Elisabeth Fairchild (13 page)

Chapter Seventeen

Patience stepped into her dreams.

To dance with Pip seemed a bit of magic unfolding, especially with the faint glimmer of hope in her heart that what Richard said was true.

Could it be true?

That Pip loved another?

Could it be . . . oh, please let it be . . . her.

As if the speed of time itself had been suspended, the world whirled by in a great hurry as she slowed, finding focus in forget-me-not blue, in the satin fullness of smiling lips, in the sweet, swirling, heart-pounding enchantment of tandem movement: hand to waist, hand to gloved hand, gazes wedding.

To dance with Pip had so long been her goal, her dream, that all else slipped away on a rushing tide of music and gliding, bouncing, heart-stirring movement. Nothing else mattered. No one else in this golden moment.

They two became the center of the universe, everything else revolving around them, the stars at Almack’s glittering with envy, as stunned as she that the golden, glorious, much sought-after sun, Philip Yorke, Earl of Royston, heir to the Yorke fortune, had asked plain Patience Ballard to orbit the room.

In the periphery of her vision she saw heads turn: moons caught in Pip’s gravitational pull, Sophie Defoe, Sophie’s stepbrother, then Lord and Lady Wilmington, his lordship smiling, her ladyship with a pleasant, if not a pleased expression. Of course, Mama looked up from her conversation with Richard and beamed at her, while Richard—dear, dependable Richard—held out his arm and asked Mama if she would like to dance.

Patience smiled, her heart full, her view of the world gone all rose and gold and whirling, the music sweeter than before. The thrill of Pip’s touch sang in her fingertips; it raced the length of her arm. The hair at the nape of her neck prickled.

Her skirt belled, pale petals touched with red, dizzy as her pulse. She felt caught up in a cloud of importance—an aura of social glitter. Pip was important and desirable, and by association, by his attentions to her, she took on a temporary glow. The power of it rose within her, left her giddy, drunk with it.

“I suppose she is not coming,” he said.

Who is not coming?
she thought, her concern for an answer a distant thing. His hand was at her waist, and the sound of strings flowed around them like water. Her limbs felt limber and agile and graceful as Pip, dear Pip, led her in the dance.

She tipped back her head and laughed as the answer came to her. “The woman in red?” she asked smoothly, her voice self-assured, throatier than usual, in keeping with the moment.

He nodded and glanced about, as if he would spot her himself. His every move, the pressure of his hand at her waist, guided her, anticipating her every move. Their gliding progress was perfect, just as she had imagined—better than she had imagined.

“You are wrong,” she said lightly, as lightly as her feet upon the floor. She was ready now; the timing was perfect. Her dress twirled about her like a fallen rose. It was time to tell him. The words came easily. “She is here after all, has been here all along. You have only to open your eyes and she is right in front of you.”

He laughed, his laughter turning heads, his hair glinting golden beneath the chandeliers, his teeth and dimples flashing. He narrowed his eyes in amused confusion—a teasing glance, a flirtatious look. “Here all along? What do you mean?”

She smiled, the room spinning, their bodies moving in perfect tandem. His eyes glittered with curiosity. She waited for the truth to sink in, anticipating it. The music rose to a crescendo. Realization dawned in his eyes.

“Of course,” he said. “I should have known. She gave herself away when she laughed.”

Patience laughed, the sound of it more sensuous than ever before. It had given her away, that laugh. Even as she smugly thought so, her amusement faded, her steps faltered along with her thoughts.

When had she laughed? That night in the park. She did not remember laughing. She played the moment again in her mind. There had been laughter. Not hers.

“Melanie!” Pip said, triumphant. “I should have known it had to be her. Always playing games. Teasing me. Why did you not tell me before? Did she swear you to secrecy?”

***

She did not tell him after all—did not disabuse him of the notion that Lady Wilmington was the lady in red. Did not remind him Richard loved her. There seemed no point to it, really. He could not see it—could not see her as she wished to be seen. His disinterest squeezed at her heart most painfully.

The music faded.

His hand fell away.

Her spirits sank.

In that flattened moment William Defoe stepped forward to ask her to dance.

She looked at him without true comprehension. The words made no sense. Dance with him?

Pip turned in that instant to smile—not at her—at Lady Wilmington, a look in his eyes she had never seen him turn on her.

Out of pique she said, “Yes.”

She would make him take notice, she thought, by dancing with every eligible gentleman in the room, even William Defoe.

It was a stupid game to play, a foolish ploy destined for failure, but she was not thinking clearly at the time. Her heart took over her head. And William Defoe took her hand and led her onto the floor.

