Authors: Lawana Blackwell
John had maneuvered an ottoman close to Miss Walters’s chair. In a moss green gown, she looked like a golden-haired fairy queen. He glanced at her for any sign of awe as he said, “Did you know that my grandfather wrote a book on the history of the Tower?”
“Why, Mr. Rayborn!” Lady Danby turned to him. “We’re being entertained by an author?”
“Well . . .” Father sat between Bethia and Mother on the sofa. Even from the side, Bethia detected the pleasure in his expression and smiled to herself.
Mr. Nicholls leaned forward a bit in his chair, eyes narrowing with thought. “
Now
I remember why your name struck a chord. We read a text on the bubonic plague our second year at Oxford. Did you, perchance . . .”
“He wrote it,” John answered for Father with a glance at Miss Walters. When the actress’s attention was focused upon Mr. Nicholls, his shoulders fell.
Now he knows how Lottie feels,
Bethia thought. Poor Lottie! The families would probably never be as close as before.
“We’ve an extra copy of the Tower book in my library,” Father said to Lady Danby. “Would you care to have it?”
She smiled. “You must have read my mind, Mr. Rayborn. I was wondering if the bookshops would be open before time to board my train Monday. It would make interesting reading on my way home.”
“I’ll get it,” Bethia offered, rising.
Mr. Carey got to his feet from the settee he shared with his mother. “May I tag along? I’d like to see the library again.”
****
In silence Noah accompanied her down a corridor. She looked as fetching as ever in a dark coral-colored dress with tiny blue flowers, her honey-brown hair hanging down to the blue sash at her waist. After opening the library door for her, he stepped back. She entered and snapped on the electric light. The room spoke of unostentatious comfort, with its worn leather chairs and oak shelves groaning with books. Notebooks and several texts, papers, and pencils lay upon a table in the center.
“My father’s research,” she explained when Noah picked up a copy of the
Domesday Book,
a census of Norman Britain commissioned by William the Conqueror in the eleventh century. “He’s writing a history of Hampstead.”
“He’s thorough, isn’t he?”
“To the most minute detail.”
“As you are with costumes.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Actually, I take a shortcut here and there.”
He put a hand to his heart, affecting shock. “I’ll never believe that.”
“Sorry to disillusion you. But I’m not such a stickler for detail that I’m willing to give up the sewing machines for time periods before they were invented. And good paint can make wooden buttons look like gold.”
As she turned away to scan the shelves, he said, “Shall I look on another wall?”
“No, thank you. It’ll be here somewhere. Ah, here it is.”
She handed him a thick red clothbound copy of
A History of the Tower of London,
by Daniel Rayborn. “Will he mind if we ask him to inscribe it?” Noah asked, absently running fingers along the etched gold lettering.
“Why, that would please him.”
They had no more reason to linger. He would have to hurry before he lost his nerve. Again.
“Miss Rayborn, this is asking a lot, and you’re probably sick to death of us by now, but I reserved three front-row
orchestra tickets for tonight’s performance last week, when I assumed my uncle and aunt would be accompanying my mother to London. Is it possible that you and someone in your family would consider sitting with her?”
“Tonight?” she said a little uneasily.
“Or I’ll ask your parents or the Doyles, if you’re not up to it. I should have mentioned this yesterday, but . . .”
His words trailed and hopes sank a little, for she seemed on the verge of declining. But then she said, “I remember promising to come the next time you played lead. And Lady Danby shouldn’t have to sit alone. I’m sure someone will be happy to come along with me.”
She even smiled and added, “From the looks of it, it may be John.”
“Thank you,” he said. “You, your family . . . you’ve been so thoughtful. It’s added tremendously to Mother’s visit.”
“She’s a lovely person.”
It seemed she would move toward the door. But she looked up at him again. “May I ask a personal question, Mr. Carey?”
“You may ask me anything,” he said, then mentally kicked himself for the thickness of his voice. He cleared his throat, as if to convey some physical reason. She apparently had not noticed, seeming to be preoccupied with how to phrase her question.
“How long . . . did it take you to recover completely when your fiancée left you?”
Noah cleared his throat again, this time to stall for time. “Ah . . .”
