Wicked and Wonderful (20 page)

*** *** ***

“You seem to like Mr. Doulting exceedingly,” Judith observed.

Miss Currivard immediately chuckled. “He amuses me vastly. I am never in his company but a few minutes before my cheeks ache with so much laughter.”

“And what of his prospects?” she asked, sipping her tea, her feet settled comfortably on an embroidered footstool. Miss Currivard reclined gracefully on a chaise-longue.

She threw her arm over her head and sighed. “He has none to speak of. He has resided these many years and more in the various homes of his friends, whether in the city or the country as many younger sons of the nobility and gentry do. He has confided in me that neither the law nor the army would do for him and since he was wholly unfit for the church, the only occupation of some merit to which he seems greatly devoted, is to ‘scribble his poems,’ as he once said to me.”

“Have you read his poems?”

“A few.” She sat straighter on the chaise. “I believe they have merit but, not being of a scholarly turn, I daresay I am not fit to judge them properly.”

“He has hopes then of seeing his work in print?”

“He does not say as much but I believe he does.”

“Perhaps he needs a push.”

“Aye,” she responded, her expression growing thoughtful as she too picked up her teacup and began to sip. After a moment, she said, “I have been encouraging Harriet in his direction. She is well-dowered and they seem quite nicely suited to one another in temperament although Harriet is not nearly as intelligent as he, but she would make him an excellent wife. I fear, however, that she disappointed him last night by saying of the one poem he was willing to read to her that it spoke of trees far too often.” Miss Currivard laughed. “He responded dryly, ‘But Miss Banwell, do but think. Should my efforts see the covers of a book, it would be very fitting since there would be so many
leaves
within.”

“Oh, dear,” Judith murmured also laughing. “And what did poor Miss Banwell say?”

Miss Currivard smiled broadly. “Only that she supposed he was right if his book was used for pressing such objects as was found in a forest.”

Judith groaned. “Quite hopeless. Poor Miss Banwell. Yet you believe they would suit?”

“Yes, I think so,” she responded, but not convincingly. “There is no dearer soul on earth than Harriet. Yes, she would make him a most admirable wife and her rather fine dowry would secure their future.”

“You seem to have thought it through rather carefully.”

Miss Currivard shook her head. “I am being ridiculous, I suppose, but I should like to see Mr. Doulting well-settled.”

“You are rather fond of him.”

“I am,” she stated as one who had just discovered a significant truth.

Judith said nothing more and the subject soon slipped from Mr. Doulting and his poetry to the forthcoming recital. “Are you very nervous?” Miss Currivard asked.

“Not a bit. After a thousand performances in every imaginable location, I confess I find nothing but pleasure in the whole process. Besides, you play beautifully, even better than dear Margaret, and I have never known such a companionable experience between song and instrument.”

“Nor I,” Miss Currivard stated firmly. “Which quite settles my mind that this shall not be the last. I am rather determined on it.”

Judith sighed. “If only that were possible, but the troupe will leave in a fortnight or so with the traveling fair that is due to arrive any day now.”

Miss Currivard shrugged. “We shall see. What a surprising visit this has become. I had not expected to enjoy myself so completely. The experience at Cheddar Gorge was absolutely delightful, though frightening toward the end, and playing these ballads for you has been the best musical exchange of my life. With a fair on the horizon—I vow I could not be happier. Do you suppose there will be gypsies and all manner of fortunes told at such an event?”

“Undoubtedly.”

The following evening, Judith dressed carefully for her performance at the castle. Margaret had dressed her hair, catching it high upon her head and creating a crown of ringlets into which she tucked sprigs of lavender. She wore a simple gold necklace with an amber cross, one that her father had given her just before she had left home. She donned the purple gown of figured silk, which she had just completed that day, straightening the point lace that edged the scoop line of the bodice. Pulling on her long silk gloves, she turned to regard herself in the mirror.

“My hair has never looked more beautiful,” she said, turning toward her friend.

“Ye are that pretty,” Margaret returned clapping her hands. “That ye are. I expect all the gentl’men to tumble in love with ye afore the night is over.”

