Seacliff (5 page)

Caitlin was aware of the ground on which she trod, and as she wound her way aimlessly between rosebush and privet, she felt as though she were walking on a cloud. Every few steps she would pinch the inside of her wrist and tell herself it was, in fact, the royal palace, and not a dream.

The orchestra, unseen by the people below it, could have been playing from heaven, as far as Caitlin could tell. There were candles four and five feet tall—and some no higher than a baby’s reach— rising from the wall sconces or towering on marble pedestals, giving the entire room the aspect of a feverish dream. Diamonds, emeralds, and pearls in profusion; delicately painted fans; flashes of lightning from ceremonial swords and silver-encrusted gold braid. Gem-laden goblets were distributed by liveried servants to those couples or groups who preferred to sit at small round tables; crystal glasses of cognac were delivered on engraved silver trays; gallons of burgundy and port were there for the asking.

Flirtations were begun and affairs quietly ended. Gossip and envy were lost in the laughter, in the witty chatter, in the occasional spurts of impromptu singing. In a far comer, beside a platform covered in silk and velvet where King George and his consort oversaw the reception, men in severe dark clothing muttered about politics and finance, war and domestic unrest until the king, his lean face flushed with drink and his thickening waist straining his gold-trimmed jacket, ordered them silent.

Caitlin shook her head vigorously and brushed a white-gloved hand swiftly over her eyes. It really was too much— so many new people, so much splendor. When she and Oliver had first entered, she hadn’t even heard their names announced because she’d been so overwhelmed. She paused for a breath, and fixed on her lips a careful smile that she hoped didn’t make her look addlepated or drunk.

And before she knew it, she was dancing—with a young man from the north country, with an older man from Canterbury she later discovered was a duke, with a succession of noblemen who complimented her husband while refusing to take their gaze from the powdered swell of her breasts. She did not mind. The attention was more potent than anything she might drink, and Oliver seemed pleased that she wasn’t disgracing him, for a change. At one point, however, a military man whose rank she hadn’t caught had questioned her rather closely about the rebels in Wales. Remembering Gwen’s admonitions and Oliver’s threats, she managed to turn aside his blunt inquiries with laughter, a coquettish smile, and a bland statement that salved her conscience and forced him to silence. It had been, she thought afterward, a harrowing moment, a struggle between her anger at the man’s obvious condescension and her fear of what her husband would say if she let loose her tongue.

But then there was the wine. Every time she turned around someone was pressing a fresh glass into her hand.

The music filled her ears, set her blood to singing, made her feel as if it had been written especially for her.

The reflections of candlelight winked from polished mirrors.

And finally the presentation began, trumpets blaring and colorfully costumed attendants taking their places.

General Arthur Lancaster, with Oliver proudly at his side and Caitlin nervously a half-step behind, approached the royal pavilion as though marching to battle. The general diplomatically reminded the monarch of Oliver’s knighthood and distinguished career, then stepped aside to introduce her—her!— while Oliver took the offered hand of the queen and bowed as low as he dared.

“Lovely,” said George III, his accent not quite English. Caitlin had curtsied perfectly, elegantly, but she did not rise because the king had not offered her his palm.

“You are from Wales, as I understand these things. Is that not correct, my dear child?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” she’d answered, her voice barely louder than a hoarse whisper. The back of her neck burned. She was positive the rest of the company was staring at her and laughing silently. She was also afraid someone had told him of her “fat German women” remark.

“A pleasant place, I’m sure.”

“It is quite so, sir,” she said.

She looked up then, and he was smiling.

“I understand you Welsh are rather independent-minded.” Oliver was glaring at her, she knew, but she could not see him. “We’ve been known to have opinions, yes, sir.”

A sound she thought was a chuckle surprised her into grinning, and she didn’t dare believe he’d actually winked at her. He couldn’t have. Stories of his dalliances with ladies of the court came instantly to mind, but she dismissed them when finally he gave her his hand and permitted her to rise.

“Your husband is not unknown to us, Lady Morgan,” he said, and his free hand lightly touched the side of his wig. “You should be pleased to be his wife.”

