Anne Barbour (5 page)

Thus, on this evening, she hesitated for only an instant before moving into the room in the flowing motion that had taken years to perfect.

Lawrence had stopped in his progression to the settee, and now hastened to his mother. Regina, as though oblivious to everyone else in the room, grasped his hands in hers.

“Dearest,” she cried in delight, “I did not know you would be dining with us tonight. Were you not engaged with a party to spend a few days in Bath?”

“Um, yes, Mother, but two of the fellows were forced to cancel out at the last minute, and I thought—” Lawrence sent a sidelong glance to the group near the fire—”I thought perhaps I should be at home when ...”

Following the direction of his gaze, Regina allowed her own to rest on David. As though at that moment becoming aware of his presence, she smiled. It was a very thin smile, and might easily have scratched glass, but David returned it with a bow.

Regina did not move from her son’s side, but said only, “I was told you had arrived. I trust your wound is improving?”

“Thank you for your concern, my lady. Yes, I am getting on very well.”

He then made Lucius known to her, and at the sound of his name, a small furrow appeared on her still unlined brow.

“Pelham? The name is familiar. Are you related to William Pelham, the Marquess of Alconbury?”

She smiled sweetly, and David realized instantly that she knew the answer full well.

“No, ma’am,” responded Lucius, who had come to the same conclusion. “My father...” He shot a glance at David. “My father is a farmer. We live in Kent.”

“Well, then ...” Her laugh was high-pitched and flavored with malice. “Now that we all know one another, shall we go in to dinner?”

David’s glance raked the room.

“But where is Kate?” he asked.

Lady Falworth swept past him to the door.

“Kate will join us momentarily.” She threw the words over her shoulder. “I spied her coming from her room as I descended the stairs.”

David glanced down the corridor and caught his breath as he observed Kate hurrying down the massive staircase that led to the entrance hall. Earlier, with her hair a tangled tumble of curls and dressed in her tattered muslin, she had still managed to look appealing. Now, wearing a gown of clinging amber silk, her flaming locks contained in a graceful Clytie knot, she looked like a youthful autumn deity. She had grown taller. She would just about reach his chin now, he reflected irrelevantly. Her eyes had always been huge, too big for her face, really, but now they seemed to gather the candle glow from the wall sconces into their sparkling hazel depths. He shook his head dazedly and watched as she fell into step with the group, apologizing to Regina for her lateness.

Last to join the procession was Aunt Fred, who bounced down the stairs garbed in a gown composed of floating, multi-hued gauze panels, looking like some sort of renaissance elf. On catching sight of David, she hurried to him and stood on tiptoe to envelope him in a warm embrace.

After a delighted exchange of greetings, the old lady grasped the young man’s hand in her own and chattered to him all the way down the corridor.

Kate, after casting a single glance at David, had confined her conversation to the ladies of the group, and now, entering the stately scarlet-hung dining room, she found to her dismay that she had been placed next to him.

After introducing her to Lucius, who sat on her other hand, David had little to say, addressing himself assiduously to his portion of roast beef. Kate was conscious of his nearness, and she knew an urge to reach out to touch him—to feel the warmth of his fingers beneath her own. Suppressing this unsettling idea, she attempted a few scraps of bland dinner conversation, meeting a noticeable lack of response. He had, she concluded miserably, set a wall around himself that she could not hope to penetrate. With one more unhappy glance, she turned her attention to his friend.

“Is this your first visit to Somerset, Mr. Pelham?” she inquired, forcing her voice to cordiality.

“No, Miss Millbank,” Lucius replied with meticulous courtesy. “I accompanied my mother here when I was just a sprout, to take the waters in Bath. Had a perfectly wretched time, to tell you the truth.”

“I should imagine,” said Kate, smiling, “that the Pump Room and the Abbey do not provide much diversion for a boy. Did you drink the waters?”

Lucius’s face screwed into an expression of distaste.

“Once. It tasted like tepid salt water in which someone had been soaking rusty nails and old boots.”

Momentarily abandoning her despondency, Kate laughed aloud, thereby gaining the attention of Lady Falworth, seated at the end of the table. She frowned at the girl, but addressed herself to her guest.

