Wicked and Wonderful (9 page)

And so Miss Currivard appeared on the threshold, supporting Amy's husband by the arm. He was limping badly.

“Good God, Sylvester,” Amy said. “What happened this time?”

“I am sorry, dearest, but I twisted my foot on the bottom step. I can hardly put my weight on it.”

She shook her head in some disgust. “Well, do come sit down and elevate it. Aubrey, would you fetch a footstool?”

“Of course.”

Miss Currivard guided Mr. Newnott to the chair at which Amy now stood like a sentinel. Kelthorne sought a footstool but had to cross to the library in order to find one. By the time he returned, Mr. Newnott was sitting but still in apparent pain. “Shall I fetch the doctor, Newnott?”

“No, no,” he said bitterly. “I am sure it is only a sprain. But why do these things, as absurd as they are, always happen to me? I should like to know. Do I bring them down on my own head? All I did was offer Miss Currivard my arm then I missed my step and now I am persuaded the deuced thing is swelling. The devil take it!”

From the corner of his eye, Kelthorne saw that Miss Currivard, a beauty indeed, had crossed to the decanter of sherry and was pouring a glass. How singular.

“Mind your words, Mr. Newnott,” Mary murmured. “The ladies will not like to hear you speak in such a manner.”

Miss Currivard retraced her steps and intervened quickly, offering a glass of sherry. “Will this do, Mr. Newnott?”

“Dear God, yes,” he said. “What a darling you are. Heaven sent. Heaven sent.” He took the proffered drink and swallowed it at once.

“Shall I fetch another?” she asked, an amused smile on her lips.

“Yes, my dear. Thank you. Thank you.”

Miss Currivard went readily about the business. For the first time, Kelthorne was at liberty to look at her. He liked the amused expression in her eyes. She certainly did not take Mr. Newnott seriously but he rather thought her conduct both admirable and kind. He also liked that without the smallest ceremony or begging of permission she poured out his sherry. He found he liked her.

The rest of what had been said about her proved very true. She was a great beauty, indeed, with thick golden curls and a pair of large, almost mesmerizing green eyes. There was a look of intelligence about her as well and he believed he saw in her the qualities that had made her forebears successful merchants.

She is perfect,
he thought—beautiful, discerning, kind, and wealthy. Did any gentleman require more?

Judith Lovington came sharply to mind and a war began in his heart. Judith was beautiful, even more so than the exquisite Miss Currivard. She had the voice of an entire choir of angels mingled into one, resonant tone. Kissing her had been like holding the moon in his hand. She had inspired in him the hunt, as he had never been inspired before, even to the use of great calculation and trickery.

Yet here was Miss Currivard, embodying all that would prosper the house of Kelthorne. She represented his intent to relinquish his roguery, to do what was right by his birth and breeding, even his desire to create a family of his own as his sisters wished him to.

But how could he leave off pursuing Judith when she was the moon in his hand? How could he possibly settle into the life played out almost in dramatic form before him, with Amy tending to her husband and his injured foot, with Radsbury already engaged in a heated discussion with Laurence and Mr. Emborough about political concerns, with the younger ladies gathered about the pianoforte searching through the music Mary had weeks ago sent to Portislow.

This would be his life, he thought in some horror. He ought to have found at least a measure of satisfaction in it, but for whatever reason, his heart bolted within him. Not for him this insipidity day after day.

His attention was drawn back to Miss Currivard. She was watching him intently and there was yet again that faint but intriguing smile on her lips. She appeared to be in some thought as though perhaps she was trying to make him out.

He met her gaze fully and it seemed to him in that moment he was understood. She gave the smallest shrug of her shoulders, a helpless, resigned gesture that funneled his vision of her into an understanding of the equal pressures of her own life. He wondered suddenly if she was here as much by the design of other well-intentioned family and friends as by his sisters. He decided to honor what he assessed to be her integrity and goodness and crossed the room to her.

*** *** ***

Three days later, Judith hummed in her tent, laying out her pattern papers on a length of beautiful violet patterned silk, which she had spread out carefully on her bed. She was content.