“I am, sir. Very.”

“But not too independent-minded.”

“Not too, sir, no.”

A pause followed, and she felt him release her hand. “We are pleased you could come.”

And it was over. The corpulent Lancaster nudged her to one side where she touched hands with the queen. There was no talk here; just a look that barely acknowledged her existence. Then the general bowed to her and led her to the ballroom floor. She danced, and knew she danced well. And she also knew the general eyed her boldly. But it didn’t matter, not now. The king had actually spoken to her, and she’d made clear by her tone that she was proud of who she was without calling down Oliver’s wrath.

She smiled. She grinned. She glanced over her shoulder to the dancers inside. Gwen, she thought smugly, you should have seen me in there!

She walked around a shrub clipped into the shape of a peacock and found herself at one of the ballroom’s closed doors. The deep velvet draperies had been drawn, and she could barely see her reflection in the glass. A step closer, an appraisal, and she could not help but admit she was living vindication of a sometimes frenzied preparation.

Her dress was of dark green silk, the low square neckline adorned with miniature bows and Spanish lace. The bodice, which came to a sharp point just below her waist, was taut and clinging, but her skirts flared below her waist where they billowed out over her pannier. The front of the skirt rippled to her ankles in shimmering folds and was gathered up slightly to expose the silk petticoat, the gold-buckled slippers, and the trim line of her calves encased in sheer white silk. Around her neck she wore a choker of fine diamonds aflame even in this dim light. More diamonds winked from the lace spilling over her long white gloves.

Beneath the dress a stiff corset chafed and made her breathing shallow, pushing upward her lightly powdered breasts— not as severely as those of the women who doggedly aped the fashions from the court of Louis XVI, but enough to leave no doubt that she could have achieved the same effect without much underpinning.

Her hair she’d wanted to leave rustling down her back, but Gwen had prevailed, warning her she would scandalize the court if she didn’t curl it atop her head and loop it with strands of Belgian lace and matched baby pearls. Her hair was held in place with a dusting of fresh milk.

“I feel like a cow,” she’d complained, wiping splatters of milk from her breasts. “And it’s going to stink like a dairy when it dries.”

“Who’s going to notice?” she was asked. “Only the men have enough sense to use talc in this misbegotten country, and they’re used to the smell anyway. Besides, you’ll be swimming in gallons of perfume. Now hold still, Cat, before I dump the pitcher on you and we have to start the whole bloody mess over.”

Oliver, with a simple grunt and a nod, apparently approved. “Caitlin.”

S
he started, a hand to her chest as she spun around, thinking perhaps she shouldn’t be standing in the shadows alone.

Oliver stepped onto the flagstone apron that separated the garden from the castle’s inner wall and held out his hands. Nervously, she took them and allowed herself to be drawn close.

“I missed you inside,” he said with just a faint hint of reproof.

She smelled the wine on his breath, saw the flush that crept from his cheeks toward the perfectly curled outer edges of his wig. Yet he did not seem annoyed with her, and she released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. At that moment she was not altogether steady on her feet. She smiled weakly.

“A little air, Oliver,” she said meekly. “It’s just so… I’ve never been quite so…” She ducked her head. “I don’t know how to say it.”

His hands caressed her arms above the elbows. “I understand, my dear. But I do want you to know how proud I am of your demeanor this evening. You have certainly charmed all the gentlemen here.”

Her smile broadened, and she tilted her head when he leaned forward to kiss her cheek wetly. He was not in uniform but was wearing a gold-trimmed jacket of dark brown velvet that reached mid-thigh and was adorned with ruffles and lace aplenty, like the clothing of the finest of dandies. It was important, he’d told her earlier, that people continued to know he was not living his retirement in seclusion, and without influence. Though she still did not grasp the full extent of his mercantile and government business dealings, she understood completely the necessity of maintaining a facade. The merest hint that he was in disfavor with one group or another would ruin him… and seclude him indeed.

Her cheek brushed the soft fabric on his shoulder, and she closed her eyes dreamily. To think she would ever be in a place like this, dressed like this, mingling with ministers and royalty—it was enough to make her think kindly of England now and again.

