Amy Lake (18 page)

again, after all that messy business with a war.

She went on to describe Paris in some detail.  This part of the letter—which everyone else in the household found fascinating, and asked me to read aloud on several occasions while exclaiming “my word!” and “can you credit that!” at every line—did not, at that moment, interest me.  I was looking for . . . for some sort of explanation, I suppose.   

My apologies for the abrupt departure, but I’m quite sure you

will manage admirably.
 

—S.

And that was all I got.

Chapter 32:   Cassandra

Miss Barre regarded the blank sheet of paper thoughtfully, and considered what next to write Lady Regina.  She had not, as it happened, admitted to the entire conversation with Carys and Isolde in the previous letter to her friend; Cassandra was wondering whether to do so now, or to spin a rather different tale.

Lady Cynthia popped her head in the room, smiling at her daughter. 

“My dear, would you like me to send up some tea?”

“Thank you,” said Cassandra, “but perhaps a bit later.  I’ll come down and we can share one of Cook’s spiced scones.”

“An excellent plan,” said her mother, and left.

At the beginning of their acquaintance, Reggie had been almost shocked at these small signs of affection between parent and child, and Cassie thought sadly of her friend’s life at Roselay, with only the earl and countess for company.

And Freddie, of course.  Lord Wilfred the Endlessly Insistent, Miss Barre called him, although only to herself.

Cassandra was not happy with Lady Regina’s flight from London, even though she understood her friend’s reasons for doing so.  The countess was a bird-wit of the first water, Freddie was impossible, and the Earl of Aveline was simply a dreadful, dreadful man; she had never described him so plainly to Regina, but there it was.  Neither parent would extend the least effort in protecting their daughter’s interests, and so Reggie must protect her own.

To that extent, Cassie agreed with the trip to Bath.

But Lord Davies, on the other hand . . . that was a different matter.  She had observed the viscount as carefully as she could, on those occasions when he had been with Lady Regina, and she believed that his interest was significant, and genuine.

Reggie had not quite believed her.  Cassie thought that the poor girl had spent too much time recently worrying about the greengrocer’s account and not enough observing young gentlemen.  The signs of infatuation, in Cassie’s opinion, were clear.

And now the unexpected visit from the twins.  Cassandra had considered calling upon them herself, although she had little excuse, and then—suddenly—there they were, at Barre House, as if conjured up from her own wishes.  The twins had exchanged one long glance when Cassie entered the salon to receive them, and ’twas as if a perfect understanding was immediate. 

Miss Barre knew that they knew.  And the sisters knew that Cassie knew that—  Well, at any rate, everything was settled between the three of them, without much need for talk.  

Still, she had queried the twins.  “I must ask you about the viscount,” Miss Barre had said, not bothering to delay, and Isolde and Carys were equally open in their reply.  Lord Davies was indeed quite interested in Lady Regina, for reasons which—they both assured her—had nothing to do with them.  They believed, as did Cassandra herself, that the two would make a fine match, and thus Cassie obtained two fellow conspirators, to whom she at once admitted Reggie’s actual address.

“She is not ill,” said Cassandra.

Both sisters nodded, as if this did not surprise them.

“She is in Bath.”

They raised their eyebrows in a manner so identical that Cassie almost laughed.

“Bath?” said Carys.

And Miss Barre explained.

* * * *

Afterwards they had agreed together that the time was not quite right for a revelation of the whole to the viscount and his lady-to-be. 

“He’s quite worried already,” said Isolde, tapping her finger thoughtfully against a tea cup.  “I say we wait until he becomes—”

“Frantic?  I suppose,” said Carys.  “On the other hand—”

“Yes, but surely she can’t get into too much trouble in
Bath
.”

The twins completely each other’s sentences, and there often seemed to be something left out.  Cassandra found the effect fascinating.

