Quiet Meg (13 page)

“Bertie-what did the marquis want?”

Bertie glanced at the floor, straightened his cuffs, and
cleared his throat.

“Just … a small matter . . ” His gaze shot to her face
and steady regard. “Dash it all, Meggie! You’re not ‘sposed
to know!”

“If it concerns me, Bertie, don’t you think I should know?”

“I hate it when you sound like father!” he objected.
“‘Tisn’t… ‘tisn’t natural, Meg” But he told her, “Sutcliffe’s men have been following him all day. They’ve been
watchin’ the house from across the street. Lord Hayden saw
them arrive just after he did.”

“Why would Sutcliffe hound the marquis? He cannot hope to intimidate every person in London who dares speak
with me. .”

“Lord Hayden was followed from Cabot’s, Meg”

Abruptly she sat down on a hall chair.

“Bertie … Bertie, I must not be hemmed in so. I have
not set foot outside this house for two weeks now without
Annie and Aunt Pru and Lucy and Louisa and half a dozen
grooms! One more packed evening party or tedious reading
and I vow I shall embarrass all of you. At least in Walesat least with Aunt Bitty, Sutcliffe did not know where I was.
But here! There might as well be bars around this house.
And for him to pursue our acquaintance! I shall go mad.
Bertie, you must help me ..

She had not been aware of wringing her hands until
Bertie clasped them.

“Calm yourself, Meggie. Father and I have seen to it.
We’ve had Paloma and my Sam brought to town. They’re
quartered over at Ferrell’s near the park. We’ll go riding
first thing tomorrow morning. Father says as long as we
vary the time and the place we need take only one groom.
‘Tis little enough, I know, but ‘tis something. Father says
no one can catch you on Paloma anyway.”

Cabot on Arcturus can, Meg almost advised him. But she
kept that knowledge to herself, and welcomed the prospect
of escape.

Daily rides restored her to some passing contentment.
Several times she and Bertie left before dawn from the
back of the house, only returning when screened by tradesmens’ or grocers’ deliveries later in the morning. Defeating Sutcliffe’s cordon lent Meg a heady sense of satisfaction.
Only the absence of Charles Cabot spoiled her happiness,
but she could not very well bemoan what she had determined was her preference.

She and Lucy joined Louisa each day to pose for Monsieur LeBecque, who was painting their portrait for their
father. Aunt Pru had thought it time to reprise the family
grouping she displayed in her hall, and the three girls had
agreed enthusiastically. Sir Eustace would be surprised and
pleased; the painting was also a charming way to commemorate Lucy’s season. So most mornings Meg and Lucy
departed for almost two hours, telling their father they were
exploring London, which in some manner they were-if
only by driving past a number of landmarks in transit.

“We shall make certain you see everything properly
later, Lucy,” Louisa told her. “There is plenty of time” And
Lucy, still enraptured with the city’s many offerings, had
not objected.

This morning, though, Monsieur LeBecque had claimed
he had other tasks to which to attend; they would see on the
morrow, he boasted, how very well the portrait progressed.
Though Aunt Pru and Lucy had rushed eagerly to an additional fitting at the dressmaker’s, Meg had stayed behind. A
family outing to Vauxhall was planned for that evening, so
she was just as glad to rest undisturbed at home.

Vauxhall would unfortunately be associated forever in
her memory with her own painfully curtailed season three
years before. But her father had planned the evening’s entertainment himself, and Meg reasoned that if Sir Eustace
could tolerate it for Lucy’s sake, then she could as well.
Nothing untoward would occur, for she would remain close to her family. Vauxhall gardens, after all, had never been
the problem; the problem had been two deceitful, envious
girls-and Lord Sutcliffe.

Meg opened the piano in the drawing room and started
to play. She had played often on her Aunt Bitty’s upright in
Tenby. Her Aunt Pru, though not a pianist herself, had a finer
instrument-one of the newest and grandest pianofortes.
Anticipating that, Meg had brought her music with her, but
she reminded herself to visit Hatchard’s for more. She would
look for one piece in particular.

