The Devil's Web (18 page)

But Jean would have had nothing to confide anyway. She had danced every set, and everyone had been obligingly kind to her, but Howard Courtney had not asked for her hand even once. Perhaps he would not have done so at all had she not caught his eye quite by accident across the supper room and smiled at him. As it was, he came to her directly after supper and asked for the set of country dances to follow.

Jean could have wept at the intricacy of the steps, which separated them for most of the set and did not permit conversation even when they were together. She smiled her way through a half hour of energetic frustration.

“I should say good-bye,” she said in desperation, smiling gaily as he led her across the floor when the music finally ended. “I shall be leaving tomorrow and probably will not see you again after tonight.”

“You will be missed,” Howard said. “You are well liked in this neighborhood.”

“I have liked it here,” she said, holding on to her smile by sheer willpower. “I will always remember everyone.”

Captain Hands was bowing and asking if she was free for the next set. She turned her smile on him.

“Miss Cameron has promised it to me,” Howard said hastily.

“That's right,” she said. “But thank you, sir. Perhaps later?”

Captain Hands bowed and withdrew.

“I-I'm sorry,” Howard stammered. “I don't know what came over me. Did you want to dance with him?”

“No,” she said, looking up at him. “I want to dance with you, Mr. Courtney.”

“It is a waltz,” he said. “I never could learn the steps. I'll probably tread all over your feet.”

“Perhaps we could stroll on the terrace,” she suggested, and blushed at her own boldness.

“Will you?” he asked.

She nodded and took his arm.

“You will be looking forward to seeing your father and brother again,” he said.

“Yes, sir.”

“And to returning home.”

“Yes.”

“Do you like sailing?” he asked. “Does it make you sick? Or frighten you?”

“Neither,” she said. “It is just a little tedious, that is all, and the food monotonous.”

“You will be glad to see the end of the crossing, then.”

“Yes, sir.”

There were other couples on the terrace, enjoying the coolness of the evening air. There seemed to be nothing else to say. But instead of turning back when they had strolled the length of the terrace, Howard continued on down the steps that led to a wide lawn below.

“I will miss you,” he said.

“Will you?”

“I don't mingle very well with others,” he said. “Words do not come easily to me. I have only my own life to talk about and there is nothing very exciting about that.”

“Conversation does not have to be exciting,” she said. “Interesting is enough. Another person's life is always interesting.”

“You are kind,” he said. “Your life in Canada must be exciting. Life on an English farm is quiet and a constant round of routine activities. Social life is not very active, especially in the winter and spring.”

“Winters are long in Montreal,” she said, “and life is frequently tedious. I don't think routine would be dull when it involves the changing of the seasons and the living things of nature.”

“I have had my own farm for only a year,” he said. “The house seems large and very quiet after my father's house.”

“I daresay he thought the same about his when he started out,” she said.

“You would miss your family if you were separated from them by an ocean,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” she said, “though Papa has been back and forth to England for years.”

He stopped walking suddenly and pulled her awkwardly into his arms. He kissed her just as awkwardly and so hard that she could feel her teeth cutting her lip. He released her as abruptly as he had seized her.

“I do beg your pardon,” he said. “You will find my advances offensive. I am seen as a dull and plodding fellow, I know. And the description is accurate. That is what I am.”

“I see you rather as sturdy and amiable, sir,” she said. “And I am not offended.”

He had her hands in his and was holding them so tightly that Jean had to concentrate on not wincing.

“Then Mr. Purnell will doubtless challenge me if he sees us,” he said. “You are to marry him? It is fitting. He is a gentleman.”

“I am not going to marry Mr. Purnell, or anyone else that I know of,” she said.

“If I just had more to offer you,” he said. “If I were a gentleman of wealth and position. Or if I were more of a dashing fellow. I had better take you inside. I ought not to have brought you down off the terrace.”