 In the end, Isolde and Carys decided to put off their brother for a few days.  They were to tell him that Lady Regina was still very ill, and observe the results.  In the meantime, Cassandra wrote immediately to Reggie and mentioned the visit from the Misses Davies, but without disclosing the more interesting aspects of their conversation.  She lied, in plain fact, but Cassie excused herself with the thought that ’twas only to allow the situation to ‘ripen’, as Isolde called it, and to give them all time to think on the matter and decide how best to make adjustments.

A day or two went by.  Then, just that morning, a note from Carys had arrived at Barre House.

He is more than frantic.  I think we may proceed.

How to do this was Cassie’s current difficulty; she continued staring at the paper and finally, with a small smile, began to write.

Chapter 33: A Brief Conversation

“Lady Regina is . . . fine,” said Isolde, not quite meeting the viscount’s eyes.

“Miss Barre is sure she will be better quite soon,” added Carys, who swallowed nervously.

Talfryn watched his sisters carefully.  They were dissembling, he was sure of it.

“But Miss Barre has not
seen
Lady Regina?” he asked.

“Well . . . no,” admitted Carys.  “Not recently.”

“Has she seen her at all since she took ill?”

The twins looked at each other and Lord Davies saw dismay in their eyes.

“I do not believe so,” answered Isolde.

“You do not—  Did you not enquire?”

Isolde took a deep breath.  “We are not well-acquainted with Miss Barre, and she was clearly . . . somewhat concerned.  We did not like to distress her with too many questions.”

This was worse and worse, thought the viscount.  The waiting suddenly seemed unendurable, and he stood up from his desk, resolution clear in his eyes.

“Where are you going?” asked Carys and Isolde as one, in alarm.

“I will speak with the Earl of Aveline, and suggest a new physician for the girl.  Perhaps Dawkins.”  Lord Davies was talking to himself, already striding to the door.  “Yes, I should say Dawkins is the man, clearly whoever is treating Lady Regina is a
fool
—”  

“Thaxton!” the viscount shouted into the hallway—when he never raised his voice.  The butler appeared within seconds, as alarmed as the twins. 

“My . . . my lord?”

“Tell the groom I require the phaeton.  At once.”

* * * *

If Lord Davies had been able to see into his study during the moments after he left he would have noticed the twins gazing at the door—just now closed from its master’s quick exit—and smiling their uncanny, identical smiles.

“Well, that should do the trick,” said Isolde.

“Agreed,” said her sister.

Chapter 34: Lady Anne Highsmith

I began to dream of Lord Davies every night, and went to bed knowing that I would awake in tears, or with the weight of loss pressing me into the bed, as if ’twould crush the life from me.  Often we stood next to one another, sometimes hand-in-hand and sometimes not, saying nothing.  Or he might enfold me in his arms—these were the dreams that left me in tears—and whisper words in my ear that I never heard. 

The dreams made it certain that I did not forget the viscount.  I had lived mere weeks in Bath, first with Aunt Sophie, and then directing the household on my own.  Weeks were not enough to erase the memory of his kisses.

What had I been thinking, to leave?

Then as each day passed I would remember as well his accusations, and the annoyance in his eyes the last time we spoke.

I am given to understand that we are expected to wed.

A romantic proposal indeed!  And worse—

—when you chose to be forward with your kisses.

As if I were some desperate, husband-hungry miss.

At which point I was always tempted to write Lord Davies a strongly-worded letter—giving, quite incidentally, my current direction—but at that point something would always happen, either Edward would send word that there was not a strawberry to be found in Bath and some other dessert would need to be attempted, or Mrs Baxter would flutter in with news of one of our neighbors—or Aeschylus would upset one of the mop buckets, again, and Janie and Alice would be running about, trying to wipe up the spill.

One could not say that life in Aunt Sophie’s house was ever dull.

My aunt, having spent relatively little time in the French capital, was presently on the road to Geneva.  We heard from her nearly every day, as she loved travel description of every kind.  In Paris it had been the wide avenues and imposing architecture.  At the moment ’twas focused on the flowers and small wild animals of central France.  Regarding people and the famed artwork of the Continent we had as yet learned little, and I wondered if this would change when she arrived in Florence.

