The Wagered Widow (11 page)

Rebecca's jaw sagged. “Tw—twelve…? And—and you
visited
her?”

“It's dashed difficult to avoid them, Fair One. You see, as it turned out, the lady's secret lover was—my grandpapa.”

The gleam was in the grey eyes with a vengeance. The quirk beside the thin lips could no longer be contained and spread into a wide grin.

“Oh!” exclaimed Rebecca furiously. “Odious! Horrid—deceiving—
creature!
”

With a shout of laughter, de Villars stood. “That will teach you, m'dear, to be a little more gracious when someone does you a very large favour!” He started back to The Monahan, who had awoken and was watching them with mild curiosity.

“Wretch!” Rebecca hissed, jabbing her hatpin furiously in amongst the fruit around the crown of her hat. “Monstrous—
rake!
”

De Villars retraced his steps and placed one hand on the side of her chair to lean above her. “You are extreme lovely when you are kind, Little Parrish. But even more delicious, I think, when you are angered.”

Not deigning him an answer, Rebecca turned towards the river, put back her head, and closed her eyes.

Chuckling, de Villars went away.

Rebecca lay there, fuming. Gradually, however, the warmth, the delicious meal, the soft song of the river, combined to dull her indignation. She thought, “Twelve children, indeed!” His mirthful voice echoed in her ears, “The lady's secret lover was my grandpapa!” The nuances of such a situation began to titillate her. She smiled in spite of herself, and in a little while, drifted into slumber.…

She was walking down the main staircase at Ward Marching, and she walked slowly, for she wore a magnificent gown of white and could not see clearly for the lacy veil before her eyes. At the foot of the stairs, Sir Peter, heart-stoppingly handsome in his bridal raiment, waited with one hand on the baluster rail, smiling worshipfully up at her. Glowing with happiness, she moved towards him. Birds began to flutter about her; one at first, then three, and suddenly a veritable flock of doves, swooping and calling all about her, coming so close, in fact, that their feathers tickled her nose.…

Rebecca opened her eyes with a start. A gentleman's waistcoat hovered just above her, and recognizing the superb cut of it, she demanded indignantly, “Whatever are you about, Mr. de Villars?”

He glanced down. “Not following my natural instincts when so close to a beautiful and recumbent female,” he said, stepping back a pace. “I was, in fact, engaged in so plebeian an endeavour as to try to rescue your bonnet.”

She glanced quickly to the right. Her outflung arm trailed below the bottom rail, and her hat, loosely held by one ribbon, was about to float away.

It had been
such
an expensive hat! With a wail of dismay, she tightened her grip on the long ribbons and sat up. Impossibly, the hat pulled back.

“What—on earth?” She frowned, tugging at it in turn.

Peering over the side, de Villars gave a whoop. “You've got a bite!”

The hat was quite definitely resisting Rebecca's efforts. “A—a bite?” she echoed in disbelief. “Do you mean—oh! Is some nasty wet little fish trying to eat my hat?”

“Not so little, by God! Hang on, ma'am! And—pull!”

She gave an incensed exclamation and entered the battle. De Villars, hilarious, shouted to the other guests, and everyone hurried to watch. Excitement knew no bounds. Bets were placed, and Rebecca was inundated with instructions, cautions, and compliments. At one point her reluctant captive tugged so hard that she feared she would be pulled through the rails, but a strong arm slipped about her waist. She could well imagine whose strong arm it was, and, glaring over her shoulder, was pleasantly surprised to find Ward smiling into her eyes. “Allow me, dear ma'am,” he said in his gentle way, reaching for the impromptu line.

Captivated she might be, but this was Rebecca's fish. “No!” she cried determinedly. “I want to try and catch him, if you please, Sir Peter.”

He looked dubious, but allowed her the struggle while he guarded against her being pulled overboard.

“Why on earth does not the silly fish let go?” trilled The Monahan mirthfully.

“He has probably become hooked on Mrs. Parrish's hatpin,” said de Villars. “I noticed it looked rather lethal when she stuck it in amongst her fruit assortment.”

Hanging over the rail, Major Broadbent exclaimed, “Jove, but he's a fine specimen! Reel him—I mean, haul him in, if you can, Rebecca.”

“Yes, do haul him in, but gently does it,” cautioned de Villars.

