The Frost Fair (28 page)

“But Meg, aren't you being over-cautious?” Isabel asked mildly. “You would not be without escort, after all. Even
I
am curious to attend the fair, for a little while at least. It will be quite exciting—”

Meg put down her teacup irritably. “I don't wish to hear any more about this matter. While Trixie resides under this roof, she must be considered in my care. How could I face her bro … her
family
… if I permitted her to come to grief? I'm sorry if my decision seems unkind or too severe, but I can't permit a situation to develop which I'll later regret. Now, if you please, let's speak of other things.”

Meg had not often seen Trixie in resentful or rebellious moods (although Geoffrey had tried to warn her that the girl was quite capable of such displays). Therefore, she was startled to see Trixie rise slowly from her chair, her petulant lower lip trembling with hostility. “I'm sorry, Lady Meg, but I don't have to obey your orders. You are not my guardian! Even though I'm living under your roof, I intend to go where—and with whom—I choose. And if you try to oppose me, I shall … I shall go to live somewhere else!” And with a breathy sob and a great swish of skirts, she ran out of the room and slammed the door.

Meg was appalled. Had the girl no gratitude? Her behavior was that of a spoiled, thoughtless child. And she'd only made herself despicable in the eyes of everyone else at the table.

But the others at the table were not in complete agreement. “Now see what you've done!” Arthur muttered. “You've
upset
the poor chit.”

“I?” Meg asked in amazement. She looked at each of the faces staring across at her. “Do you
all
think that I'm at fault in this?”

“Well, the girl should not have spoken to you in that way,” Isabel said, “but Geoffrey Carrier had told me that his sister had been spoiled by her parents, so one can't expect conduct that's always beyond reproach. But as for the Fair, one can't expect a lively young girl who's been imprisoned indoors for so many days not to wish to have a little enjoyment—”

“Exactly!” said Arthur with vehemence. “I
told
you, Meg, that you're turning sour. There's no good reason for you to be so hard on the girl in this matter.”

Meg glared at him furiously. “So
that's
what you think of me, is it? And what about
you
, Mortimer? You haven't given
your
opinion yet. Do
you
agree that I'm too sour?”

Mortimer grinned at her in a self-satisfied, completely fatuous attempt to signal their secret intimacy. “Wouldn't say you're sour. Wouldn't say you're wrong, either. Would only say that if you were to go to the fair in
my
escort, you'd have nothing to worry about. No one would dare to molest you in my presence. Assure you of that!”

This piece of conceit was the last straw. “I want to thank you all,” she said disdainfully, getting to her feet, “for your loyal support in this matter. But with or without your support, I intend to hold fast to my decision. Neither Trixie nor I will indulge in such a … a
raffish
outing while she remains in my care!”

Meg spoke only in the most necessary monosyllables for the rest of the day, and, observing how all the others maintained a determinedly cheerful demeanor and joked and laughed among themselves all through dinner (to which Isabel had spitefully invited the gentlemen without even asking Meg's approval), she left them to their own devices and retired early.

However, she found herself unable to sleep. Arthur's accusations rang in her ears. Was she truly turning sour? In her attempt to conquer the depression of her spirits because of Geoffrey's rejection of her love, was she becoming an embittered, irascible old maid?

A vision of her future loomed up before her, its aspect as forboding and fearful as a Greek tragedy. In a little more than two months her fortune would be taken from her, her aunt would have returned to Yorkshire and she would be alone. With only a small competency, she would be forced to leave her lovely home and move to some squalid little place in an unfashionable part of town. She would grow more sour and irascible as the days passed. Her friends would drop her, and she'd have to take in a pair of cats for company. She would grow old, crotchety and eccentric and would die in her bed unloved and unmourned.

It was a grim prospect. Perhaps, in order to avoid it, she ought to consider marrying Arthur. He had been very critical of her in the past several weeks, and it was quite possible she'd already lost him, but if she made herself recapture her former vitality, she could probably win him back.

