“Harry was here. He told me.”
“I got one concession out of her at least. She says Miss Rafferty will be invited to the do, as I am so exceedingly fond of her. That is the way she put it. It was all I could do to keep my tongue between my teeth.”
“As if Miss Rafferty would go with that sort of invitation!”
“What is she up to, Roz? You’re a woman. You must know.”
“I haven’t the faintest notion. That mention of your being so fond of Miss Rafferty is hardly conciliating, yet it seems she isn’t ready to give you up yet.”
Even as she spoke, Annabelle’s scheme began to reveal itself. She was paving the way for a jilting, but waiting until after the party to do it. She actually thought she had a chance of nabbing Sylvester! “Will Lord Sylvester be at the party?” she asked.
“Oh, certainly. It is another do in his honor, to judge by the way she speaks. She was invited to tea at his papa’s house and could scarcely speak of anything but Lord Dunston, though he wasn’t even there. If her papa had not been along, I would have used the tea party for an excuse to turn her off.”
“She’s trying to weasel a proposal out of Sylvester, Dick. That’s what she is about.”
“He’s welcome to her, but I don’t count on her success. He is only after her papa’s blunt to waste on his magazine. Fortescue is too hardheaded to throw it away when he worked so hard for every penny of it. The vicar had trouble squeezing ten guineas out of him to help with repairing the stained-glass windows in the church. So we are no farther ahead than when I left.” He set down his glass and said, “I say! You ain’t cut up about her dangling after Lord Sylvester, are you?”
Rosalind was too frustrated to reply. She just made a batting motion of denial with her fingers.
“She’ll catch cold at that. Anyhow, we have wasted enough time thinking about it,” Dick said. “If you are going up to London, you had best go over the accounts with me, and tell me what I must do in future. Annabelle would be a help there at least. She always had a head for figures.”
They went to his study and worked for an hour, but were both so distracted they felt it a waste of time. Dick went out to the stable to admire the foal—it was a filly—and Rosalind went up to her room to try to lose her worries in poetry. She found her thoughts turning to Harwell’s odd visit and wondered if she should let him know the outcome of Dick’s talk with Annabelle. Was he serious that she should call on him?
It was an odd feature of their friendship that, although he ran quite tame at Apple Hill, she never went to the Abbey without an invitation. This was usually to a large party, but occasionally he wanted her help to entertain some demanding relative, or give some pushing lady the notion he was taken.
The cards to Annabelle’s party arrived the next morning, including one for Miss Rafferty, who, with frightened eyes, held it in her hand as if it were a loaded pistol.
“I could never face her, Miss Lovelace,” she said. “Not after the way she spoke to me.” A noble look was on her face when she announced, “I shall send in a refusal.”
“Do what you think best,” Rosalind said, knowing Miss Rafferty was dying to go, but fearing the price to be
paid. Annabelle wouldn’t think twice of airing her dirty laundry in public.
Rosalind went for a ride in the afternoon to escape the house and to take out her frustrations in physical exertion. Some years ago she had dispensed with a groom for rides around her brother’s property and the fields of the neighboring Abbey. It was only when she rode into town that she bothered with the proprieties. It would not do for Miss Lovelace, of Apple Hill, to enter town unescorted.
The day was fine. Billows of soft white clouds, too lazy to move, lolled in the blue heavens. The sweet aromas of summer rose from the wildflowers as she passed. Rooks nagged at her from treetops. A crystal stream gurgled by, with flashes of silver where a school of tiny fish, hardly an inch long, were rushed along with the current.
She was undecided whether to call on Harwell. In the distance the stone walls of the Abbey rose in ancient glory, the brick warmed by the sun. Gothic windows, their colored splendor replaced by ordinary glass centuries ago, reflected the sun’s gold. On an impulse, she decided to call on Harry, but when she reached the stable, the groom told her his lordship had called for his curricle an hour before and had not returned. She was half-relieved. In her present mood, she would not be good company.