* * * *

“Miss Reggie?”

Janie came into the salon and handed me a small packet of letters, after which she fell into one of the armchairs, sighing deeply.

“I’m fagged!” said Janie.  “You wouldn’t think five small dogs could be so untidy!”

I forbore mentioning that the small dogs in question were, first of all, exceptionally large, and that each one of them had the manners of Bedlam—with the possible exception of Euripedes, who spent most of the day collapsed at my feet.

“Sophocles has got into the lettuces again.”

’Twas my turn to sigh.  “Would you ask William to work on the fence?”

Janie nodded.  “Won’t help,” she added.  “He digs through anything.”

“I know.”

As if called by his name, Sophocles pushed his way into the room, wagging happily, and I thought I saw a few shreds of lettuce still caught in his mouth.

“Aunt Sophie will not be happy with you,” I told him, and turned my attention to the letters in my hand.

I awaited the post in some anxiety every morning, longing for news from Miss Barre, but dreading the threatening and cajoling missives from my family.  Today I saw that Cassandra had indeed written, but the second letter was from my father.  I put Cassie’s off, deciding to face the earl’s communication first. 

He wrote in a manner almost good-humored for him, and wasted no time in informing me of the excellent news.  I was, it seemed, nearly recovered from my illness and had been sent to Belvoir Manor for a few weeks of good country air, after which I was expected to be home at Roselay and able to resume my full role in society.

My father’s loss of patience—such as he ever had—burned clearly through every line.

You may go ahead and take these few more weeks for your little escapade. 

  Then you will be in London, or face the most severe consequences of

your conduct.

He did not elaborate.

Miss Barre told me much the same—and then added news of the viscount that left me, I am ashamed to admit, with my hand at my mouth in shock, and more tears threatening to fall.

The earl and countess are now putting it about that you are recovering

in Cumbria, and are expected home in less than a month. 

And by the way, I saw Lord Davies at the Portemain ball two nights ago.

He was waltzing with Anne Highsmith!  They seemed to be rubbing

along famously, I must admit; she looked appropriately wan for

her first ball in so many months, but she was wearing a darling

gown and eventually bounced about quite prettily.  I lost sight of them after

the waltz, but Lady Helen says that he took her onto the

terrace—if you can imagine—’tis hardly a first for her!

Lady Anne Highsmith.  The worst possible news for someone trying to pretend that she did not care.  Lady Anne, the young daughter of a wealthy marquess, had been in her come-out season last year—at which she was succeeding very nicely, with any number of young men gathered around her at balls—when her mother died suddenly of a fever.  The girl had gone into mourning at once, of course, and only a few friends had seen her in quite some time.

No-one of our small group—Cassandra and I, Lady Helen and Amelia Hingham—was among her close friends, but we had all been introduced, and we liked Lady Anne well enough.  She was pretty and good-natured and seemed to carry very few airs. 

“Biddable,” was Lady Helen’s conclusion. 

Not stubborn and willful, in other words.  Not like me.

A waltz with Lord Davies—

I knew something else of Lady Anne, as Cassie was well aware.  Shortly before her mother’s death, Anne Highsmith had engaged in a brief flirtation with Lord Freddie.  Although my brother was not forthcoming about the experience, Lady Helen had learned from Lord Peter that the girl had been more than biddable.  She had been . . . warm in her affections.  Quite decidedly so, in fact, and the group of young men gathered around her at balls took on a new meaning.

“She’ll have a reputation in no time,” said Cassandra, but the long period of mourning had quieted any gossip.     

How could I have forgotten about Lady Anne?  Her lineage was quite as impressive as my own, and her family in no particular need of blunt.  She would make the perfect sister-in-law for Carys and Isolde, the perfect entrée for them into the highest reaches of the
ton
.

She was presently in London.  And she was
warm
.

Lud.

“No!  No! 
Aeschylus
!” shrieked Janie, from somewhere in the vicinity of the kitchen.  I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and went off to see what had happened this time.