Seacliff (30 page)

There it was! she thought. A warning:
Mind your tongue, woman, or you’ll be the worse for it; watch who you talk to and watch what you say. Remember, Caitlin Morgan, you’ll still be here when they have all gone for the evening.

She looked down the staircase at the center hall, and Oliver placed her left hand on his right arm.

“Shall we?” he said.

She nodded, partly to avoid talking to him as she was made breathless by the sight below. She had been in her rooms the entire day, bathing, dressing, letting Gwen natter about as she did her hair, and she hadn’t seen the decorations set into place. She’d only told her husband she wanted this to be a day the village would never forget.

And by the looks of things—her own escapade notwithstanding— her request had been met.

In the center of the hall a massive candle tree of oak fashioned into the shape of an evergreen had been erected, and on each branch a dozen candles burned brightly. With at least two dozen branches, it put forth a glare of soft white light that resembled a miniature sunrise, and its luster bathed the standards and portraits, the tapestries and paneling until they were transformed magically into shimmering jewels. There were flowers, too, in great eye-catching bouquets set on tables around the room; some were lashed to the banister and rose all the way to the gallery. She reached out to caress the blossoms as she descended, and fixed her gaze on the flaming tree, her heart thudding excitedly in her chest. She found herself grabbing Oliver’s arm with both hands and just as they reached the bottom step, the Reverend Lynne stepped out of the sitting room and looked up.

He gestured violently to the others as his face creased into a welcoming smile. Within moments all chatter had ceased, and the music faded into silence.

Caitlin faltered.

Oliver took another step, paused and glanced at her. “Are you well, my dear?”

She wanted to return the smile, but her lips would not hold it. “I … it’s all so grand!”

Self-satisfied, Oliver nodded. “It is that, and it is more, Caitlin.” He looked down at the vicar, anxiously shifting from one foot to the other. “Come, my dear.”

She did not know if she could do it. All this grandeur, all this work done by people who could have slit Oliver’s throat without blinking, and she was planning to ruin it. At least, that’s how it would look until Orin managed to explain what had really happened. But what if he never got the chance? What if she herself failed, was caught before she left the house? Or worse, just as she was nearing her goal? Why didn’t she think Flint would send a dozen, a score, a hundred men after her? Why did she believe she would be able to outrun them all and make it safely down the coast to Cardiff?

Oliver grew impatient. He smiled placatingly at the vicar, then tugged lightly on her hands. “Caitlin, this is not the way to behave in front of your guests.”

She wanted to yank her hands away, to grab her skirts and race back to her room. Her plan was impossible. She saw that now. She was a fool for thinking any of it would work. Oliver couldn’t be duped by something so daring and treasonous; he would see through her the moment she stepped into the room and was faced with the earnest greetings of all those people. He would see the desperation in her eyes, feel the trembling in her arms. He would know, and he would kill her for it. “Caitlin—”

She made her gasp sound like a coughing spell.

James Flint had come from the dining room, and was smiling up at her. Like Oliver he wore black velvet and silver; unlike her husband, his hair was still his own. He had brushed it straight back from his forehead and caught it in a narrow black ribbon at the nape of his neck. He carried a goblet in one hand, and raised it to her in a silent, mocking toast. Then he swerved around the candle tree and crossed to the vicar, leaned over and whispered a few words into his ear. Lynne seemed startled for a moment, nodded once, and disappeared into the edges of the crowd that was forming near the doorway.

Flint looked up again, his smile never wavering. “Is there something I can do, Sir Oliver?”

Oliver shook his head and scowled. “Caitlin, I really must insist.”

Stall, she ordered herself; stall until you can find all the courage you’ve stored away in such abundance.

She glanced down at her bosom and crossed a hand over its exposed swells. “Oliver, I think I have made a terrible mistake.”

“Caitlin, what in heaven’s name are you talking about?”

She let her hands flutter down over the bodice to the skirts and back again. “This… this gown. It’s not right; it’s too French. I know you disapprove of such things, and I should have—”

He yanked her down to his step and held her left hand so tightly she nearly cried out in pain. “Christ, Caitlin, this is foolishness. I kept a close eye on that witch, Shamac, all the while she was making this bewitching extravagance. Had I disapproved I would have instructed her to make the proper alterations. If it’s your vanity you’re concerned about, forget it. I have never denied your beauty, and I shall not do so now. You are lovely, the gown is lovely, and nothing would lead me to say otherwise.”