“I don't want a gentleman of wealth and position,” she said. “I would be uncomfortable with such a husband, Mr. Courtney. My father has worked hard all his life to make a respectable living. I grew up in an atmosphere of industry. And I don't want a dashing fellow. I would not be comfortable with him. I want a cozy home of my own and a husband whose company and devotion I can depend upon.”

“You don't want me,” he said firmly, squeezing her hands a little harder, so that she bit her lower lip.

“I can't answer that unless I know I am being offered you,” she said.

“Would you?” he asked hesitantly. “If I asked you?”

“Marry you?” she asked.

“Would you?”

“Yes, I would, sir,” she said.

“Will you marry me?”

“Yes, I will, Mr. Courtney,” she said, wasting a dazzling smile on the darkness.

“But perhaps your father will not allow it,” he said.

“And perhaps he will,” she said.

“But you are to return to him tomorrow,” he said, “and sail for Canada next week.”

“Yes.”

Somehow his arms were about her waist and hers about his neck.

“I'll travel to London tomorrow,” he said with sudden reckless decision, “before you. You must tell me where to find him. I have never been there before.”

“Oh, will you, Mr. Courtney?” she asked. “You will ask Papa?”

“I'll leave in the morning,” he said. “ Shall we go inside and tell my parents, Miss Cameron? They will be very happy, I assure you.”

“Had you not better kiss me again first?” Jean asked shyly. “You have not kissed me since we were betrothed.”

“I am afraid I don't do it well,” Howard said. “I have never …”

“Neither have I,” Jean said. “We will learn together, shall we? Will you call me Jean?”

He kissed her fiercely again until he felt her fingertips against his cheeks. And then they explored each other's lips awkwardly and tentatively and gently.

“I may be a dull fellow, Jean,” Howard said at last, “but you will always have my devotion. I can safely promise you that because my father has always been devoted to my mother, and it has always been my goal to emulate him.”

“I love you, Howard,” Jean said.

He looked at her, arrested, in the darkness. “Do you?”he asked in some surprise. “Do you really?”

I
T WAS AN EVENING
to be proud of. She had moved through it with the dignity of her years—not with determined and forced gaiety, and with no flirtatiousness. She had been cheerful and gracious. She had talked with all their neighbors and friends and danced every set with a different gentleman.

But there were limits to one's endurance. Madeline was proud of herself, and she knew that she would not break but that she would go on to live her new life, and be happy with it too, for it was not in her nature to be unhappy for any length of time. But there were times for unhappiness, and there was one such time looming very close ahead.

The next few days would be ones of excruciating pain. She knew it and accepted the fact. If she tried to deny it, then she would not be able to endure. She would be her former bright and flighty self and she would be out of control of her own life.

She must live through the next few days and weeks with as much fortitude as she could muster. But she must expect to be submerged in misery on occasion.

One such occasion came toward the end of the ball, when she realized that it was well past midnight and that this already was the day of his departure. Soon the ball would be at an end and they would all go to bed and sleep until late in the morning. And then there would be a great hustle and bustle, and Lady Beckworth and Alexandra would be crying. And he would be gone.

She could not stay to dance anymore. She could not. Perhaps if she slipped away and went to bed and slept, she would sleep too long. And when she got up, he would be gone already. Perhaps she would be that fortunate.

But she could not go to bed either. It would be worse there in the silence of her own room, counting off the hours.

She went to the only place she could go, the place where she supposed she had known all evening she would go eventually. She left the ballroom by the French doors and walked around to the front of the house and the formal gardens. And she walked along the gravel paths until she reached one of the stone fountains. It was where she had danced with him and kissed him the last time. The place where they had not said good-bye because she had not known that he was going.

She stood looking down into the water of the basin, its ripples sparkling in the moonlight. And she trailed her hand through the water, noting its coolness. She did not turn when she heard the crunching of the gravel behind her. She knew who it was. There was no doubt in her mind at all. She did not need to turn.

