Supervising Sally (20 page)

‘Phoebe, you wouldn't! He'll send me home! And I have to stay here, with Henry.'

‘Do you promise?'

Sally clasped her hands. ‘Yes, anything, so long as you don't tell Papa! Phoebe, if you were in love you'd understand! '

Wondering whether she was relying too much on Sally's word, Phoebe said she would not speak unless Sally did something else so imprudent.

‘But I will take your breeches,' she said. ‘Get them off; it's time you were dressing for dinner. We have invitations to a ball this evening, too.'

Sally reluctantly stripped off the breeches and handed them to Phoebe. ‘I truly love Henry, and he might be killed if there is fighting,' she said.

‘We must hope not. By the way, here is a letter for you.'

Sally took it, and smiled. ‘It's from Mama, at last,' she said, and broke the wafer. She skimmed through the letter and gave a little skip of excitement. ‘Phoebe! Mama is coming to Brussels, she'll be here in time for my ball! Oh, that's wonderful!'

Zachary tossed yet another letter aside. This time it was from his eldest sister, informing him that Jonas had installed himself, his wife, his mother-in-law and his two sons in Zachary's main residence in Shropshire.

His sisters did not hesitate to be blunt, he thought, with a rueful grin. The news that Jonas was making free with his property angered him, but there was little he could do about it from Brussels.

He came to a sudden decision. His sisters were right, and he would have to find himself a wife as soon as possible. A picture of Phoebe Kingston came to mind, and for the first time he seriously considered the possibility of marriage with her. She had no dowry, but he was wealthy enough for that not to matter. She was sensible; he enjoyed her company; Beatrice approved of her. They need not see a great deal of her deplorable brother-in-law. Yorkshire, thank goodness, was far enough from all his houses to prevent too frequent visiting.

He would think about it seriously, he promised himself. It was time, however, to get dressed, as he was to accompany the duke to a ball this evening. While working tirelessly to improve his army, and gather more troops, Wellington gave
an impression of calm which did a great deal to steady the nerves of both troops and civilians. Part of this was his frequent appearances at social occasions, and the amount of entertaining he did himself.

The ball was at one of the large houses on the outskirts of the city, and the extensive gardens surrounding it were illuminated with hundreds of coloured lanterns. It was a mild evening, and several pairs of windows were open to the terrace. No doubt couples would be strolling on the lawns later.

He soon found Phoebe and Sally, talking with some of Sally's young friends. Phoebe was looking particularly charming in a pale-blue round gown with an embroidered bodice. He drew her aside and took her dance card.

‘Good, may I have the first waltz and the supper dance?'

Smiling, she agreed, and he passed on to greet other people. When it was time to dance with her he found her quieter than usual, and there was a slight frown between her eyes.

‘What is it? Has Sally been up to her tricks again?'

She looked startled and hastened to deny it. ‘Sally's mother,' she said slowly. ‘There was a letter today. She is coming here, in time for Sally's dance.'

‘I see. Is Sally pleased?'

‘Rather to my surprise, she is delighted. But Sir William doesn't know yet. He has been out all day, and was not back before we came here.'

‘And Madame Antoine? It will be rather awkward, I assume, with the dance being at her house.'

Phoebe shook her head. ‘I don't know. I've grown to like her, and her husband was at Oxford with Sir William. Perhaps that explains why he is so much in her company.'

‘I wasn't aware of that. But has Clara stopped doing up Benton Manor?'

‘The letter didn't say. It was very short, just to say she could not miss her daughter's ball. I did wonder whether she means to take Sally back to England.'

In which case, Zachary realized, Phoebe would no longer be needed. He glanced round, saw they were close to doors leading on to the terrace, and swung Phoebe through them.

‘Let's walk in the gardens for a while,' he said, tucking her arm through his and leading her down on to the lawn. There were other couples strolling about, so Zachary turned aside into a path bordered by ornamental trees.

When they had gone far enough away for the music to be just a faint echo he stopped, and turned Phoebe to face him.

‘Phoebe, my dear, you may find this rather sudden, but believe me, I hold you in great esteem. I have watched how you have dealt with Sally, your patience and common sense, and come to admire you greatly. Will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?'

In the faint glow from the lanterns he could see her face, and the startled expression on it. Then she wrenched her arm away from his grasp and took a couple of hurried steps away from him.