“I must return inside,” Oliver whispered. He kissed her again. “A number of matters need to be discussed before the evening is done.” His face hardened slightly—though it might have been only the shadows. “Do not stay too long, my dear. People will talk.”

“Just a little while,” she promised. “Just until I can put my head back to rights.”

He patted her shoulder and left, his heels clicking on the flagstone, his back rigid, and his arms swinging at his sides. As she watched him turn smartly and vanish, she could not help feeling a momentary unease, as if he’d conveyed a certain distrust of her in his parting. But before she could examine it, the feeling was gone, replaced by a queasy sensation in her stomach where the wine had mixed with the excitement to produce a mild burning. With her hands over her abdomen, she reentered the garden, picking her paths at random while the music and laughter ebbed and flowed about her like a relentless, uncaring tide.

The unease returned.

She scolded herself against it. It was only his manner she was reacting to, nothing more; and it was something she’d learned to live with, part of the bargain she’d made to be his wife.

A thorn caught at her gown, and she took several long seconds to extricate herself.

Bargain. The word was distasteful, but she knew that’s what it was, and she knew why it had been struck.

David Evans was without a son and needed a male heir to whom he could bequeath his lands. Oliver Morgan had been traveling through Cardigan with several former military colleagues, searching out men who’d had army experience, hoping to reenlist them in the king’s service for the struggles looming with the recalcitrant colonies in America and with a perpetually antagonistic France. The party had stopped at Seacliff for the evening. Evans and Morgan—despite an initial, mutual distrust based on their cultural differences—had somehow managed to strike a truce, which had developed over the next year into a curious sort of friendship. Both understood that each was using the other—Evans to acquire an heir, Morgan to gain someone to care for him in his old age. Still, they were amicable enough, and it hadn’t been long before Morgan had permission to court Evans’s daughter.

Caitlin had had no say in the matter. And once she’d learned through the Reverend Mr. Lynne that Griff was indeed the father of Morag’s child, the pain of his betrayal almost made her fly into Oliver’s arms. And curiously, her acceptance of the bargain at the time had not been terribly difficult. Oliver had been the model of a gentleman, flooding her with letters, gifts, and promises of security for herself and for Seacliff. That he was an Englishman (whose great-grandfather had, however, been Cardiff born) seemed somehow not to matter so long as her father was satisfied that he was an exception to the breed.

She looked down at her hand then, the one the king had held, and smiled. Suddenly she gasped as she collided with a woman hurrying away from the garden’s low back wall.

It was Lady Coming, her coiffed gray hair slightly mussed, the age-pale thrust of her bosom flushed pink. Behind her, Caitlin spied the figure of a man vanishing behind a high shrub. She apologized profusely, but the woman would have none of it. Drawing herself up, Lady Coming snapped open her fan and glared at Caitlin over its scalloped edge.

“You make a habit of prowling, do you?”

“My lady, no, I was just—”

“Snooping around, that’s the way of it.”

Flustered now and feeling the wine clouding her thoughts, Caitlin shook her head vigorously. “I assure you, I was simply out for some air; that’s all.”

The noblewoman looked at her askance, scornfully, as if from a great height. “I really do find you people tiresome, you know, my dear. I can’t for the life of me understand why these affairs must cater to just anyone.”

Caitlin swallowed an acid retort. “I’m sorry if we cannot get along, my lady. If I have offended you, I apologize.” Lady Coming snorted.

In an effort to salvage something of the encounter—and in hope of preventing Oliver from learning about it later—she looked back at the ballroom. “Such beautiful music, don’t you think?”

“I do.”

“It’s so … simple, so plain. It’s—” She faltered when she realized the woman’s face had darkened, and she groaned silently, realizing that somehow she’d managed to commit another gaffe.

“The melody you’re listening to, young woman,” Lady Coming said stiffly, jabbing her with the now closed fan, “was composed by my husband. It has been hailed in London and Paris as a piece marked by intricacy and sophistication—something I’m sure you Welsh wouldn’t recognize if you fell over it.”