“Thank you, Oliver,” she said, lowering her gaze.

“Don’t thank me,” he said. “Just let’s be on with it. Were it not for you, I would not choose to be with these… these peasants this evening, and I certainly do not intend to do so on my own. In other words, Caitlin, I have no intention of making excuses for you. This is your birthday, and this is your party, and, may I remind you, this is your idea. Have I made myself clear? Caitlin, am I getting through to you?”

But she had stopped listening.

Flint had turned around to greet a woman who had left the sitting room, a woman dressed in a gown whose neckline exposed the tips of her rouged nipples; whose bosom was so whitely powdered that tiny flakes floated to the bodice of her gown when she moved quickly. The woman’s hair was so ridiculously entwined around what looked from Caitlin’s view to be a small cage of some kind that she seemed ready to tip over from the weight of it. It was so blatantly a copy of the French queen’s style, and so glaringly out of place—and would have been even in London—that Caitlin almost laughed.

The woman was Morag Burton, and Flint’s ogling was so coarse and false that Caitlin thought she would choke.

“Caitlin!”

“I hear you, Oliver,” she said stiffly.

Peasants and whores, she thought. It was just what she needed to draw herself up, lift her chin, and take Oliver’s offered arm. And as if she’d needed further goading, she spotted Nate Birwyn standing just out of sight from the gallery, down the corridor toward the back. He was well dressed, but unlike the other men he had tucked a brace of pistols in his waistband. If Birwyn was armed, she knew there were others with weapons, also.

Suddenly the evening’s pleasure took on an entirely different hue.

23

S
he walked into a fairyland.

On the far wall great pine logs had been piled on the andirons and their blaze climbed high beyond view into the chimney. Most of the tapestries had been taken down for the evening to protect them from candle smoke and wax, and from the excesses of the guests. In their places tall mirrors had been hung, framed in filigree-carved walnut and covered with gleaming gold leaf. They were all the same shape—thin and rectangular—and their reflections multiplied the tapers in their candelabra and in their polished pewter sconces by the hundreds. It was as if she had walked into a cavern of tiny flames, each of them fragile and imbued with gemlike beauty. They softened, too, the faces of her guests, enshrouding their winter-harsh countenances in a delicate mask of transparent silk.

The guests applauded when they saw her.

It came as a rippling sound from the front of the crowd as she walked with Oliver through the doorway. Then, as the quartet of musicians—violins and flutes—struck up a touching, original fanfare, the applause spread and expanded its volume until the walls and mirrors trembled at their moorings. Then came the easiest gesture she’d had to make that day— a genuine, heartfelt smile, and as Oliver led her into the room and the crowd parted, still applauding, she inclined her head regally to everyone whose gaze she caught, winking at some and flashing a warm smile at others.

The furniture had been moved to another room; nothing remained but a long table before the hearth upon which several large silver bowls of fruited punch laced with brandy had been set; vases of flowers in wild profusion nearly blocked the fire, and in the center a tall, beautifully wrapped package drew all eyes.

The applause died to an excited silence.

Caitlin found herself free of Oliver’s grip as she moved to the table, reached out and touched the silken wrapping. She turned to face her well-wishers. They maintained a respectful distance, but she could sense the pressure as they reached out without motion to touch her, reassure her—or was it, she thought suddenly, merely gratitude for relieving the dreary winter? The notion fled at once. The truth lay most likely somewhere in between, but she was not going to spend the evening uncovering the true feelings of all present. What mattered was that they had come. In spite of everything, they had come. And she was hard put to keep the lump in her throat from exploding into tears.

Orin Daniels shouldered his way through the front line. He looked awkward in frock coat and breeches. His hair was plastered down, and his already ruddy complexion was even more red from a harsh scrubbing. He took the center of the crescent-shaped clearing and cleared his throat, causing a faint titter to rise and fall behind him. Oliver merely rearranged his expression into one of benign tolerance.

“Mistress,” Orin said, “everything is ready.” Caitlin held her smile.