“As though I give a fig for such a thing. My only desire is not to disgrace either myself or the troupe by missing my notes or forgetting my words.”

“Ye have never done so afore. Ye will not do so now.”

Margaret was beaming. Judith, feeling oddly unsettled by the forthcoming event, hugged her, strange tears coming to her eyes. She did not understand why she was as nervous as she was.
“There, there,” Margaret murmured. “‘Twill be all right, Judy. Indeed, ‘twill.”

Judith pulled back and dabbed at her eyes gently with her gloved fingertips. “I feel as though everything is changing,” she whispered. “I do not want things to change. I do not think I can bear it.”

Margaret took hold of her shoulders and gave her a squeeze. “All will be well,” she said.

John appeared in the tent doorway, his eyes wide. “How pretty ye are, Judy, and very fittin’ this evening, especially since Kelthorne is come fer ye.”

“Kelthorne?” she asked, dumbfounded.

“Aye. In his coach.”

“I had best go then.” She picked up her white silk shawl, embroidered with yellow buttercups, and arranged it over her elbows with a long loop behind, as was the prevailing fashion. John offered his arm and, given how her knees had begun to shake, she gladly took it.

Once Judith neared the coach, Kelthorne descended, his expression troubled. She wondered what was wrong.

She climbed aboard and after taking her seat and arranging her skirts, he sat down opposite her at the same time commanding the coachman to give his horses the office to start. He was still frowning.

“What is it?” she asked. “Is something amiss?”

*** *** ***

Lord Kelthorne regarded the beauty opposite him. The fading light of evening did little to diminish the elegant line of her brow, her neck, the easy curve of her arms as she held her hands clasped loosely on her lap. He could hardly tell her the true scope of his thoughts, that she had become a perpetual image in his mind, and that whenever he was in her company, he grew increasingly reluctant to part from her.

He had also lost the ability to discern what was appropriate conduct toward her. He feared that he might have given rise to expectations he could not possibly fulfill.

“There is something I must say, lest you misinterpret any of my attentions to you.” To his surprise there was a glimmer of a smile in her eyes.

“If you think for a moment,” she said, not waiting for him to explain, “that I am in hourly anticipation of a proposal, I beg you will not distress yourself. I have nothing but appreciation for our conversations and since I am at the same time fully aware that your interest is directed toward Miss Currivard, and that with the blessing of your family, please understand that I hold no illusions on any score.”

He was relieved and yet he was not. Even if there were to be a measure of understanding between them, such a circumstance would not end the powerful feelings that possessed him whenever he was with her.

“Then we are of a mind?” she asked.

“I only desired to bring the subject forward because of, well, because of the yarn. Both my sisters gave me such a dressing down—you can have no notion. I should never have come to you in the drawing room that day.”

At that, she leaned forward. “I cannot agree at all,” she said. “What you did was quite honorable, even chivalrous. Your sister left me so abruptly that I have little doubt most every one in the drawing room thought I had given offense.”

“She later told me she feared both she and I were giving you reason to hope.”

“I beg you not to distress yourself. I understand quite well that my presence in an acting troupe does not make me fit for a proper drawing room. I have long been resigned to that fact. And I have only been there because Miss Currivard insisted on it.”

Again, he was surprised for there was not the smallest hint of bitterness about her. Without thinking, he possessed himself of her hands. “But you should not be with this troupe,” he said.

She was shocked. He could see as much in her eyes and in the way she quickly withdrew her hands from his. “And yet I am. But if I am to continue to be comfortable at Portislow I beg you will not importune me again.”

He looked out the window, his frustration rising. What manner of foolishness had ever caused her to leave her home in the first place?

“I did not mean to
importune
you. I meant nothing of a romantic nature. One does not, you know, when one intends to scold.”

“To scold?” she inquired, a slight frown marring her perfect brow.

“Yes, about your absurd decision to become an actress, when it is clear in every word you speak, every graceful gesture of your arms, every turn of your countenance, that you are a lady of quality. Someone should have given you a severe dressing down before you embarked on this imprudent course. You could not have been so wholly without protection. Why did you not go to your family in Kent? You spoke of having cousins there. Why did you not go to your aunt or uncle?”

