The Wedding Season (17 page)

P
hilip stared after the departing landau until a thump on his arm turned his attention to see Jamie’s rueful grin, as if the lad understood Philip’s sense of loss at the ladies’ departure. Fortunately, Captain and Mrs. Moberly had already reentered the house.

“Come on, old boy.” Jamie beckoned him. “Let’s take a ride to Portsmouth. It’s always exciting to see His Majesty’s fleet.” The fervent look in Jamie’s eyes suggested something other than ships held his interest. Gambling? Or something even more unwise?

Philip cleared his throat. “No, thanks. I think I’ll just spend some time with
Dr. Johnson.
” He enjoyed the way his single reading of the venerable scholar’s dictionary had become a family jest. Yet another sign of how generous these people were in their hospitality.

Jamie hooted with laughter. “Better be careful, old boy. Your brainbox will explode if you keep cramming all those words into it.” His expression sobered. “Don’t worry. I don’t plan to drag you into some nefarious undertaking. I really do like the ships.” A wistful look came over his countenance.

“Ah.” Philip had seen the same look in his brother’s eyes,
but he’d seen no wisdom in sponsoring Charles’s dreams. “Want to go to sea, do you?”

Jamie nodded. “But Father says one son serving in His Majesty’s navy is sufficient. My eldest brother, Colin, is a lieutenant of eight and twenty and should soon command his own ship. I’m too old to start out as a midshipman now.”

Philip gave him another fraternal slap on the arm. “Then let us go watch the ships.” Anything to take his mind off of Miss Elizabeth, who would soon be in Lord Chiselton’s company and no doubt many others of his sort.

Once they were properly dressed and their horses saddled, Philip and Jamie quickly covered the two miles to Portsdown Hill, where they paused to take in the magnificent view of the distant harbor. Philip had seen countless merchant ships and a few naval vessels docked in Gloucestershire, but the awe-inspiring sight of the Royal Navy could fill any Englishman with pride. Frigates, men-of-war and sloops, with sails furled to their masts, bobbed about in the great natural harbor, awaiting orders to protect British interests in some far corner of the globe. No wonder Jamie and Charles dreamed of sailing away to be a part of such a grand and noble enterprise as His Majesty’s Navy.

They descended Portsdown Hill into the balmy air of Portsmouth and took a leisurely tour of the waterfront, where the smells of fish vied with odors of tar, soap and livestock, as sailors prepared their vessels for another voyage.

There in the city, Philip’s concerns about Jamie were set to rest. Not once did the lad cast a covetous glance toward the taverns
or
their wenches. However, he did launch into a lengthy treatise on the various ships and how each was useful in its own unique way in battle. Never having considered the matter, Philip filed the information away for future conversations with Captain Moberly.

After a stop at a mercantile shop so Jamie could make a purchase, they took a long route back to Devon Hall, racing neck and neck the last half mile to add a bit of sport to the day. That invigorating exercise cleared his mind as nothing else could have done.

In the guest room, Philip freshened up and changed into the suit Wilkes had laid out. Then he descended the front stairs to join the family in the drawing room. But unlike other evenings, tonight he experienced no happy anticipation, for Miss Elizabeth wouldn’t be there. Despite today’s outing, the empty spot she left in the company deprived him of a good deal of the pleasure he took in the Moberlys’ hospitality.

“Ah, there you are.” Captain Moberly greeted him by the door and ushered him into the family circle. “Sit down, sir. We are to be entertained by the children once again.” His merry smile bespoke grandfatherly pride. Nor could Philip miss the genuine kindness—dare he say affection?—filling the captain’s eyes as he welcomed him.

“I thank you, sir.” As he took the chair reserved for him and none other, Philip permitted joy to infuse his spirit. For this hour alone he would grant his imagination leave to dream of being a permanent part of this loving, giving family. Even the children’s play, whatever the subject, would be engraved on his memory to enjoy after he returned home.

Frances, whom Philip guessed he should soon begin to address as Miss Moberly, as she was the only child of the captain’s second son, stood with her Bible in hand. No shyness colored her fair face as when Philip had first arrived. The twins, dressed in the same ragged robes they’d worn for their last presentation, giggled in the background.

“Our text is Matthew 18:21–35. ‘Then came Peter to him,
and said, Lord, how oft shall my brother sin against me, and I forgive him? Till seven times?’”