But she didn't
want
Arthur. She didn't want anyone but Geoffrey. She wasn't the sort who could live a life of falsity, pretending to a husband an affection she didn't feel. She couldn't marry anyone while this love for Geoffrey clouded her mind and ate at her heart.

As she tossed about on the pillows sleeplessly, and the hours ticked away, she tried to devise other plans for her future. She needn't necessarily become an eccentric old maid. She could find employment … as a governess, perhaps, or a teacher in a school for young ladies. She could open up such a school herself! If she could convince enough of her friends to send their daughters, she might well be able to keep the house. She would turn it into a school and keep the sitting room as her office. It wouldn't be so very bad … she would have at least one room in which she could surround herself with the remnants of her past …

With thoughts of this nature tumbling about in her head, she eventually drifted off to sleep. It must have been just before dawn when sleep finally came, for a moment later—or so it seemed—she was awakened by a tapping at her door and opened her eyes to bright sunshine. “Come in,” she muttered groggily, snuggling deeper into the pillows and covering her face with her comforter in an effort to keep hold of whatever dream had been engrossing her.

“It's I, Meg,” said Isabel from the doorway. “I don't wish to disturb you, my dear …”

“Mmmmfff” was the sound that came from the pillows.

“… but I can't wait much longer to say adieu. We're going now.”

“Going?” Meg muttered.

“Yes. To the fair. See you later.” And the door closed.

Meg dug deeper into the pillows in relief, expecting sleep to overtake her at once. But a word her aunt had said kept whirling about in her brain. Was it something important? Something disturbing … like fair?
Fair?
She sat bolt upright and stared at the closed door. “Aunt Bel!” she shouted. “Wait!”

She leaped out of bed, shivering with the icy cold. “Aunt Bel!” she cried again and snatched up the comforter. Wrapping it about her she ran barefooted to the door. “Isabel Underwood Fraser, you
can't
go off to that wild circus all by yourself!” She pattered down the hall to the top of the stairs, but there was no one to be seen. Isabel had gone.

With feelings which swung from extreme chagrin to extreme worry, she ran back to her room. Shouting for her abigail, she threw off her nightgown and began hurriedly to dress. Nora, the abigail, scurried in to lend assistance, but when she was questioned about Mrs. Fraser's departure, she could give no information. She hadn't heard Mrs. Fraser leave and didn't know if she'd been alone.

Meg had no choice but to follow her aunt. If she was unable to catch up with her before arriving at the fair, she would probably be out of luck—for there was little doubt that the area would be thronged with people. But she had to try.

As soon as she was dressed, with her fly-away hair carelessly tied back and a cloak thrown over her shoulders, she ordered Nora to tell Roodle to bring the curricle to the door and ran out into the hallway. There she came face-to-face with Brynne who was on her way to the back stairs. “Where's Miss Beatrix?” Meg asked her.

Brynne made a little curtsey. “Still asleep, it seems, ma'am. I jest knocked.”

“Good. Let her sleep. But, Brynne, when she wakes, tell her that she's not to leave this house until I return.”

She flew down the stairs, hoping that Roodle was making haste with the horses. Impatiently she pulled on her gloves, but her nervousness made her incompetent, and she struggled with the little buttons in vain. With a shrug, she left them unfastened and ran to the door. Just as she was about to open it, a loud knocking sounded. She pulled it open, preparing herself to dismiss whatever caller had chanced by with the most cursory excuses. But standing on her doorstep, his expression as dour and forbidding as she'd ever seen it, was Dr. Fraser.

“
Donald
!” Meg cried, her agitation fading away. “I don't think I've been as glad to see anybody in my
life
!”

“Good day to ye, lass,” he said, only the slightest twitch of his lips indicating acknowledgement of her effusive greeting. “I take it I've come t' the right abode?”

“If you mean to ask if this is where your wife has chosen to hide herself, yes, this is the right place.”

“Aye, I thought so. Like as no, she'll ha'e instructed ye not t' admit me, but ye downa wish fer us both t' be standin' here chitterin' in the cold, do ye?”