‘My lord, I suppose I should be gratified by this proposal, but I cannot help but know your main desire is not for a wife, but for a son to deprive your uncle of his hope of inheriting from you. I'm not a brood mare, so you will understand why I cannot accept your very flattering offer!'

She turned, and before he could prevent her, she was running back along the path towards the house. He swore comprehensively, all the oaths he had learned in Spain and Portugal. He had made a complete mull of that, and it was too late to stop her and try to explain.

P
HOEBE, WITH TEARS threatening to overflow, could not endure the thought of returning to the ballroom. It was a warm evening, though only the middle of April, so she turned off the path into a narrower one and came eventually to a small summerhouse. The door was unlocked, and there were cane chairs stacked inside. She set one down just inside the doors, which she pulled to behind her, and breathed deeply. She would not weep! She tried to make herself angry with the earl, but instead of this kept recalling his helpfulness.

How could he have thought she would be content to accept his proposal, when she knew full well the only reason he wanted a wife was to provide a son so that Jonas and his sons could not inherit the title and his fortune. Bleakly she admitted to herself it was a dream she had tried to discourage. She could think of nothing she wanted more, but only if he loved her. Esteem, he'd said. She could not live with a man who merely esteemed her.

Phoebe tried to tell herself there were many marriages where the partners felt no love for one another. They were no less successful. She wondered whether Jane and Reginald had ever felt such emotion, and surprised herself with a
giggle. Perhaps she read too many novels where lovers made passionate speeches declaring undying love. Reginald and Jane were both too prosaic and conscious of their dignity to admit to any weakness, and surely they would both regard romantic love as a weakness.

What did they have, she wondered? Jane had a home and income she would not have had as an unmarried daughter of a poor doctor, who treated his poorer patients and never asked them for payment. Reginald had a competent housekeeper to manage his household and children. As a married couple they could mingle in local society to a far greater extent than either could have done alone. It satisfied a need to present themselves and their family to the world as prosperous and successful. Perhaps they had a mutual respect, perhaps a regard for the good qualities of the other. Surely without even that they could not exist in amity. But these were all cold, practical reasons. They had heirs, which was what Zachary wanted most of all.

As a doctor's daughter Phoebe was more knowledgeable than most unmarried girls of the processes of birth and the creation of children. Her father had always answered her questions honestly, and he and her mother had frequently talked about his patients in front of her. She recalled his anger with a man whose wife had died giving birth to their fourteenth child, and his despair that such men were unable to control their appetites for the good of their wives.

Reginald had several sons, but he and Jane continued to produce children. They did not need more, so either they found some satisfaction and pleasure in acts of intimacy, or Reginald was like her father's patient's husband, a man unable to control his appetites. Somehow she could not see Jane meekly submitting to this, but what did she know of the realities of marriage? Would Jane consider it her duty, or did she welcome it? Did she, though Phoebe found this
almost impossible to imagine, love Reginald? Phoebe hastily banished a vision of her sister and Reginald naked in bed together. It must happen, but she could scarcely believe it.

Her parents were the only other couple she had known well. She was sure they had been in love. Her mother had been devastated by her father's death. Phoebe sat in the summerhouse, gradually getting colder, recalling the many small acts of kindness unobtrusively performed for her and each other by her parents, the tenderness of their speech, the glances and smiles, the way they seemed to be in accord with one another, able to communicate without words.

She wanted a marriage like that. She wanted warmth and love, not the esteem and cold admiration which was all Zachary Walton had offered. She had been right in her instinctive refusal, she told herself, even though she could think of no man she would rather be married to.

Zachary watched Phoebe running away from him and was furious at his ineptitude. For a moment he contemplated going after her and trying to explain, but the possession of sisters had taught him that explanations to a woman who was angry were pointless. When she was calmer, perhaps he would be able to talk to her. She could not leave the ball until Sir William and Sally did, and she could not stay in the gardens all evening. She had promised him the supper dance, and maybe he would be able to talk to her then.

After a while he went back to the ballroom, but found he was unable to chat to his partners with his usual ease. One of them, a young married woman he had known since they were children, commented on his abstraction, but fortunately put it down to worry about the prospect of war. He could not tell her that all thoughts of Bonaparte and what
was coming had been driven completely out of his head.

He had, he knew, offered for Phoebe because he admired her and thought her suitable to be his wife and the mother of his sons. When she rejected him so contemptuously he had suddenly seen how disparaging it must have seemed to her, to be asked solely because he needed a wife and she was available. For a moment he felt a surge of anger. Why did all females want to hear love speeches? Marriage was not something to be entered into just because two people thought they were experiencing some amorous sentiment, a feeling which would, sooner or later, be lost to them.