“We’ve the music, and the feast, and that there on the table behind ye is a measure of our… our…” He frowned at the loss of the word. Then he smiled. “Our esteem.” He bowed quickly and pushed his way back to his place, one hand mopping perspiration from his brow.

Caitlin blew him a kiss. There was laughter from the villagers, and a brief scowl from her husband.

“So? We gonna stand ’ere all night?” a voice called from the back of the room.

More laughter followed, and Caitlin gladly joined in as she turned to the package and stared at it. It was so lovely she didn’t want to spoil the vision of its silvered purity, but rather than wait too long and insult her guests she took a deep breath and grabbed hold of a red string girdled about its center. She pulled, and the rustling of the silk was the only sound in the room; she gasped and put her hands to her cheeks; when she turned, she found there was no need for words. They saw the tears that gave her eyes an ethereal shine.

Oliver was transfixed. His eyes darted from the gift to Caitlin’s face, and a tic throbbed at the corner of his eye. His hands, which had been folded over the top of his walking stick, were white from the pressure, but he did not turn his head nor did he utter a sound.

Quinn Broary, short and looking even shorter in a forest of beige ruffles, took a timid step forward. “’Twas from the stones, m’lady,” she said, her voice throaty. “After the accident, a small block was brung t’me. I did the best I could.”

She spoke in Welsh, and Caitlin could not resist looking at her husband and translating. When he nodded, once, she said to Quinn Broary, “It’s the most magnificent gift I’ve ever received. I don’t know how to thank you.”

“Not me, m’lady,” Quinn demurred quickly as she moved back to her place. “’Twas all our doin’.”

She scanned the crowd of nearly two hundred and found she was no longer in control of her voice. She looked away quickly, back to the table where a small bust sat on a base of mirror-like oak. To her it seemed a perfect likeness: the laughing eyes, the one-sided smile, the hair that curled slightly down around the brow and ears. She could almost hear him speak. It was her father, David Evans.

“I will treasure it always,” she said softly, and in Welsh. And as though her words were a prearranged signal, the musicians broke into a rapid melody that scattered the guests reluctantly. Some went to the dining room across the hall where the foodstuffs had been laid out amid a great deal of pomp, some to the hall where the air was cooler, the rest to the walls around the dancing floor. Talk filled the room, boots beat time on the floor, and Caitlin recalled that evening in Windsor Castle and wondered how she could have ever thought it was so wonderfully grand. She may indeed have met King George and his queen, but upon reflection she realized that the guests there had been engaged in posturing and ceremony, that the entire night had been a facade, with no underlying substance.

She brushed a tender hand over the bust of her father and felt Oliver’s presence beside her. “It’s grand, don’t you think?”

“It’s an insult,” he said, keeping his voice low.

“They loved him.” Her tone was neutral. “I shall keep it in my room, if that pleases you.”

“It would please me not to have it in the house. But under the circumstances, yes, you may keep it in the tower.”

Flint joined them unexpectedly and stood on her right. He grunted and shrugged when he saw the sculpture.

“You should be circulating,” Oliver said without looking at him. “I am, I am,” Flint told him.

“Then don’t you think—”

“I do what is required, Sir Oliver,” he interrupted coldly. “My men—”

“
My
men
,”
Oliver corrected
.

“As you wish. Your men have been fed, and those who don’t seem too disreputable are in their places. Nate is following orders.”

Caitlin listened to the bickering over her head as long as she could. When their voices began to rise, however, she turned abruptly and faced the three circles of dancing. “Do you mind?” she said, though she kept her smile. “Do you bloody well mind keeping your little intrigues to yourself?”

She walked off before either of them could respond, then flashed a smile at Martin Randall when he broke from the sidelines and offered her his hand. She curtsied before him, and one of the circles made way for them as they joined in a Welsh dance of spinning, graceful figure eights, and a great deal of laughter. The women, their gowns much simpler than hers but no less colorful, were less restrained in their harmless flirtations and abandoned dancing; the men saw no harm in suddenly throwing their hands high over their heads or setting them on their hips and expressing their delight in quick, sharp yells. Spontaneity was rampant, though they observed the circles that were the reel’s convention, and before long Caitlin was able to put aside her worries and let the music carry her away.