He made no conversation for the first half of the dance, which was not wholly unusual, for the steps took them apart and together again.

“Just how well do you know my stepsister’s future husband?” he asked, the question voiced in such a way that it took on a suggestive, even vaguely unseemly connotation.

She did not rush to answer, for again the dance forced them apart, and Patience was unsure of herself, of her words, with this stranger. She could not be sure how he would interpret—or possibly misinterpret—anything she told him. His gaze remained fixed on her in a most intimidating stare, as if he would read the answer in her eyes. She wondered why he asked, if he feared she might prove competition for Pip’s affections.

She was tempted to blurt out that he need not worry. Instead she said, “I know Pip the child better than Pip the man. We have been apart for six years and more.”

“Pip.” Again that assessing gaze, the smile that spoke more of sarcasm than humor. “Sophie said you called him by a pet name.”

Patience made no reply. She could not remember having addressed Pip as Pip within Sophie Defoe’s hearing.

“What manner of boy was Pip, then?” he asked.

“Much the same as he is now.”

And when his brows rose, she said, “Playful. Handsome. Always laughing. Good at games.”

“Not so good as he thinks he is. I have seen him lose. More than once.” He threw back his head, the noise issuing from his throat more snort than laugh. “One might describe Sophie in much the same terms.”

“The perfect match, then,” she suggested with forced enthusiasm.

“Absolutely perfect,” he said with the same amused sarcasm that had troubled her earlier.

Their dance ended, but not Defoe’s inclination for conversation. As he led her to the dining room for refreshment he asked in silken tones, “Do you mean to marry him?”

She feared she gave herself away. Her gaze strayed across the room, where Pip stood chatting in a relaxed fashion with Lady Wilmington.
Him? Who?
she wondered, but what she said, making great effort to keep her tone nonchalant, was, “I’ve no plans to be married.”

“A childhood friend of yours as well, was he not?” He nodded toward Richard, who looked up from the conversation he made with Sophie Defoe, smiling pleasantly, and just as pleasantly disengaged himself that he might come and rescue her from Defoe’s delving curiosity.

Chapter Eighteen

Patience reconsidered her words later in Pip’s carriage, on the way home again, lamplight guiding them through darkened streets, candlelight golden in the windows they passed, gilding Pip’s hair, gilding his cheek, his lips, his lashes. Little golden glances of all that she dreamed of.

“I’ve no plans to be married. . . .”

How boldly she had laid claim to the lie. She did have plans to be married, had envisioned it in her mind from the time she was a child. She had pictured her wedding day, her wedding dress, a wedding cake, and flowers. She had dreamed of the fair gentleman who would stand at her side.

The golden dream was promised to another. Pip. She had planned to marry Pip. She had imagined every aspect of the day.

The problem was, he did not plan to marry her.

“Why so quiet?” Pip’s concerned voice broke into her reverie. “Did you not enjoy yourself?”

It pleased Patience that he cared enough to notice, that he cared enough to ask. In that concern the slimmest golden thread of possibility still held her attached to him, to an impossible dream.

“Not enjoy herself? Of course she did.” Her mother roused herself from the dozing state most carriages immediately inflicted upon her to voice opinion. “How could a young woman not enjoy herself in her first visit to Almack’s? And so very kind of you to provide escort, Philip. Was it not kind?” She gave Patience a weak whack with her fan.

“Most kind, I’m sure,” Patience murmured obediently, though it was not true, really. Pip had not asked her out of kindness. He had asked her because he wanted her to do something for him, because he needed her. And she had not really enjoyed herself as much as she had expected. Not really.

“The dancing was nice,” she said. She would always remember the dancing. “And I was pleased to meet your fiancée at last.” But most of all, she thought, she had been pleased to see Richard there. Richard, who had rescued her from the card room and from Will Defoe; Richard, who knew at once how much she wanted to dance; Richard, who had been banned, and now was not. She could not imagine enjoying any place terribly much that had ever intended to stop Richard’s entrance.

“Do you mean to come with us tomorrow?” her mother asked Pip. “To Cavendish Manor. I so look forward to a wonderful coze with Lady Cavendish. It will be like old times.”

“Not quite like old times,” Pip said, and shot a glance at Patience.

“No,” her mother agreed sadly. “Poor Chase. I wonder how long he can survive in his current state? The manor is not the same without his father.”

“Not without games of hide-and-seek.” Pip winked at her, and gave her skirt a covert yank.

