases into the starched muslin. “Now, if you will stand quite still, my lord, I believe I can accomplish something that will satisfy you. You will note I say satisfy, not please, for my skills, as I said, have their limits. I must warn you, however, that your cousin, Mr. Hardy, will outshine you tonight. He has a splendid waterfall this evening.”

He burst out laughing. “I have always stood in John’s magnificent shadow, ma’am. That will be nothing new.” Then more seriously he added, “You are quite amazing, you know.”

Her fingers paused as she looked from her task up into his face. “And how is that, my lord?”

“I was ready to forget the whole evening when you arrived. Now here you have me wondering how I shall measure up to John.”

“I do not think a single one of your friends will even notice your cravat, my lord. You have come home safely, and that is all they care about.”

He grew silent while she continued with her task. When she stood so close, he could tell more precisely how tall she was from the direction of her voice. There was a rustling of her gown as it brushed his legs, and a hint of lavender rose from her hair.

“What color is your hair?” he asked.

Her fingers hesitated again, as she looked up in surprise. “Auburn, dark auburn.”

“And your eyes?”

“Green, slightly gray in some light.”

He nodded and said nothing more.

When Celia had finished, she said, “There, I have done. Now, feel for yourself and see if I have done a fair job.”

He raised his hand carefully and fingered the neckcloth. “A fair job indeed. Better than fair—an excellent effort.”

“And you will not be ashamed to be seen by your friends?”

“Not at all.”

“Good. Then we should go down. Where is your coat? Ah, here it is.”

She collected his dark blue coat from the back of a chair and stood behind him as he slipped it on. Then she came around to the front to set it properly on his shoulders. She could see that it was still too big, for although the pallor of his face was diminishing a little each day, he did not appear to have gained any weight.

Satisfied with the set of the coat, she said, “If I could have your arm, my lord.”

He offered it, and they went downstairs together. The gentlemen had joined the ladies by that time, and Celia noticed that they were all careful not to overwhelm Wexford when he entered. They came up to speak with him one or two at a time. She heard no one mention Waterloo.

Ursula had not joined the company for dinner, but Celia noticed that she was now present. In the first minutes after Celia returned with Wexford, she noticed Ursula sitting alone in the window seat. She smiled a greeting across the room and thought she saw tears in Ursula’s eyes. No doubt she had strong feelings for Wexford, as indeed she had for Anthony and the entire family.

John Hardy, standing alone near the fireplace, also noticed Ursula’s distress. He crossed the room and sat beside her, offering his handkerchief.