Someone advised, “If you're slow, ma'am, your ribbon will come loose and he'll get away.”

“If you pull too hard,” warned another, “he's like to pull off the fruit!”

“What kind of fish is it?”

“Why on earth does she fish with her
bonnet?
”

Such remarks, interspersed with whoops of laughter, assailed Rebecca's ears as the tussle went on, but she followed de Villars' advice. The delighted crowd pressed in around her as the strange contest went on. Rebecca was dishevelled and hot when at last she gave the “jolly strong heave” de Villars recommended. The fish apparently running out of fight at the same instant, Rebecca's heave was much stronger than required. The bedraggled bonnet, a large trout attached, shot through the rail. Still firmly grasped by Ward, Rebecca tumbled backward. Sir Peter staggered, bearing Rebecca with him, willy-nilly, and bonnet and fish slapped into the trim middle of the fascinated Mrs. Monahan.

“Oh! I am drenched!” wailed The Beauty.

Convulsed, de Villars hooted, “Jupiter! What a magnificent victory!”

“Let me see him! Oh, do let me see him!” cried Rebecca eagerly, emerging from Sir Peter's embrace.

Broadbent had retrieved the bonnet and trout. Holding them high, he shouted, “Three cheers for The Little Parrish and the finest catch of the day!”

Rebecca clapped her hands and danced with jubilation as the cheers rang out. To her surprise, The Monahan joined the applause. Whatever else, the lady was a good sport.

Mrs. Boothe had reached a quite different conclusion. Slipping through the throng, she shuddered at the sight of the fish, took Rebecca's arm, and whispered, “My love, whatever are you
thinking
of? You look a wreck! Do come and let me try and tidy you.”

Aghast, Rebecca slanted a glance at their host. He stood some distance apart, watching Miss Street attempt to dry The Monahan's gown. Disregarding her aunt's pleas that she first restore herself, Rebecca hurried to them. “I am indeed sorry, ma'am,” she said repentantly, surveying the sodden peach satin.

“Well, do not be,” said Mrs. Monahan. “A fine marplot I should be to chastise you when you provided us with such a fine entertainment. I vow 'tis a tale I shall be able to tell forever.”

Rebecca blushed scarlet and her heart sank. What the Beauty meant was that The Little Parrish had behaved like a clown and made a complete spectacle of herself. From the corner of her eye she saw Sir Peter watching her with a grave expression. She again conveyed her apologies, then went with her aunt to the small cabin that had been converted to a cloakroom for the ladies. Fortunately, it was unoccupied. Fighting tears of mortification, Rebecca was swept into a consoling embrace. “Oh, Aunt!” she whimpered. “I was doing so
well!
Why did I have to spoil it? Whatever must Sir Peter have thought? To see me heave that enormous mackerel, or whatever it was, right into The Monahan's stomacher! And then to stagger and—and jump about like any hobbledehoy! He looked … absolutely
appalled!
”

“No, no, my love. A little surprised, perhaps. But you were ever a spirited child. I'll own it might have been just a touch wiser had you allowed one of the gentlemen to—ah, catch the fish.”

Dabbing at tearful eyes, Rebecca turned to the mirror. “Yes, for only
look
at me! Red-faced, and my hair all anyhow! And—oh, Aunt! See here, my new gown is
ripped
and such a nasty stain!” She wailed miserably, “Small chance of catching the fish I really want, now!”

“Do not give up hope, dear girl. We shall arrange your hair as prettily as ever. The gown will dry in no time, and the tear is very tiny. Perhaps you can embroider a flower here and there, to hide it.” Working busily at the tangled locks, Mrs. Boothe murmured, “Mr. de Villars was most amused, at least.”

“Oh, to be sure! And egged me on, the wretch! Much he cares if I make a spectacle of myself, for he seeks only to—” She broke off, and sighed. “No, that is not really so. I stopped him when he was trying to retrieve my hat. But we did not know the fish was trying to eat it, then. And he laughed so, and—so did I. And it
was
funny, you'll admit, but—oh, dear, oh, dear! What a birdwit I am!”

“Well, Sir Peter will love it if you are,” said her aunt with a twinkle. She won a rather watery laugh for her efforts and went on staunchly, “Cheer up, love. Your Plan may yet work.”