“It's hard to believe that four years have passed,” she said when the footsteps finally stopped.

“Yes,” he said.

“But this time you are to do things properly,” she said, turning to face him and smiling. The moon was behind him. His face was in darkness. “The proper farewells tomorrow instead of the riding off into the darkness.”

“Yes,” he said. “The good-byes tomorrow. Most of them. But not you. I would rather not see you tomorrow.”

She wrapped her arms around herself, hugging her pain to herself. But there was no offense to be taken. She did not want to see him the next day either.

His right hand was extended. “Good-bye, Madeline,” he said.

She looked at it for a long time before placing her own in it and feeling its strong clasp. “Good-bye, James.”

But he did not turn to leave when their hands parted company. He stood looking at her, and she fixed her eyes on the whiteness that must be his neckcloth and concentrated on committing him to memory. For she knew she would feed on this moment for weeks to come. Perhaps for months or years.

When his fingertips traced lightly the line of her jaw and came to rest beneath her chin, she closed her eyes and felt them there with every nerve ending in her body.

“I wonder if we might have been friends had we tried,” he said softly. “Or does the antagonism go to the very roots of our characters? As does the attraction.”

She could not answer. She could not have forced a single word past the rawness of her throat if it had been necessary to save her life. She kept her eyes closed and shook her head slightly.

“Well,” he said, “I suppose the question is academic now.”

She could no more open her eyes than she could speak. His fingertips remained beneath her chin. His mouth when it touched hers did so softly and lingeringly.

And then hand and mouth were gone, and she could hear the quiet crunching of gravel again. But she did not open her eyes. She had all the food for her memories that she would ever gather.

T
HE
E
ARL OF
A
MBERLEY
was bidding farewell to his guests, his wife beside him.

A lovely ball, Edmund,” Sir Peregrine Lampman said, shaking hands with his friend. “Though I am mortally offended that your wife had no dance free for me.”

“An undiscriminating lady, Alex,” the earl said with a grin. “She accepts the hand of any partner who asks. Try again next year, Perry. Grace, my dear, we must thank you for bringing your niece with you tonight and her husband and brother. The young ladies have been particularly pleased with Sir Gordon, as you will have seen for yourself.”

“Splendid ball, splendid ball,” William Carrington said with a beaming smile and a smacking kiss on the cheek for his niece by marriage. “But I plan to post up to town within the week, Edmund, and spread the latest gossip. You danced only once with your wife. Shocking, my boy.”

“Oh, William!” his wife said, flushing and clutching at his arm. “Take no notice of him, Edmund. He does like to tease. Anyone knows that it would not be at all the thing for you to dance with Alexandra all night.”

“A wonderful evening, as usual, my lord,” Mr. Courtney said, taking the earl's hand in a bruising clasp and nodding genially to the countess. “Wonderful evening. I can speak for my whole family, and only wish that my Susan were here too. She will be sorry to have missed it. But her mama will be able to tell her all about it.” He beamed at his host and hostess and leaned toward them conspiratorially, though his lowered voice was still several times louder than the normal voice of any of his neighbors. “Sooner than expected.”

“You are leaving for London very soon?” the earl asked, smiling at Mrs. Courtney. “You must give our regards to Susan, if you please.”

“It's very good of you to say so, I am sure, my lord,” Mr. Courtney said, still in his lowered voice. “Mrs. Courtney will be leaving tomorrow. Mr. Purnell has graciously consented to her riding in the carriage with Miss Cameron instead of a maid. And Howard is to ride along with Mr. Purnell. I can whisper to present company, my lord and lady, though there can be nothing official, of course, until the young lady's papa has given his consent.”

The earl looked with polite interest at his neighbor and at a flushing Howard behind him.

“Miss Cameron has this very night accepted the offer of our Howard,” Mr. Courtney announced in triumph. “And Mrs. Courtney and I are brimful of pride and pleasure.”