An odd nettling scratched at the back of Philip’s mind, but he had no time to evaluate it.

As Frances continued to read Jesus’ answer to his disciple, Helena stepped forward, appearing regal in a silk cape and feathered turban. A servant, portrayed by Guy, owed a great deal of money to his master, or in this case, his mistress. She held the power to throw the servant into prison and sell his wife and children.

Guy’s usual dramatic nature took over as he groveled at his sister’s feet begging wordlessly for mercy. Helena, with hand on chin, considered the matter, then extended that hand in a gesture of forgiveness. Guy made a face but kissed it.

Jumping up to celebrate, Guy caught sight of Lewis, the servant who owed
him
money. Guy grabbed his brother by his ragged robe and shook him. Helena came forward and clasped his shoulder, scowling. She pointed to a side table. With much pathos, Guy pleaded again for mercy. But this time Helena would not relent. Lewis imprisoned Guy under the table and “tortured” him with a small, leafy oak branch, bringing forth more giggling.

“‘So likewise shall my heavenly Father do also unto you,’” Frances read, “‘if ye from your hearts forgive not everyone his brother their trespasses.’”

The adults applauded the performance, goodnights were said and Miss Alastair guided her little flock from the room.

Philip eyed Captain Moberly, who was now engaged in quiet conversation with his wife. Had they instructed their grandchildren to present this particular scripture? Was their hospitality nothing more than a ruse to dissuade him from pursuing justice and recompense for Lucy?

The butler stepped into the room and announced supper, and everyone stood and moved toward the door.

“Well, I must say—” the captain chuckled “—one never knows what the children will come up with. I think Guy chooses the texts based on how dramatic they are.”

“Undoubtedly.” Mrs. Moberly joined him in laughter.

Try though he might, Philip could see no subterfuge, no guile in his host or hostess. Even Jamie, the soul of transparency, merely laughed, then launched into an account of their trip to Portsmouth.

With some effort, Philip shoved aside his suspicions. He must not permit Whitson’s treachery to destroy his trust in his fellow man.

As for the biblical lesson in tonight’s story, well, it simply did not apply.

“A
h, there you are, Miss Elizabeth.” Lord Chiselton strode toward her across the large drawing room. “I’m so pleased to find you alone.”

Elizabeth reluctantly closed the slender, leather-bound volume of Philip Sidney verses. The brief biography of the famous Elizabethan courtier that prefaced his writings brought a tear to her eye at the thought of his early death. Further, his noble character reminded her of Mr. Lindsey, who always wanted to set things to right.

“Good afternoon, Lord Chiselton.” She pushed away her melancholy and waved him to an adjacent chair. During the three days she’d been here at Bennington Manor, she’s had little interaction with the viscount. When she’d first learned he was visiting the area, she’d hoped this time would serve to bring them closer. Yet she felt surprisingly disinclined to enjoy his company, though she couldn’t fathom why. He was everything she sought in a husband…wasn’t he?

The viscount, who usually seated himself with a flourish, slumped into the overstuffed blue chair. His eyes filled with sadness. “It’s no use, you know.”

She stared at him. “No use?”

He shook his head. “No use at all. I must confess I cannot resist any longer.”

Somewhat relieved, Elizabeth knew she should ask what he could not resist, but the words would not form.

A frown darted across his forehead. “I know you’re eager to know what I cannot resist, so I shall tell you.” He gave an artificial sniff and settled into his chair. “I have the overwhelming urge to confide in you, my dear.”

“Oh.” She managed a slight smile and a tiny nod.

“All my life, I have carried the weight of my title…all alone. Unlike you, I had no warm family to enfold me. No mama or papa to nurture me.” He steepled his hands and rested his forehead on the apex formed by his forefingers. The pose was impressive in its pathos. “No filial affection to bolster me in difficult times.”

Elizabeth’s heart constricted with pity. What would she do without her beloved family? No wealth or title could take the place of those she loved. “You have all my sympathy, Lord Chiselton.”

“Thank you, dear lady.” His smile seemed genuine.

Now curiosity reared its head. “Is that all you wished to say?”

“There. I knew you would understand. Would care about me.” He leaned forward and grasped her hands. “I do have more to say, but I should like to wait until this evening during the masquerade. Promise you will meet me in the south corner of the back terrace at midnight?”