“Tell me, Mr. Pelham. How did you and David meet? Were you in the same regiment?”

“Yes, ma’am. We were in the Fourth Division—The Enthusiastics, we were called,” he said with a deprecating laugh.

“Oh, yes,” cried Kate softly. “My brother was very proud of being one of their number. Perhaps you knew him. Philip Millbank?”

“I met him a few times—with David,” Lucius replied gently. “He was in the Twenty-third foot, and we were in the Twenty-seventh—different brigades, you know, so we did not see all that much of him. I was sorry ...”

“By Jove,” interrupted Crawford. “Did you say the Fourth Division? You fellows saw some action at Toulouse! Were you part of the storming of Mont Rave?”

Lucius glanced at David, before answering shortly.

“Yes.”

“What a show that must have been,” cried Crawford, his voice bright with enthusiasm. “Don’t I just wish
I’d
been there!”

“Only a fool would wish to have been at Toulouse.”

David’s voice was little more than a growl, but it caught the attention of all at the table.

“Really, David,” began Regina.

“Did you think it a glorious siege?” continued David, as though she had not spoken. “With banners flying and bugles trumpeting?” He laughed harshly. “No, halfling, it was blood and screams and the groans of boys no older than you, dying in unspeakable agony.”

An appalled silence followed this speech, and Kate could only stare at David.

“Well, really!” gasped Regina again, and Cilia hiccupped in shock behind her napkin. Lawrence snickered uneasily.

“I say ...” began Crawford. “I didn’t mean—that is, I’m sure it must have been quite wretched,” he trailed off unhappily.

“David,” snapped her ladyship, “I’ll thank you to remember that you are in a polite home now, not in some low Spanish tavern drinking with your disreputable cronies.”

David whitened, and for a moment, Kate thought he meant to leave the room. But, after a slight pause, he turned a brilliant smile on his stepmother.

“Please forgive me, my lady. I had forgotten that while it is perfectly permissible to die for one’s country, it is not considered
de rigueur
to bring the war home with one, so to speak.”

Lucius, who had half risen at Regina’s words, sank back into his chair.

“Bitch!” he muttered into his wine, and Kate, while breathing a comment of her own in agreement, pretended she did not hear.

From across the table, piped the voice of Aunt Fred at her most fey.

“What an odd thing to bring home for a souvenir. I would prefer something prettier, like one of those lovely mantillas so many of the young men brought for their ladies.”

The tension that had gripped those at the table relaxed suddenly, and Kate smiled in gratitude at the old woman.

David stared down at his plate once more. He felt Kate’s gaze return to him, but he steadfastly refused to look at her. He could sense her concern, and shame at his outburst warred with a deep sadness at her unguarded affection for him. He was dismayed by the desire he experienced, as fierce as it was unexpected, to bathe in the warmth of that affection. No, he had ruined any chance he might have had to keep Kate for a friend. He would have to do something about Kate very soon, he thought wearily.

Or perhaps not. When Lucius left a few days hence in that elegantly appointed carriage, he would simply hop aboard. He knew he would be welcome to resume his stay with the Pelhams, and surely it would not be too long before he was well enough to make his way again to the Continent. God knew this trip had been a mistake. What had possessed him to accept Father’s invitation? Some vision of himself as the prodigal son, welcomed into the bosom of his family with the love that had never been shown to him before?

No, that was not true. Kate and Philip had shown him kindness, and he knew his father loved him. It would be base of him to return that love with any further displays of self-pitying petulance.

He heaved a troubled sigh, and turned once more to Kate.

“My wretched temper prohibits me from tendering an apology to my beloved stepmother, but I will offer one to you. I must be possessed of a demon of ingratitude to have spoken so. And,” he continued, his eyes searching hers, “I must apologize for this afternoon as well. God knows I am in no position to reject an overture of friendship from anyone, let alone someone who is as dear to me as a sister.”

For some reason this graceful little speech did not please Kate as it ought to have, but her eyes warmed as they returned his gaze.