She shook her head. “Forgive me. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“No, really, it’s all right.” He blew out his cheeks. “You see, that newspaper article was not correct.
I
broke off the engagement.”
“I see,” she said. But it was as if a curtain had dropped between them. As she turned toward the door, Noah
automatically moved a hand to touch her shoulder but restrained himself.
“Please wait, Miss Rayborn.”
She turned again.
“I broke it off because my fiancée and I did not agree on a moral issue that was important to me.” It sounded pompous and lofty to his own ears, but under the constraint of his promise to Miss Spear, he could think of no other way to word it. Still, he could clarify one point. “There wasn’t another woman, or anything of that sort.”
She had winced at the
other woman
reference. “You read the article too?”
“You’ve no reason to be embarrassed, Miss Rayborn.” Once again sentiment touched his voice, but there was nothing he could do about that. “Everyone grieves for you. You’re like the younger sister we all wish we could protect.”
Her face clouded for a brief second, then her expression eased a bit. “That’s actually a comforting thought, Mr. Carey. I’ve rather dreaded the thought of returning to work, but yesterday was quite nice. And being back among my friends is probably the best tonic.”
“I
know
it is, Miss Rayborn.”
“And it will be easier on my parents as well, with my not brooding in my room.”
Noah affected a sigh. “Being loved is such a burden, isn’t it?”
“Thank you.” She smiled. “For reminding me that I’m still loved.”
More than you know,
ran through Noah’s mind.
****
When Bethia mentioned the invitation after their guests left, the family seemed relieved that she would consider still another outing. John declined, apparently having given up on winning Miss Walters’s heart. Since Mother and Father had seen the dress rehearsal, they declined as well. But William,
who always enjoyed an opportunity to pamper Sarah, encouraged her to accompany Bethia.
By the time Hiram brought the coach around that evening, the two had managed to look smart enough for an evening at the theatre without spending hours dressing. Sarah wore a gown of plum silk trimmed with Havana brown embroidery, and her blonde hair was caught up in a low-crowned marquis hat. Bethia had chosen her pearl-gray cashmere with narrow black stripes and a wide black sash but decided against a hat, liking the look of how Avis had styled her hair into a long braid twisted around a comb at the crown of her head.
Lady Danby was waiting near the will-call window at Royal Court. “How dear of you both to come on such short notice. I hated the thought of having no one with whom to share Noah’s debut.”
“We’re happy to be here,” Bethia assured her.
Mr. Birch appeared to lead them to their front-row seats. When the curtain rose on Charlotte Steel, faint murmuring came from various spots in the theatre. Obviously, not every patron had read the newspapers or noticed the last-minute corrections penned inside the playbills. Presently Mr. Carey strode into the setting, quirked a self-effacing but warm smile at the actress, and said, “It is I!”
If he was nervous, it did not show. Bethia had wondered, given the lack of animosity—real or pretended—between Mr. Carey and Mrs. Steel, if there would be enough convincing romantic tension between them, but both pulled it off extremely well.
Well enough for a standing ovation as the final curtain lowered. Realistically, she figured Mrs. Steel’s presence was the cause. Mr. Carey clearly knew it to be so, for during final bows he stepped back and applauded her as enthusiastically as did anyone else. But Bethia was happy for him, that he would always have the memory of seeing his mother weeping quietly on the front row.
****
As the theatre was emptying and the cast changing, Bethia, Sarah, and Lady Danby went up to the wardrobe room. “My word,” Mr. Carey’s mother said, eyeing the row of hats upon a shelf. “What a wonderful place to work. This reminds me of my grandmother’s attic. My sisters and I would spend hours playing dress up.”
“Bethia never grew up,” Sarah teased. “She’s found a way to be
paid
to play dress up.”
That made Lady Danby laugh. Bethia made a face at her sister. “You wouldn’t consider it ‘play’ during final fittings.”
“Noah says you work very hard,” Lady Danby said.
Bethia smiled, a little surprised at how much he seemed to speak of her to his mother. When they left the staircase, Mr. Carey was pacing the office corridor. “Ah, there you are,” he said. “I was worried you might have given up on me and decided to run away. A reporter for the
Stage
asked for a photograph with Mrs. Steel onstage.”