Did he wish to propse to her? The idea should thrill her, but instead she felt almost uneasy. Why, he had not even asked Papa’s permission to court her, for Papa would have told her. She gently twisted her hands from his grasp. “I cannot think it proper, Lord Chiselton.”

“No, of course not.” He waved his hand in a careless
gesture. “Not if we were entirely alone. But everyone will be there trying to guess who’s who.” He wiggled his eyebrows and gave her a playful grin. “You needn’t bother trying to guess my identity, for I shall tell you. Then you’ll have no trouble finding me. Tonight—” he lifted one hand, finger pointed toward the ceiling as if he were making a grand proclamation “—I shall be Mark Antony.”

Elizabeth blinked. “Ah.”

“I would have been Julius Caesar, for he was the great conqueror. But one always thinks of him as an old man or—” he shuddered “—assassinated. Antony holds a more youthful image.” He leaned one shoulder toward her in a conspiratorial pose. “What mask will you wear?”

“Humph.” Unease crept into her chest, but she managed a cheerful tone. “
That
is a secret.” She told herself that she was merely teasing, responding to his flirtations in kind, but deep down, some instinct had her resolved to stay as far away as possible from Mark Antony and the south corner of the back terrace.

“What do you say, old man?” Jamie draped himself over a red damask chair in the library and munched on an apple. “I desperately need a diversion, and you could use one, too.” The late-afternoon sunshine filtered in through the library window, casting a glow on his carefully arranged Caesar-cut curls.

Seated across from him, Philip closed his volume of sonnets. Philip Sidney’s
Astrophel and Stella
had done more to remind him of Miss Elizabeth than to distract him, so he set the book on the mahogany side table and studied his friend. His
good
friend. The nineteen-year-old, still a restless youth, had selflessly dedicated these past three days to entertain
ing him. Yet Philip’s melancholy remained, and he couldn’t shake it off.

He had no doubt the young lady would return home affianced to that dreadful Chiselton, an advantageous match for her, to be sure. The thought filled his heart with an ache compounded by grief over his kinsman’s death and his own future. If the matter of Whitson’s contract could simply be dealt with, Philip could go home and enjoy the consolation of his family. But Bennington seemed in no hurry to settle the affair. No doubt he was too diverted by his garden party.

A reckless urge swept through Philip. He’d spent the last six years shouldering massive responsibilities. Why not abandon himself to enjoyment for an evening? Within reason, of course. He grinned at Jamie. “Very well. What do you propose?”

Jamie glanced around as if checking for listeners. “The masquerade is tonight. It’s just the thing to stir up some excitement.”

“Um, have you forgotten I wouldn’t exactly be welcomed at Bennington Manor?” Despite his words, Philip could think only of seeing Miss Elizabeth again, even if just from across the room.

Jamie smirked. “Have
you
forgotten the definition of masquerade?” He tossed his apple core on the table, and juice splashed across the wood. “Masks, my good man. Masks and capes and costumes. No one will know who you are.” He stood. “Let’s go to the attic and raid the costume chest.”

Philip pictured the rags the children wore for presenting their Bible stories, but if there were finer garments to be had, this escapade could prove interesting.

He glanced at the apple juice leeching from the core onto the smooth mahogany. In very little time, it could eat into
the wood and discolor it. Drawing out his handkerchief, he scooped up the fruit and dried the table.

Jamie tilted his head and frowned. “Oh. Right. Good show.” He took the core from Philip and tossed it into the dustbin by the fireplace. “Must you always be so perfect?”

His mocking tone dug into Philip. Was that how he seemed to his friend? No, he certainly wasn’t perfect. And the proof was the risk he planned to take tonight just to see the woman he couldn’t allow himself to love.

With the help of their lady’s maid, Elizabeth and Pru prepared for the evening’s excitement in their shared bedchamber. Elizabeth had brought one of Mama’s old dresses for the masquerade. Made long before slender, high-waisted dresses came into fashion, the gown had wide lavender panniers over a white underskirt and a scooped but modest neckline edged with delicate lace. A powdered wig left by some Moberly ancestor provided the perfect addition to her disguise, although it did carry a slightly musty odor, despite Ginny’s attempts to shake out some of its ancient powder and dust.

Pru chose a blue shepherdess costume with many underskirts. The crook she carried could prove useful, but no such weapon seemed appropriate for Elizabeth’s disguise. Though she could not imagine why such a thought had occurred to her.