She slowly picked out the tune of the waltz she had
danced with Cabot the previous week. One lilting section
in a minor key had remained with her, haunting her. She
found it now, slowly, one note at a time, even as she heard
Thwaite admit a visitor to the hall. As footsteps passed the
open door Meg stopped and glanced up from the keyboard.
Cabot stood silently, listening, in the doorway.

At first she meant to rise from the piano bench-she
wanted to run to him. But in the same instant reason stayed
her. He looked at her steadily; he would have heard what
she played, yet he did not appear to recall the tune with any
joy. As Meg’s fingers abandoned the keys to seek the sanctuary of her lap, she remembered she wore only a simple
shift and that she had not put up her hair. She was at home,
after all. No one called before noon.

“I have come to see your father,” he said at last, and
paused. Her whole body welcomed his voice. “Regarding
Selboume.”

At his pause, Meg’s breathing had stilled. It resumed in
relief with his “regarding Selbourne.” She could not want
Cabot’s offer. Though as he stood there observing her, she thought only of whirling through the waltz, she did not
want his offer. An offer would mean only the worst for him.

Abruptly he bowed and continued toward the library.
Once Meg heard her father’s greeting, she rose from the piano bench and quickly crossed the room to shut the doors.
Let Cabot believe her such a dedicated instrumentalist that
she did not wish another interruption. Let him think her
rude. She could not bear that he should stop again.

For the next half an hour Meg dedicated herself to her
practice, all the while listening for more than the music.
When the footsteps returned they paused briefly at the closed
double doors. But Meg bravely continued, until Cabot did as
well.

When at last she heard him depart, she placed her hands
to her cheeks. He must not make plans-he must not risk
so much. And her palms touched tears.

Their party to Vauxhall was a merry one. They traveled in
two carriages, to accommodate Sir Eustace and his chair,
and though they were only seven they managed to sound
like a circus.

Aunt Pru must have suspected how it would be, for she
had cried off at the last minute, claiming that though she did
not yet have a megrim she was destined to have one soon.
Sir Eustace had teased her about wanting to have her house
to herself again, and much too early in the season. Aunt Pru
had shushed him and sent the party off with a picnic hamper
of delights from her chef in case, she told Sir Eustace, the
ham at Vauxhall proved too thin for him.

On arrival, Lucy insisted that they promenade as much of
the central square as possible in the evening light, though
why she should have been so adamant when she and Amanda
seemed most intent on gossiping was a major mystery.
Their group stayed to hear part of the summer’s first concert in the concert hall, then ambled on to the busy colonnades
to find the supper box Sir Eustace had reserved. There they
reposed themselves away from the crowds, to sip punch and
await the darkness, for the main event was to be Lucy’s introduction to Vauxhall’s vaunted illuminations.

“Do you think there will be fireworks as well, Papa?”
she asked.

“So they tell me, Lucinda-if it does not rain. You must
speak to someone else about that possibility.” Sir Eustace’s
attention settled on Amanda. “I saw your parents, Miss
Burke, in a box just down the way as we came up. It was
kind of them to lend us your company this evening”

The girl mumbled an acknowledgement and hurriedly
sipped some punch as Sir Eustace’s gaze narrowed on her
impatiently.

“We have enough room here to entertain two more of
Lucy’s friends this evening,” Bertie remarked. “Is that your
intention, father?”

“My intention, Bertram, is to please myself this evening,
since I am out so rarely. With the permission of my family I
hope to entertain some of my friends tonight.”

“Then we could have done with fewer chairs!” Bertie
claimed, whereupon Sir Eustace threatened to let him walk
home.

Meg was delighted to see her father in such good spirits.
She thought he looked better than he had in weeks, and she
had hopes that the melancholy that had troubled him since
his accident would recur less frequently. This evening she
had hopes for herself as well, for after the unexpected sight
of Cabot she had had difficulty dispelling a dark mood of
her own.