When she returned home, the butler told her Lord Harwell had been to call. He did not say whether he would return. It was one more petty annoyance to add to the unpleasant day, with everything up in the air. It would have helped relieve the tension to talk it over with Harry after all. Dick glowered when she met him in the hall. Miss Rafferty’s eyes were red when Rosalind went to the schoolroom to see how Sukey was going on.
“Miss Rafferty has got a cinder in her eye,” Sukey explained. “Can I go out and play now, Roz? I’ve done a whole page of letters. This is an
a
,” she said, proudly displaying her handiwork. “And this is a
b.
It sounds like boy and bag and bug. I’m learning to read!”
“That’s wonderful, Sukey. Yes, why don’t you go out and ride your pony for a while. It’s a lovely day.” She knew the groom would see Sukey was accompanied.
* * * *
The Lovelaces’ socializing had increasingly centered around the Fortescues since Dick’s engagement. Regular dinner parties with their old friends were less frequent. Annabelle was bored by their provincial neighbors. With the new coolness between the young couple, Rosalind and Dick had the evening to themselves. Harwell did not call.
She thought Sylvester might send her a note, but the morning brought no letter with the familiar writing. Annabelle did not call, nor did she receive calls from either of the Lovelaces, but when Rosalind drove into Croydon from sheer boredom to call on an old friend of the family, she heard plenty about the coming party. It seemed the shops and High Street were abuzz with it.
The London coach had delivered dozens of large parcels for Miss Fortescue, which were duly picked up by footmen and carried to the gaudy mansion. Every retired and unemployed servant in town was pressed into temporary service in preparation for the event.
“They will be serving turtle soup!” Miss Vickers informed Rosalind, when they sat to have tea. This was a great innovation for local society, requiring as it did a live turtle. “Miss Spender has spent every afternoon at their house making a new gown for Mrs. Fortescue. She bought the ecru taffeta and matching lace at Fulton’s. Miss Fortescue had her gown made in London!” she announced, as if London were Paris, or the Far East. “She has sworn her dresser to secrecy, as if they were planning to overthrow the king, so we have not heard what the gown is like, but the servants say she has had a pair of dancing slippers dyed Olympian blue.”
This suggested not only that the secret gown was blue, but that there was to be dancing. This had been in doubt as the local musicians had not been hired. It seemed that London was to supply not only the gown but the music.
Rosalind did not share these nuggets with Dick. Any mention of Annabelle sent him into a fit of the blue devils. She would have liked to discuss the coming party with someone, but it seemed cruel to tantalize Miss Rafferty when she had found the fortitude to send in her refusal to the grandest party the parish had ever seen.
Rosalind did not plan to put herself to the bother and expense of a new gown, nor would it have been possible if she had. Every modiste in town was working day and night to outfit the privileged group who had received an invitation.
With no new gown to distinguish her, she was toying with the notion of sporting a turban, concocted from a leftover length of the rose silk that had been used for her new gown. Turbans looked rather modish on older ladies like herself. But then she would look like Sylvester’s mama or maiden aunt. Why didn’t he write?
The next morning the long-awaited letter finally arrived. It was written in a lively style, lengthy and full of plans for her remove to London. Any vague doubts and worries about Sylvester’s character and intentions vanished as she read it. The flat was ready for occupancy. The sooner she could come, the better. He was most eager to show her off.
He had drawn a floor plan of the apartment where she was to live and a map of the surrounding facilities: shops, circulating libraries, churches, and so on. He had marked the homes of various friends and business associates with an X and mentioned which of them were sociable. Sir George Kingsley, it seemed, gave grand parties. A Miss Langtry was marked with a notation that she would show Rosalind around the shops, modistes, coiffeurs, etc. That was well done of him. Imagination painted a rosy future of gadding about London with the literary set. The tone of the letter left no doubt that he considered himself as her special friend, if not yet her lover.
All her early enthusiasm for the plan was reactivated. It would do her the world of good to get away. She could hardly wait.
What he had not included was the rather important matter of the flat’s price. There were two paragraphs discussing her new set of poems, with voluminous suggestions as to classical references. He said he looked forward to seeing her on Saturday but did not actually say he would call. Did he mean he would see her at Annabelle’s party? Not a word regarding his having squired Annabelle about London. It obviously meant nothing to him. He had only done it from gratitude for Fortescue’s contribution to
Camena.