All three women complimented his performance. He thanked them, saying he surprised himself by being less nervous tonight than for rehearsal. “It was so kind of you to keep Mother company,” he added to Bethia and Sarah. “Will you be our guests for a late supper at the Cavour?”
“I’m afraid we’ll need to get back,” Sarah replied straightaway. “We sprang this outing on our coachman at the last minute. He’s probably very tired.”
****
Mr. Carey seems a very decent man,” Sarah said as the coach carried them northward up gaslit streets.
“He is,” Bethia said.
“And he’s fond of you.”
When Bethia opened her mouth, her mind was unable to send down any protest. She had noticed
something
these past two days, some meeting of his mind and hers on a level beyond casual conversation. Had it gone on even before this weekend, or had her life been too preoccupied with Guy to notice?
“I’m not ready for another romance,” she assured her sister.
“Are you sure?”
Bethia caught the unease in her expression and nodded. “I know it’s best to wait until I’m completely over Guy.”
Sarah shook her head. “I’m not speaking of waiting until you’re ‘over’ Guy to allow another beau in your life, Bethia. I’m suggesting that you not even entertain the
possibility
of another romance for several months.”
“Why is that?” Not that Bethia had set her sights on Mr. Carey or any other man. But she knew the natural order of life. People courted, married, and started families. She
wanted
children and to carry on the traditions handed down from her parents.
“We were all very fond of Guy,” her sister said, touching her arm. “And he was such a natural part of your life. I didn’t even realize until he was gone that we rather considered you
half
a person. I think you even thought of yourself that way.”
Again Bethia opened her mouth. And again her mind refused to cooperate. Had not she weighed almost every decision she made on whether Guy would approve? Even when he was miles away, she had carried him around with her, a presence always in the background of her conscious thoughts.
“I’m afraid that once Guy is out of your system completely,” Sarah went on, “you’ll allow Mr. Carey . . . or someone else to become that other half, and you’ll never have experienced the joy of just being Bethia. And if you spring out on another path too quickly, you’ll miss out on the added joy of waiting and trusting God to give you direction.”
The
path
imagery brought back Bethia’s thoughts three days ago, when Guy came to the house. She had prayed for guidance by rote since childhood, but had she ever actually waited for God to light the way first? It seemed, looking back, that she had included Him only in the difficult decisions, those without obvious answers. For the most part, however, she had decided what to do and then assumed God would give his stamp of approval simply because she was a Christian.
She turned to Sarah. “You’re a good sister.”
“As are you,” Sarah replied, but then gave her a worried look. “But does that mean you don’t agree with what I’m saying?”
“No, it makes perfect sense.” Bethia sighed. “I may just have to ask you to remind me sometimes. The thought of being alone is still a little frightening.”
“Alone? You still have God, your family and your friends.
And . . .”
Sarah slipped her arm about her shoulders and squeezed. “You have Bethia Rayborn—who is on her way to becoming a whole person in her own right.”
****
Amidst the recent upheaval to her life, Bethia had devoted little thought to her upcoming twenty-second birthday. She certainly did not link it to Father and William and John setting out on some vague errand after church the following day, for the first of November was still two days away.
Minutes after she heard the coach in the drive again, Danny walked into the parlour as if he had just stepped out for a second.
“Happy birthday, sister.”
She let out a cry of joy, got to her feet, and hurried across the parlour. He embraced her sideways, with his right arm looped around her, because his left arm held a small towel-wrapped bundle against his chest.
“Your lectures?” Bethia said.
“My professors gave permission, and some friends will share their notes. But I’ll have to leave Tuesday morning.”
And then the bundle barked.
“He’s a Skye Terrier,” Danny said as family gathered around. “Like Greyfriar’s Bobby.”
Bethia had heard the true story of the little dog who kept watch over its deceased owner’s grave until its own death fourteen years later. A statue was even erected in his honor in the heart of Edinburgh. She held the long-haired animal up to her chest and laughed while a pink tongue bathed her
chin. Sarah scratched its ears, and Bethia smiled at her. Her sister had warned her against another romance so soon, but she had not warned her against puppies, and she was smitten.