Her expression dimmed and for a dark moment she seemed inexorably sad. “I was fourteen,” she said. “I did what was necessary given the truly wretched circumstances at the time.

“Even my most excellent governess did not see what else I could do if I was to preserve...” She broke off, apparently unwilling to complete her thought, then continued, “But if it is of use to you, my first effort was to seek refuge with my uncle but it was too late for that.”

“Did you bear a child?” he asked, for he could think of no other meaning behind her words.

“What?” she said, obviously shocked.

He shrugged. “You would not have been the first lady of genteel birth to have done so.”

“You would think such a thing of me,” she responded, horror in every line of her face. “I was but fourteen.”

Tears brimmed in her eyes soon afterward and he knew then how badly he had erred. Conversation ceased at that point. She did not open her mouth again except to thank him for fetching her when at last they arrived at his front door. Nor did she speak as he escorted her into the house. She addressed his butler, asking where she should go until summoned for the performance.

“Miss Currivard awaits you in the small music room.”

“Thank you,” she said. She turned away without so much as a nod in his direction.

Once in the music room with Miss Currivard, Judith was far too overset to begin.

“Whatever is the matter?” she asked, rising from the pianoforte and crossing to her. She took her hands immediately.

“I should not have allowed him to send me into the boughs,” Judith said, shaking her head.

“Was it something Lord Kelthorne said to you?”

Judith nodded. She could hardly speak, but she feared if she did not address what was troubling her, she would be unable to sing. “He... he asked me why I left home. Of course I could not tell him. I can tell no one the truth. But he asked me if I had born a child.”

At that, Miss Currivard gasped, then laughed aloud. “Tell me he did not. What a gudgeon. A complete gudgeon. Has he no perception? Does he not know what I know and what your dear Mrs. Ash has promised me is utterly true, that you are an innocent caught in a difficult situation?”

“I suppose he does not,” Judith responded. Her friend’s entire speech had surprised her and she did not know which part of it to address first. She began, however, with what disturbed her most, “Then you do not blame him for thinking such a thing of me? Am I wrong to be offended?”

“I think he is trying very hard to find fault with you.”

“But why?” she said.

“Now who is being a simpleton,” Miss Currivard said, but she suddenly appeared very sad. “But if you must have an answer, ‘tis because you are so pretty and your voice speaks to him, to all of us, of the angels.”

Judith saw the rather haunted expression in her eye and began to understand even though Miss Currivard was merely hinting at the truth. “I am sorry,” she murmured. “I knew this was a terrible mistake. I should not be in this house. I should not be here at all. You know I should not. I cannot think what made you bring me here.”

“Because you belong here, perhaps more than I do.”

“But can you not understand how I am being tortured? Every hour I spend at Portislow makes me long for what cannot be.”

Miss Currivard did not speak for a long moment. “Well, I think I can comprehend what you are trying to say, but I am convinced you are mistaken.”

Judith realized there was no possibility of convincing her otherwise. She drew in a deep breath and released a sigh. “I suppose it would be useless to argue, but I must disagree.”

“There must always be disagreement in any good friendship,” she stated smiling. She took up her seat at the pianoforte and added, “Time will answer everyone’s questions and concerns, of that I am convinced. And now, shall we warm up
your
voice and
my
fingers?”

An hour later, after having her nerves calmed through the rehearsal of the music, Judith strode confidently into Lord Kelthorne’s expansive drawing room in which were seated no less than fifty of the surrounding area’s gentry and nobility. She took up her place beside the fine Broadwood instrument. Kelthorne stood in the back of the chamber, but she did not look at him. Miss Currivard was right—any questions or concerns would surely one day be answered to everyone’s satisfaction.

Nodding to Miss Currivard, who was seated at the fine pianoforte, she began her performance with the ballad, “Fly Not Yet.” Within a few seconds of beginning, she grew lost in the habitual magic of extending herself in song to an audience. There was a play of reaction that fed her soul and swelled her voice so that by the time the last notes of the song had vanished, a warm flood of applause flowed over her. She did not forget to honor her accompanist and was delighted that the audience recognized and subsequently applauded Miss Currivard’s excellent performance with equal vigor.