“I enjoyed the story Aunt Moberly told us as we were choosing our costumes.” Pru tugged her gown’s low neckline as high as it would go before tucking a gauzy fichu into its edges. “Who would think our parents ever faced such difficulties when they were courting?”

Elizabeth sat before the dressing table mirror while Ginny adjusted her wig and mask. “Yes, one would never know from their happy circumstances now. When I am courted, I
should like less drama and more security.” She adjusted the mask so she could breathe through two tiny nostril holes, then stood so Pru could sit.

“Oh, I don’t know.” Pru studied her reflection and continued to fuss with her fichu until Ginny took charge and secured it with pins. “A little drama might be entertaining.” She tucked her hair under a mobcap that covered every blond strand. “As long as no one’s life is threatened.”

“Or as long as no one interrupts the wedding.” Elizabeth pictured dear Mr. Lindsey’s face, so filled with fear and courage at the failed wedding. Would his business with Uncle Bennington be completed before she returned home? That thought stirred a pang of regret. So far, this entire party had failed to draw her interest away from the gentleman, and now she faced the evening with no small amount of trepidation.

“Do stay close to me, Pru.” She eyed the shepherd’s crook, formed from a solid hickory branch.

“I shall not desert you. Humph.” Pru’s usually smiling lips pursed with disapproval. “The very idea of Lord…” She eyed their maid. “You may go, Ginny.”

“Aye, Miss Prudence.” Well-schooled by Mama’s Nancy, Ginny dipped a curtsy and left without a change in her placid face.

The instant the door clicked closed, Pru grasped Elizabeth’s hands and squeezed. “Imagine Lord Chiselton accosting you that day at the ruins and reminding you of your childhood infatuation with him, as if those girlish feelings obligated you to him now. And worse, telling you he had dreamed of you since those long-ago days. I do not believe him, nor do I trust him. If he was so enamored of you, why did he not come calling? He was just trying to win your good graces.”

Elizabeth winced. “But for what purpose? He seemed so sincere, and you cannot discount the weight of responsibility he carries. And always has.”

“To be fair, no.” Pru raised an eyebrow. “Well, then, if you are so sympathetic to him, you should be prepared to accept his proposal.” She wrinkled her nose. “After all, you did pray for a husband with a title.” Pru’s words cut Elizabeth.

“I did. But…” At a scratching on the door, Elizabeth stopped. “Yes?”

Cousin Di flung the portal open and entered, followed by her sister Sophia. Dressed in the flowing Greek robes of Aphrodite, Di carried a white feathered mask. Her thick blond hair was piled high and entwined with gold and floral strands. “Come along, my little sprites. There will be much merriment tonight.”

“Do you like our costumes?” Sophia had dressed as Boudica, queen of the Iceni, who had fought so fiercely against the Roman invasion of Britain. Covered in furs and woolen leggings, she spun into the room, brandishing a wooden sword. With her full, sturdy face and broad shoulders, she did indeed look like a female warrior. “My Mr. Whitson is dressed as the Roman governor, Paullinus. Do you not think that is just the thing?”

At her last remark, Elizabeth tried very hard not to glance at Pru, but she failed and saw mirrored in her cousin’s face an identical shock. How could Aunt Bennington countenance such a travesty against propriety? The Roman governor had quite cruelly defeated Boudica and her people. Is that what they hoped for Sophia and Mr. Whitson? These past three days, Elizabeth had watched the still-engaged couple cavorting about the manor as if nothing had happened to halt their
wedding. As if Whitson were not a scoundrel and nothing less than a thief who had stolen Miss Lindsey’s dowry.

Even Di had made a better choice of a favored male companion. Her entire countenance became animated any time the most proper Mr. Redding entered the room. If Lady Aphrodite was not careful, she would end up married to an untitled gentleman, against all her lifelong dreams. But then, what did childhood dreams or infatuations account for when a lady met an extraordinary man?

Filled with a sudden longing to be home, where Mr. Lindsey no doubt sat in Papa’s library reading
Johnson,
Elizabeth marched forth from the bedchamber and into the fray. But as much as she would like to emulate Sophia’s warrior identity for her inevitable encounter with Lord Chiselton, somehow she felt far more like poor Marie Antoinette on the way to the guillotine.