Her Plan! Rebecca's heart gave a hopeful little lurch. Sir Peter could not go back on his word at this juncture, and when they were peacefully alone at Ward Marching, she could really concentrate on her campaign. It was very apparent that he was the conservative type and admired gentle, mannerly behaviour—as indeed he should. Well, she would be the quietest, most timid, and clinging lady he could desire. Of course, she had not yet broken the news of her impending duties to dear Aunt Albinia.… She slanted a glance at that lady. Meeting her eyes in the mirror, Mrs. Boothe stiffened. “Re-
becca
…?” she said nervously. “I
know
that look! What is in your head?”

“Nothing dreadful, ma'am,” Rebecca asserted with a meekness that further alarmed her aunt. “Merely an invitation. But I shall tell you all about it later on. Hush! Here is Mrs. Monahan!”

*   *   *

When Mrs. Boothe and Rebecca returned to the deck, the tables and benches had been folded and stacked along the sides, the musicians were tuning their instruments, and a minuet was about to begin. Sir Peter came over to the two ladies at once, all anxious solicitude for the “Fair Fisherwoman” who was, he averred, “the belle of the boat.” Rebecca's heart lightened, and optimism increased when he solicited her hand for the dance. Moving through the measures, she was the recipient of many smiles, and if she met also with teasing, there was little evidence of censure. Hilary Broadbent said merrily that she had given the guests a good laugh, which could but endear her to them; de Villars' eyes glinted at her, and he murmured that there was no telling what she might catch did she but use the right bait; and when she rose from her fourth curtsey to her partner, Sir Peter said with his charming smile that thanks to her this was the very jolliest party he had ever hosted. During their next pause in the stately dance, he asked eagerly, “Have you by chance spoken to your aunt as yet?” She shook her head and, as they paced along together, imparted the word that she meant to do so this very night, but would be unable to give him a definite answer until her brother had been approached in the matter. His grip on her hand tightened. Facing her, his bow was the essence of grace, his smile approving. “Very properly,” he said. “I shall await with the greatest anxiety.”

Elated, Rebecca knew that
somehow
she would persuade her aunt to acquiesce. And tomorrow—oh, how quickly the time was passing!—tomorrow, she would be very good, and do nothing even remotely hoydenish.

CHAPTER
5

“I … will …
what?
” Mrs. Boothe fell back against the pillows of her bed, her eyes all but starting from her head. “What have you done? Oh, my poor heart! Only moments ago I awoke and thought 'twas a glorious morning! And now— Had ever a dutiful aunt so mischievous a niece? Oh, but I shall faint! I shall suffer a spasm! I shall—”

“You shall make a perfectly splendid chaperon, dearest,” cajoled Rebecca, perched on the side of the bed, and chafing one of her aunt's limp hands. “Only think—to spend the rest of the summer on this beautiful estate! It would give me a perfect opportunity to—”

“To weep as you watch them lower me into the ground,” moaned Mrs. Boothe, clutching her brow. “Oh, that it should come to this! To be sold into bondage! At my time of life, too! I thank God I was too sleepy last night for you to tell me of this wretched new Plan of yours, else I'd not have slept a wink!”

“But, dearest of aunts, you are so splendid in matters of dress and deportment. Miss Ashton will be—”

“A lump!” prophesied her aunt mournfully. “A stodgy, ill-featured girl. With pimples, belike, a neighing voice, and a sour disposition!”

“Were she fat as a flawn, turned in her toes, had a squint in each eye, and teeth like tombstones,
you
could make her into a beauty, love! And only think what a challenge it would be.” Mrs. Boothe regarded her glumly but with a little less of tragedy and, pursuing this small improvement, Rebecca bribed, “Sir Peter has taken a prodigious liking to Mr. Melton and told me he means to invite him to the Midsummer Festival. It might be quite … enjoyable, were we all together.”

Mrs. Boothe brightened, but protested that she had never
been
a chaperon, that she knew nothing of being
employed,
and—whatever would dear Mr. Melton make of it all? She rather spoiled the effect by next asking, “What Midsummer Festival?”

“I am not perfectly sure why, but it seems there has been a costume ball on Midsummer's Eve at Ward Marching since time immemorial. It is said to be a very festive occasion. We could have such fun, dearest. Oh, 'twould be heavenly, but—of course, if you feel I ask too much of you…” Rebecca bowed her head, though continuing to watch her aunt from beneath the ribbon frill of her pretty cap.