Of course, she was. Indeed, she was.

The castle gentlemen had not visited the camp since Kelthorne brought several brace of rabbits to Mrs. Marnhull. Although at least one hamper of peach preserves, fresh bread, and olives had been sent to the troupe in the intervening time. Of course it was well known that a large party had arrived at the castle, that Kelthorne's sisters and their husbands were now in residence along with three young ladies and a young gentleman.

She was relieved.

Of course she was relieved.

Quite relieved since it would seem Kelthorne had given up his pursuit of her, or at least what she had supposed was his pursuit of her.

She moved the patterns again and hummed a little more, this time standing over the silk to look down upon the arrangement, all the while tapping her foot.

She felt foolish.

Of course she felt foolish.

Quite foolish since she had all but persuaded John and Margaret that Kelthorne’s generosity had had only one purpose, to break down the defenses of her heart. Now it would seem he had had no interest in her whatsoever.

Not that it mattered.

Of course it did not matter.

Not one whit.

After all, she was quite relieved that his pursuit was at an end, if he had ever really pursued her.

And she was very content.

She sank down on her bed, sitting on the patterns and the silk and not precisely caring. The door to the tent was tied back. The summery day was lovely.

She was engaged in one of her favorite occupations, making a new gown, which she would wear during her performances. She had several in her possession, but the nature of a performance, the lime lights, and the dirt backstage quickly took its toll so that from the first she had found it necessary to continuously replenish her gowns. Nor was there an aspect to the creation of her costumes that she did not enjoy.

She loved the process of hunting for just the right fabric, and in this instance she had found some lovely gold braid to embellish the ribbon about the waist. And in Portislow only this morning she had purchased a length of crocheted lace, which she would use to adorn the bodice. Laying out the pattern on the fabric was always a point of real gamesmanship—to make the most of the fabric, not waste one inch if she could possibly help it. The setting of her stitches she looked forward to as much as she did the beauty of the day outside.

So why it was then, that she was presently sitting on her bed, creasing the fabric and patterns, was a complete mystery to her.

Margaret appeared in the doorway. “Did ye send a missive to the castle?” she asked sharply, a hard frown between her brows.

Judith sat up a little straighter. She did not have the smallest notion of what Margaret was speaking. “No. Was I to have done so?”

“O’course not,” she snapped. Folding her arms over her chest, she huffed a sigh. “Well, then, did ye see him in recent days when no one was about? Did ye say something to him?”

Judith was all at sea. “To whom?”

Margaret’s eyes bulged. “To his lordship. To Kelthorne. Wat have ye done, Judy, that sent him away like this?”

Judith was quite shocked by Margaret’s demeanor and accusing tone. She could only presume that the loss of the meat every day had become a great concern to her but she could not understand why. The troupe rarely received such beneficence. Surely Mrs. Marnhull had not come to depend upon Kelthorne. “I have not spoken to or seen him since he dined with us the day he brought the pheasants. Why? Whatever is the matter?”

“Oh, very well, then,” she returned grumpily. “I suppose ‘tis not yer fault.”

Before Judith could inquire what was troubling her, Margaret stalked away.

Judith was utterly mystified by her behavior. Why was
she
so overset that Kelthorne had ceased calling? What was it to her unless she truly was dismayed that he was no longer hunting and providing meat—but that seemed quite unlikely. No, she could not account for Margaret’s conduct in the least.

She rose from the bed and turned to look at the fabric. She had crumpled it wretchedly. She could only wonder how she had come to be so daft. She could not even remember precisely how it had come about she had sat down.

Outside, the camp rattled about noisily. She could hear John and Charles arguing as they often did when they were in the midst of adding something new to the repertoire. Both were highly creative individuals with great dramatic abilities. More than once she had been completely mesmerized by one or the other during a dramatic portrayal on stage. This was part of troupe life. She would always feel desperately sad that her life had taken such a difficult turn, but at the same time she believed she would be forever grateful for the richness of the experiences she had had in the eight years since she first joined the troupe.