Then he began to wonder why he had never before wanted to offer for any of the many supremely suitable damsels who had been thrust into his notice by ambitious mamas. Was his determination to marry now solely due to his desire to frustrate Jonas's ambitions? If it was, there were girls enough here in Brussels who would, in the eyes of the polite world, be far more suitable than Phoebe Kingston.

He experienced a sense of surprise. Could it be that, unaware of it, he had come to regard Phoebe with something more than the esteem he had offered her? Was he in love with her?

The notion was startling. After a few youthful occasions when he had considered he was in love, a feeling which had lasted no more than a few weeks, he had never again experienced the same emotions. He had always said farewell and never looked back, or regretted the loss of his temporary mistresses. This needed serious thought, but he could not concentrate while dancing. He would suggest to Phoebe that they sat out the supper dance and talked.

Phoebe was nowhere to be found. During the whole of the supper dance, and while the other guests were eating, he searched the house, and then went outside to look in the gardens. It was cold now, and everyone had retreated
indoors. As he explored the paths through a dense shrubbery he happened to glance back at the house and saw a slender figure slipping through the doors into the ballroom. He ran across the intervening lawn and entered the room just as the orchestra struck up for the next dance. He saw Phoebe standing nearby, but at that moment her partner appeared and led her on to the floor. Zachary, mindful of his obligations, had to seek his own partner, and for the rest of the evening he had no more opportunity of exchanging a word with Phoebe.

It was the day before Sally's ball when Lady Benton arrived in Brussels. Sir William was in the drawing-room with the girls before dinner when the footman appeared, looking rather puzzled.

‘Sir William, Lady Benton is here.'

He was pushed gently aside as Lady Benton, still wearing her travelling cloak, came into the room. ‘Thank you. Can you see to my luggage, please, and tell the coachman where he may stable the horses.'

She had not finished before Sally, with a glad cry, was across the room and throwing herself into her mother's arms. Sir William, rather slower, stood looking at them and smiling.

Phoebe was puzzled. Sally and her mother had not appeared to be on affectionate terms when she had stayed with them at Benton Manor, and Lady Benton had been only too glad to send Sally away.

‘How pleasant to have you here for Sally's ball,' Sir William said.

Lady Benton put Sally aside and went to her husband, who kissed her on the cheek.

‘I have been hearing such terrible things about Bonaparte, I had to come and be sure you were both safe. Besides, Mr Cowper is being difficult; he will not listen to what I want him to do, and all the building is at a standstill until I can find another architect. It is so convenient that I can come and supervise the ball.'

‘You don't need to do anything, Phoebe has done it, with Madame Antoine,' Sally said.

She did not appear discomposed at the evidence of her mother's priorities, Phoebe thought, suppressing a smile. She was just delighted to see her mother. Perhaps their separation for the past three months had made both of them more affectionate.

Lady Benton nodded. ‘Phoebe, Sally's letters have all been full of praise for you. Thank you for your care of her. Now, can I be shown my room, and I will be ready to join you for dinner, if you will excuse my not changing. I would not wish to delay you. Are you going out this evening?'

‘Let me show you the way,' Sir William said, and led her out of the room.

There were no spare bedrooms, Phoebe reflected. Would Sir William and his wife be forced to share one? She had never been into his room, but she knew there was a small dressing room attached. Perhaps he would sleep there. Then she gave up speculating. The state of their marriage was none of her business, and Sally was bubbling over with excitement that her mother had arrived so unexpectedly. She had to listen to her.

During the evening Phoebe began to wonder whether her own position was now redundant. If Lady Benton stayed, she was no longer needed as Sally's companion. Would they send her home? She did not in the least wish to go, but neither did she wish to meet the earl again.

Lady Benton had appeared worried, and during dinner
mentioned her wish to take Sally home immediately after the ball, but Sir William had shaken his head.

‘I thought the idea of this ball was to introduce her to Society, and get her betrothed,' he said bluntly. ‘It won't serve its purpose if you whisk her away before any of the young men can come up to scratch. Besides, our fellows will halt Bonaparte long before he gets to Brussels.'

Sally had added her pleas to be allowed to remain, and her mother, shrugging, promised to wait and see.

‘But if that monster crosses the border, we'll have to go.'