His words sent a thrill of the forbidden down her spine. This secret, this most intimate of secrets only they two shared, reminded her of all that she felt for him, of all she had wished for. That he mentioned it, and winked at her, with such an intimate look of mischief, twisted the thin thread of hope, tugged hard. Could it be she might win him still? Could it be he was still interested in her despite his promised state?

“I suppose it cannot be too long before Richard is in charge—dear Richard,” her mother said.

Richard.

How did he manage to step between them, even at a distance?

Richard would have frowned at Pip’s suggestive remark. He would have frowned had he known how much Patience’s body reacted to the yank on her skirt. He would have, in some subtle way, managed to remind her of Sophie Defoe.

It seemed entirely inappropriate at the moment, even shameful, that Pip should tease her with bawdy remarks, given the subject they discussed.
Poor Chase.
Patience was glad when they reached the familiar doorstep of their London home, glad in many ways that Pip was not to go with them to Cavendish Manor.

Chapter Nineteen

A surprise met Patience at the door to the manor.

They were welcomed by none other than Mr. Trumps, Pip’s former tiger. Dressed far more soberly than when last she had seen him, in the deep blue livery of the Cavendish household, he wore a bagwig rather than a turban, but the flash of his cheeky grin at sight of her was unmistakably the same.

“Good morning!” He suppressed the smile, bowing flawlessly.

Patience laughed and held her hands out to him, saying, “Mr. Trumps! Do you remember me? I’d no idea you were here.”

“My real name is Smith,” the lad said, as though sharing a secret. “Toby Smith. Master Richard took me in when my lord Yorke had no more use for me. Did you ever tell my lord it was you who beat him at chess?”

“Chess?” Her mother frowned. She did not care to be left out of conversations. She did not care to be kept waiting just inside the doorway. “Who have you beaten at chess, Patience?”

“Pip, Mama, though he does not know it.” She turned her head in such a way that she might wink at the lad without her mama observing. “This is Mr.—Toby. He used to be Pip’s tiger.”

Toby bowed again and urged them, “This way, Mrs. Ballard. My lady has a new rose to show you in the garden.”

Patience was to be delivered to the yellow drawing room.

“The gentlemen will join you momentarily,” Toby told her as he quietly drew the doors shut behind him.

The songbirds had yet to be released from their damask cages. The same clock ticked and spun upon the mantel. The view alone seemed lusher, more verdant than she remembered. As if someone had known she would need them, two decks of cards sat squarely in the middle of the tufted leather cushion in the window seat.

Richard
, Patience thought. Did he know her that well?

With a smile she shuffled the decks together as she watched her mother and Lady Cavendish through the open window. A cool, floral-scented breeze teased her nose. She absently dealt a hand of Patience onto the Italian inlay table at her elbow, and pretended not to hear Chase’s raised voice as Richard wheeled him through the adjacent gallery, where row upon row of the Cavendish family had been painted and framed for posterity’s sake, and row upon row of windows stood open to the same breeze she enjoyed.

As a result, every fretful word that the two uttered drifted in by way of her window, as did the screeching noise of the wheeled chair Richard had purchased for Chase’s transportation about the house.

Pippet, the cockatoo, stirred in the large wire cage that graced one corner of the drawing room. Like Mr. Trumps—no, she must remember to think of him as Smith now, Toby Smith—the bird had been taken into Richard’s care. Tilting its head it gave a whistle that sounded remarkably like the screeching wheels of Chase’s chair.

Patience might have laughed at this had not Chase muttered drunkenly, “Can’t shtand visitors, Rich. Why torment me?”

In dappled sunlight the exposed kings and queens upon the table seemed to wink and wave scepters. The zigzagged backs of the facedown cards shimmered with imagined movement. Patience squinted at them, found a red ten to play upon a black knave, uncovered a red eight, and unearthed a black nine from her stockpile.

“I am in constant pain,” Chase complained.

Her hands stilled. The clock ticked and clucked.

“. . . must pretend that I am not. Imp’lite, otherwise. You’ve no idea what it’s like.”

Crisp and calm and orderly came Richard’s reply, like the steady ticking of the clock, like the careful placement of her cards. “I understand far more than you give me credit for, Chase.”

The bird twisted its head to listen, feathers rustling as it hopped from seed bowl to perch.

“They talk of all I can no longer do: horshes, racing, dancing, drinking, women, the clubs.”

A little squawk, before the cockatoo tapped at the bell tied to the side of the cage, as if trying to drown out Chase’s unhappy voice.

“Tell whoever it is . . .”

Ding. Ding.