“No, of course not. Do come in.” She stood aside to let him enter and closed the door. “As for not admitting you, Donald, she gave me no such instructions. I don't think Isabel expected you to follow her.”

“She
dinna?
Then the woman's a greater gowk than I thought. She could nae ha'e expected me t' merely let her
be
!”

“I expect she thought you'd be too busy with your patients to notice she'd gone.”

The doctor grimaced. “Dinna
you
start t' fall out wi' me. Where
is
the woman? Still abed?”

“I wish you will stop calling her ‘the woman.' She has a name, you know. You can even call her ‘dearie.'”

“I'll call her what I please, the flicherin' female. Will ye call her doon, or shall I seek her out mysel'?”

“She's gone out, I'm afraid. I was just on my way to find her when you arrived.”

“Find her? Why?”

Meg made a little, helpless gesture with her arm. “I don't know how I permitted matters to get so out-of-hand. I didn't think she'd even consider doing such a thing without at least discussing it properly—”

“Michty me, lass, what's amiss? Has my wife done something
else
throughthither and witless?”

“I don't know. Perhaps I'm foolish to be concerned. She's gone to the fair they've set up on the river.”

“Fair? Do ye mean that curriebunction I noticed frae the bridge? Good God!” He stared at Meg a moment, shook his head and turned abruptly to the door.

“Donald,” Meg objected, putting a hand on his arm, “where are you going?”

“T' find her, o' course.”

“But in all that crowd … you'll never—”

“Set yer mind easy, lass. I'll find her.”

“Then I'm going with you,” Meg insisted, running out the door after him.

“Nae, lass, you wait here. I'll do better by mysel'.” He ran down the steps and jumped up on the carriage he'd left waiting down below. “If, by some mishanter, I should miss her,” he shouted as he picked up the reins, “you, lass, keep her here 'til I come back even if ye must strap her doon!”

Chapter Twenty

Meg paced about the sitting room, beset with unaccustomed anxiety. While one part of her mind told her that it was unlikely that the day's adventure would bring harm to her aunt, another part concocted frightening visions of robberies, accidents and other shadowy misfortunes.
Mishanters
, Dr. Fraser had called them. Dr. Fraser, too, could fall victim to some such disaster in the midst of the mayhem and confusion that were characteristic of public gatherings. And, worse, the ice could crack and … but it didn't bear thinking of. How would she endure the suspense until they returned?

When in the early afternoon the door knocker sounded again, Meg flew to open it, not waiting for Maynard to make his way up from below. It might be Isabel returning, perhaps even holding her Donald by the arm. A reconciliation between them would do much to raise Meg's long-depressed spirits. But it was not Isabel at the door. It was Mortimer.

He walked in with all the aplomb of a lifelong intimate. “Knew I'd find you alone,” he said with a smirk, strolling into the sitting room and throwing his greatcoat over a chair.

“Really, Mortimer, I must ask you not to make yourself at home today. I am in no condition to entertain visitors.” She took a stance in the doorway to make it clear that she wanted him to leave at once.

“Daresay,” he agreed, grinning at her like the proverbial cat digesting a very delicious canary. “Worrying about our situation, no doubt. No need for it, assure you. Not any more.” With these cryptic words scarcely out of his mouth, he came up to her, lifted her high against his chest and whirled her around the room in a spirit of elated exhuberance.

“
Mortimer,
” she gasped, “have you lost your
mind?
Put me down!”

“No reason to put up a fuss, my dear. No reason in the world. Needn't feel the least twinge of shame, even if the butler sees us. Or your aunt. Or
anyone
.”

“Mortimer, I don't wish to make a scene, but if you don't put me down I shall
scream
!”

With a shrug of reluctant acquiescence, he set her on her feet. “Hang it, Meg, no need to kick up a dust. Perfectly respectable now, you see. The thing's
done
.”

She pressed a hand to her breast and tried to calm herself. “You do have the most
incoherent
way of speaking, Mortimer.
What
thing is done?

“The betrothal. Mine and Trixie's. All over with!”