The music from the concert hall drifted languidly across
the square. Within the shelter of the supper box the ladies
did not need their wraps. For mid-May, it was warm. Louisa
and Ferrell returned from a brief visit with friends to join the
rest of them for the meal-delicious cold ham and chicken,
delicate shrimp rolls from Aunt Pru’s chef and a lavish selection of breads, rolls, jellies, fruits and pastries. Meg made
a point of nibbling whenever her father looked her way. But
thankfully he seemed to have decided to let her be. She sat
quietly, like Amanda, and listened happily to the music.

As he finished his meal, Sir Eustace looked to Louisa.

“Well, Mrs. Ferrell, have you something to tell your
family?”

Louisa, who had always been a very composed young
lady, turned bright red.

“Papa!” she cried. She had not called him `papa’ for
years-“How did you know?”

“Louisa my dear, you are the image of your mother, who
gave me four children. Quod Brat demonstrandum. That is
how I know!”

Ferrell laughed and moved to kiss his astonished wife on
the cheek. Drawing a startled breath, Meg leaned toward
her sister.

“Louisa … dearest,” she said. “What wonderful news ..

Bertie and Lucy were a few seconds slower to comprehend, but Lucy was soon babbling with delight about her
niece or nephew, and all the activities she planned for the
new arrival.

“The babe is not to be a playmate for you, Lucy,” Sir Eustace drawled. “You and Miss Burke must amuse each other
for a while yet”

Bertie, having thumped Ferrell heavily and repeatedly
on the back, surrendered him to Meg.

“Thomas…” Meg kissed him on the cheek. “You knew
last week, didn’t you? At Almack’s-when Louisa did not
dance?”

He nodded.

“I must be thankful you and Sir Eustace do not sit with
the opposition, Meg. ‘Twould be impossible to divert you”

“What of Aunt Pru?” Louisa asked. “We’d wanted to
wait until we were all in company.”

“Your aunt is knitting woollies this minute,” Sir Eustace
said. “She thought it best she begin preparations at once.”

“Oh lord,” Bertie groaned. “I think I shall have to take
myself back to Selbourne, father. ‘Twill be impossible to
discuss anything else from now until”-he paused, and
looked to Louisa-“when?”

Again she blushed.

“October,” she said.

“Selbourne it is then, father,” Bertie said. “I shall help
Cabot’s crew finish the terracing.”

“That would be a salutary way to occupy your time,
Bertram,” Sir Eustace remarked. “Though we would miss
your company.” He paused. “Speaking of Mr. Cabot-I
note he is visiting in the boxes across the way.” Meg’s
gaze immediately shot to the other side of the square. “He
told me he would be attending this evening. I have invited
him to join us later-if he is so inclined.”

“But father,” Meg protested at once. “Mr. Cabot is..

I must be permitted to invite whom I choose to my own
party! Do you have any objection, Margaret, other than his
occupation? His boots look clean enough this evening.”

Her father, it seemed, would not easily forget what she
had said to Cabot at Selbourne. But he did not understand.
And Meg noticed Bertie’s raised eyebrows and Lucy’s puzzlement. No doubt they wondered how she could take any
exception to Cabot, having waltzed with him as she had.

“No, sir,” she said through dry lips. “I have no objection
to Mr. Cabot.”

Her father surveyed her pale face, then turned his attention again to their feast. Despite the resumption of excited
conversation, Meg’s anxiety returned. She seemed never to
experience anything good or pleasant without a consequent
oppression.

She abandoned any effort to eat, sipping punch alone as
she scanned the boxes opposite. In the dusk the lights were
coming on, in the magical display so associated with Vauxhall and so evocative of an imaginative, twinkling fairyland. At last her seeking gaze found Cabot’s distinctive
blond head-next to an equally distinctive red one.

“I feel sorry for her,” Louisa said of the Comtesse d’Avigne, who appeared to be sitting nearly in Cabot’s lap. “I
cannot comprehend, Meg, what it must be like to marry
without love. Aunt Pru said the comtesse was wed at seventeen. Her father gambled-as well as her husband, it
seems-and practically sold her.”