“Go ’way!”

Ding, ding.

Patience sat back in the ringing silence, wondering if she made a mistake in coming, in her hand a red queen, sad-looking woman.

Richard asked, his voice so low as to be almost imperceptible, “Drinking, Chase? After the doctor told you it destroys your liver?”

Chase laughed harshly. “Not enough. Give a dying man a brandy, Rishi. Better yet, a bottle. What can it hurt?”

She uncovered the king of hearts, sword through his head. He did not look as if it bothered him too much.

Richard’s reply was lost in the cockatoo’s frantic
ding-ding-ding.

“Your friend, not mine.”

Ding-ding-ding-ding-ding.

“
You
play with her.”

Her play seemed stalemated, no more cards to turn.

Richard’s voice, quieter, more soothing, was not easy to make out. Patience heard only snatches.

“No need to be rude.”

She gathered up the cards.

“No need to be anything anymore,” Chase said.

Pippet screeched happily, “Dickey-boy.”

“Legless!” Chase sounded angry—hopeless. “Without issue.”

She gave the deck a listless shuffle.

“Dickey-boy.”
Ding, ding.

“You shall evenshually inherit.”

So melancholy his voice. Resigned. The cards felt heavy in her hand.

“Dickey-lad.”

“They will fall over themselves currying favor; just you watch.”

Ding-ding-ding.

Patience saw no point in dealing a fresh hand. She sat holding the cards indecisively.

“Not Patience.” Richard’s voice was calm, unflappable, absolutely certain of himself—of her.

Dear Richard.
His voice calmed her. She shuffled the decks again, a bit jumpy—afraid she would say the wrong thing to Chase, afraid she would be as shaken as the bird’s bell by sight of him, that he would see disgust or pity or shock in her reaction to him.

“Do you remember Patience?” Richard asked. “She used to come here when we were children.”

Slap, slap, slap.
She dealt herself another hand.

“Idolized Pip, dinnshe?”

She stopped, a card hovering.

“Impressed by a pretty face and certain title.”

What!

Slap. Slap!
She dealt with increased vigor, offended. That was not why she loved Pip!

“Followed after him . . .”

Ding-ding-ding. Slap. Slap.

“. . . bish in heat.”

She inhaled sharply, almost dropped the cards, caught them just in time.

They were nearing the door.

Tick, tick.

Her cheeks burned. The cards were all out of order. They made no sense to her.

“You will watch your language, Chase. She is a well-bred young lady who does you a great kindness in this visit.”

“I do not think any young lady comes to see me these days for my own sake, Dickey. She comes ’cause of you.”

The door swung wide, then, and Patience schooled her features into blank welcome, wiping all feeling from her heart for a moment—just a moment, please God. No flinching. No shock. No fear. No pique.
Bitch in heat, indeed!

She almost dropped the cards.

He looked yellow! Almost as yellow as the faded birds trapped in the damasked walls. Caged in his chair. Flightless.

Patience could not completely control her surprise, but she could control the shaking of her hands, with the cards, familiar faces, the motion of her hands a comfort.

She dealt a king of hearts, faceup, blade sunk deep.

Richard frowned as he entered, his gaze—and his brother’s—fixed on her immediately: his one of concern, while Chase, chin up, bloodshot eyes at once bleak and defiant, looked as if he were anything but happy to see her.

Patience abandoned her game and stepped forward, hand out. She took his limp, yellowed fingers in hers, unable to harbor resentment toward this once brash and brawny young man. She looked him in the eye and saw some hint of the overwhelmingly masculine energy that had once frightened her, and mourned its complete destruction. “How do you do, Chase?”

Chase glared at her. “How do I do? Cannot move. Skin the color of mustard, and you ask how I do? Is it not clear? I do demned awful.”

He drew himself up in the chair, his legs motionless, so completely motionless beneath the lap blanket. “But let not my impending demise deprive me of all manners. How do you do, Miss Patience? Have you yet learned the meaning of your name?”

Richard made an abrupt, unsettled movement, as if ready to defend her, to rescue her again from this broken canary.

Patience would not allow it. “I am sorry to admit I am no more patient than I was as a child.” She spoke firmly, her eyes meeting Chase’s without flinching, without once looking down at the lap blanket.

Chase nodded, head swinging a little wildly, as if he were not in complete control of it. His eyelids seemed too heavy to keep firmly open. She could smell the rum and laudanum on his breath from where she stood. The vocal slur returned. “I alwaysh thought you mose ill-named.”

“I suppose my name has been a bit of a cross to bear,” she said crisply. “Just as yours may now prove.”