“Is the pain very bad?” she asked softly. “I—we were never told the precise nature of your injury.”

David stiffened, and through habit, a casual response formed on his lips. To his surprise, however, he found himself answering in a like tone.

“To be truthful, it hurts like the very devil—constantly,” he confided. “The ball entered my leg just under the hip. The doctors feared to remove it, since it lies deep and very close to a major nerve, and there it remains, hence the limp and the pain. They removed some damaged tissue, but they say that’s all they can do—they would not go farther for fear of paralysis. I’m lucky to be walking, they say, and they don’t promise much improvement. I’ll just have to wait and see. No, no,” he added hastily, observing the anguish in her face, “it is much better than it was, and—and the pain is usually manageable. It’s just that today—with the traveling and all...”

He shifted in his seat, uncomfortable at having revealed so much of his ordeal. He had never spoken so before, even to the doctors at whom he had sworn and, finally, cried during those first long weeks after his injury.

In swift understanding, Kate placed her hand on his arm and forced a smile she did not feel.

“I shan’t plague you anymore, for I have an apology of my own to tender.”

At David’s lifted brows, she paused a moment and twisted the napkin that lay in her lap.

“Before you left, I said some awful things to you. No, let me finish,” she said as David raised his hand in a gesture of negation. “Uncle Thomas and Aunt Regina have been at me all my life about my temper, but I never listened. Every time I became angry at someone—or thing—I simply let fly with the most vicious things I could think of, never giving a thought to the hurt I was inflicting. That day with you was no different. I don’t even remember what you had done to make me so angry, but I flew into a tantrum and spewed out the words I knew would wound you the most. Dear Heaven, David, what a terrible child I was!”

“Must be all that red hair,” he murmured, amusement in his eyes. “But that is ...”

“In the past. I know,” finished Kate. “But, I used to think my temper really could be blamed on my hair. You’ve heard the expression ‘seeing red’? Well, I actually did! When I’d fall into one of my rages, I looked out at the world through a red mist. I thought there must be some connection. Until the day of that final outburst at you. Then, I realized, finally, the fault lay, as Shakespeare said, within myself.”

“You refine too much on it, Kate. I was well acquainted with you, if you’ll remember. I knew you must have repented in horrible agony almost the minute I left the room. I’m only sorry we parted on such terms.”

“Oh, David, I was, too,” she said. “And you’re right about the repentance. I vowed that I would never again allow my emotions to goad me into causing pain to another. I can’t say my temper never gets the better of me, but I’ve never again lost control.”

David smiled at the vivid face before him, her earnest expression reminding him of the child he had known in his youth, when he’d been all too aware he dwelled at Westerly on sufferance. Then, she and her brother had been a beacon of light and warmth in an otherwise rather bleak life. Philip had not cared that he was a bastard, and Kate—well, Kate hadn’t known what the word meant. The three of them had been inseparable. Or, rather, he and Philip had been inseparable; Kate, years younger, had been merely tolerated. And that was due only to her fierce insistence that she be included in their adventures.

He glanced about the table as conversation flowed around him. Watching Regina insinuate herself into each conversation, he chided himself that he had been in her company for less than half an hour before he had allowed her to get under his skin. He was more than ever determined to cut his visit to Westerly short.

Chapter Four

The meal progressed, and David returned to the grim contemplation of his future. It was not until dessert was served that he became aware that Regina was addressing him. Good Lord, she must have been reading his mind.

“I plan to stay for a few days only, my lady,” he replied in answer to her pointed question. Beside him, he heard Kate gasp in protest.

“My recuperation is almost complete,” he continued smoothly. “I came at Father’s invitation because he wished to see me, not because I planned to make an extended visit.”

“But where will you go?” asked Regina, her tone indicating that his ultimate destination must be the gutter.

“Since I am no longer of any use to His Majesty’s army, I plan to go into the Diplomatic Service.”

Regina said nothing, but lifted her brows disbelievingly.

“David has been asked to join Lord Castlereagh’s staff,” interposed Kate, her face rather flushed. “He will be assisting in the preparations for the Congress, in Vienna.”