Altogether it was a most satisfying missive and was signed, “with warmest regards, Sylvester.” A postscript crowded onto the bottom of the page mentioned he hoped she was not planning to bring Sukey, as London was no place for a child. She was glad she hadn’t said anything to Dick about taking Sukey with her. Really Sukey would be better off at home.
Rosalind carried the letter in her pocket and was perusing it again that afternoon in the garden when Lord Harwell came to call. He spotted her on his way from the stable to the house. She stuffed it back into her pocket and arranged a smile to greet him.
“Not a word about the mountain coming to Muhammad, sir!” she said saucily. “I called on you the other day, and you were out.”
“So John Groom told me. I wonder we didn’t meet on the road. I was here, calling on you.” Something in her attitude called to mind that earlier meeting, when he had just returned from London. The setting was similar, with the garden all around. Her face had the same glow. On that other occasion, it was the publication of her poems that excited her, but that thrill had worn off by now. Harwell had a sinking sensation it was Sylvester who accounted for this new excitement.
“I rode through the fields, which would account for it,” she said. “You have come to learn the outcome of Dick’s visit to Croydon. I fear nothing has been settled.”
“I already know that. Next to the party, it is the most discussed
on dit
in Croydon.”
“But we haven’t told anyone!”
“I wonder who did,” he asked, and gave a disparaging shake of his head. This was no real mystery. The only other person who knew was Annabelle herself. “Poor Miss Rafferty features as the villainess of the piece. Dick is not fighting off her advances as he ought. A most unlikely ‘other woman.’ There will be fur flying before the night is over.”
“It will not be Miss Rafferty’s fur. She has sent in her refusal.”
“A wise precaution, though it is a pity she must miss the do. It is being spoken of, even in London.”
“Have you been to London?” she asked, surprised.
“Yes, I had the estate agent show me over Lord Dunston’s new block of flats while I was there. A concerned neighbor’s privilege. They are very handsome. Everything done up in the first style.”
“And the location very convenient. Sylvester enclosed a map in his letter.”
His eyes moved unconsciously to her pocket. “Is that what you were perusing so intently when I arrived?”
“I was glancing at it, yes. The flat seems ideal. I am most eager to be off. Spread my wings and fly away.”
When Harwell saw the pleasure glowing in her eyes, he felt a profound sense of loss. He knew it was not a flat that put that flush on her cheeks. She was in love with the popinjay, as surely as he was in love with her. How had he not realized it years ago? The right woman was here, under his nose, all the time he had been racketing around, looking for love. He had been blinded by their friendship, but to have a lover and friend in one was the best love of all.
“About the flat, much depends on one’s neighbors, of course,” he said. And some of those flats had been let to dashers he would not care to see Rosalind associate with.
“I hardly think lowlifes will be able to afford such finery.”
“Nor starving artists either. That was the sort of neighborhood he mentioned, was it not?”
“Other writing friends of his live nearby. It is a sort of cultural oasis. The group is close. They go about to lectures and parties and so on together. The offices of
Camena
are only a block or two away as well.”
“If you find it does not suit, you will remember my offer to stay at my house. Until you find something you like better at least. I told my housekeeper she was to make you welcome if you chose to go there.”
“That was—thoughtful of you,” she said. As far as Rosalind was concerned, it was also unnecessary. In fact, it was bordering on the intrusive. “But I hardly think Lord Sylvester would recommend rooms that were unsuitable in any way. He knows me pretty well. He knows what would suit me.”
“As Annabelle has given them her seal of approval, we must assume they do not lack for finery.”
Rosalind’s eyes glittered dangerously. Annabelle had approved them! Sylvester had not mentioned that! No doubt the hussy had nagged him into it.
“How soon will you be leaving?” he asked.
“Eager to be rid of me?” she snipped. Her anger was with Annabelle, but it was Harwell who was there to take the brunt of it.
“Not at all. My intention was to give a dinner party before your departure, to thank you for the many favors you’ve done me over the years.”