Her words caught him off guard. He shook his head, confused. “Don’t follow.”

“A legless Chase, and an impatient Patience?”

He choked out a laugh. Eyes brightening, he regarded her with something akin to respect. “Cruel irony, that. I see you have not lost your direct ways.”

“No. Much to my mother’s chagrin.”

“Mussen mind.” He wagged a finger at her. “Rishard admires it. ’Mires you.”

She glanced at Richard, brows rising. “Does he, indeed?”

“He does,” Richard said calmly, smiling as he turned away to offer Pippet a slice of carrot.

“So you’ve come to play cards with the gimp?” Chase’s voice acquired renewed vigor and vitriol. Before she could respond he went on. “Don’t care for cards. Never have. So go away now. Done your charitable deed for the day.” Chase grabbed the arms of the chair and barked at Richard, “Back to my room, Dickey. We’re done here.”

Patience eyed him a moment, lips pursed. She bit back a snide retort and slid a look at Richard.

Richard glanced back sadly, as if to apologize. When he made a move toward his brother, Patience gave the slightest shake of her head.

“We need not play cards,” she said. “What games do you prefer?”

Chase said nothing for a moment. He glared at her again, as if confused as to why she refused to be gone. Then he pursed his lips and said, his words a challenge, “I like dice. Do you know Hazard or Chuck-a-luck?”

Is life a game
, she thought,
and I am Patience, and Chase is Chuck-a-luck?

“No. I have never played at dice,” she said. “Will you teach me?”

They rattled and clicked away the afternoon, as Chase taught them Hazard, and Help-Your-Neighbor, and Chuck-a-luck at penny ante, the same inlaid Italian table she had long ago played Patience upon for casting, and a cunning little brass birdcage tosser for their throws.

It was evident Chase enjoyed his superior skill. Patience made no great effort to win, preferring to watch poor, maimed Chase caught up in the rattle and fall of the dice, his bloodshot eyes lighting when he won the pot, his crowing noises growing louder as their play progressed. The cockatoo grew excited, and spread his wings, and arched his crest, and squawked so loudly he had to be moved to another room.

Toby Smith came in to carry the bird away, and as he walked out, the bird perched on his shoulder, Patience could not help but think of Vauxhall, and how like Chase Pip was in his profound enjoyment of games.

Unlike Pip, Chase was completely ungracious both at winning and at losing, and he fussed when the limitations of his body made it imperative he be handed the dice cage rather than reaching for it. It did not matter to Patience, for after an awkward first game, in which he insulted her every ineptitude, he seemed to relax, to forget his legs’ immobility beneath the paisley shawl that draped his knees. He seemed to regain better control of both thought and speech.

More than once, Richard’s gaze met hers—exceptionally warm glances in which his mouth and jaw softened, and she realized how very rigid his features had become since the accident, how stiff the set of his shoulders, how dark the shadows smudging his eyes. These visual exchanges smoothed over any ruffled feelings she might have harbored when Chase rubbed her the wrong way.

Chase tired after the third game of Chuck-a-luck.

“Last game,” he said. “Let it be Hazard. I’m all done in.”

He won. It was his favorite game, and yet he did not crow or laugh as he had before, said only, “Well, then. It’s a good day if I go out a winner.”

She thought it an odd comment as he wished her good-day, far more formal and polite than before. He could not bow, but he tipped his head, and when Richard stood to wheel him away, he said with an irritable gesture, “Stay! You’ve Patience to see to, and I have none.”

She thought it a witty barb, an indication of his growing weariness, drunkenly loosed, for Chase was definitely intoxicated, and had asked for a glass of brandy while they sat playing.

Richard had not refused the spirits; neither had he been free with them. He showed no change of feeling or emotion by way of expression or gesture in response to Chase’s unending barbs, and yet she knew his brother’s attitude pained him as much as did his brother’s situation.

“As you wish,” he said calmly, and rang the bellpull.

When they were alone together, the sound of the wheelchair grown distant, the chime of the mantel clock suddenly sweet and fragile in the ensuing silence, Richard said, “Well, that went rather better than anticipated, don’t you agree?”

“I do.” Patience voiced her reply a trifle too fervently. She wished it had gone better, for Richard’s sake, wished she might ease the lines from his forehead and the tension from his stance, wished she might do anything at all to halt the inevitable, for while she would not wish upon herself a brother like Chase, she, with no brothers at all, could fully comprehend what Richard stood to lose. “We must do it again sometime,” she suggested. “Soon.”