From her doorway, she could see Freddy, Henry and Bobby practicing their juggling routine. They were all remarkably expert even doing a little tumbling in the midst of tossing every item imaginable back and forth to one another. Yes, she loved the troupe so why was it she had suddenly come to feel so blue-devilled she could not say.

At least there would be a performance in the evening. She could swell her song, a circumstance that always served to ease her heart. Perhaps Kelthorne would attend this evening.

Not that it mattered.

Of course it did not matter.

Not one whit.

*** *** ***

The evening proved very fine, indeed. Kelthorne walked beside Miss Currivard, a very peaceful sensation having taken strong hold of him from the time of her arrival. She had done this to him, he thought, smiling warmly down upon her. “The walk is quite steep,” he said. “Will you take my arm?”

“Gratefully,” she responded. “For I have the worst fear that I shall trip in these lovely but quite impractical shoes I am wearing. Then I shall tumble down the hill and completely disgrace myself.”

He chuckled. “I must say, though I have known you only three days, I would find myself utterly shocked were such a circumstance to happen. You seem so capable and in command at every moment, it is hard to believe that even in impractical
shoes
you would ever lose your balance.”

She frowned up at him slightly. “I fear there is something in your remark that disturbs me.”

“How is that possible? I am certain I have just complimented you.”

“I suppose you have but I believe you may also have struck a chord that sounds dissonant to me. You see, I have striven to perfect all the teachings of my most proper, most educated, most genteel governess but I have always feared the results might be rather... stilted.”

“Ah,” he murmured, turning this over in his mind. Was this true about her? He glanced down at her. She was staring ahead, minding her steps, her fingers clutching her gown in just the right place to keep the skirt an infinitesimal degree above her slippers so that she would not slip on the steep terrain, but nor would she reveal her ankles.

“Then it is true” she said, sighing heavily. “Just as I feared.”

“I said nothing.”

“Your thoughts were shouting at me.”

He sighed. “You are very proper. There can be no fault in that. And I have every certainty that given your background as a daughter of
trade,
as it were, the Tabbies are always looking for the smallest opportunity to rain criticism down on your head.”

“You can have no notion,” she said. But she turned at the same time and smiled up at him, her large green eyes luminous in the fading light of the summer evening. She wore a shawl draped casually over her elbows, as was also quite proper. Yes, she was very proper, but she was something more, something he admired very much. She was overcoming a difficult situation with all the appearance of ease and confidence. Of course, having eighty thousand pounds would lend confidence to even a troll, but he felt certain she was revealing to him in this moment the best of her character and he admired her.

“Your critics be hanged,” he whispered.

At that she laughed quite warmly, even perhaps crossing the bounds of a proper lady’s laugh. He gave her arm a squeeze.

His sisters had chosen well. He admitted as much to himself. After three days of coming to know Miss Currivard, of understanding her nature, her character, and her general disposition, he found himself quite comfortable in her company. She did not lack for conversation and though his station was very far above hers, she was not in the least obsequious.

Yes, his sisters had chosen well.

“Is this not a fine evening, Kelthorne?” Laurence called to him from behind.

Kelthorne turned back to glance at his friend. He had the adorable Miss Banwell on one arm and the sweet-tempered Miss Upton on the other. He seemed quite content. Mr. Emborough had gone on before to secure the best seats for them.

“I love the theater,” Miss Banwell said.

“I understand there are jugglers,” Miss Upton stated. “I think it fascinating how they can keep so many things in the air all at once.”

“Neither of you will be disappointed tonight,” Kelthorne said. “The troupe excels at every form of entertainment.”

“The sword fighting is superb,” Laurence said.

“Are there any singers among the troupe?” Miss Currivard asked. “I am especially fond of music:”

Kelthorne nearly stumbled as thoughts of Judith rushed over him like an unexpected wave in otherwise calm surf. “Yes,” he said evenly, or as evenly as he could manage.

“How can you be so mild?” Laurence said. “You must tell them of Miss Lovington. You must. Otherwise they will all swoon when they hear her sing.”