Chapter Five
Annalise had written and dispatched three letters to Dutch relatives by luncheon. She kept her plans to herself for now because Phoebe and her mother were bubbling with excitement from the masquerade. They subjected Mr. Sommerville to a detailed recounting of every costume and every dance partner.
“Enough, good wife!” he bellowed. “What have I done to deserve this torment?” He glanced down the table. “You are mercifully quiet, Annalise. Are you not in boughs over the masquerade too?”
Annalise jumped at the sound of her name. She had been staring out the window, wondering about the flora and fauna of Holland. They had tulips, of course, but she wondered what she might find that wasn’t in England.
“Ah, she’s daydreaming,” her uncle said. “One night in London, and she’s already ridiculously in love. Maybe this one will stay around, and I can pop her off. I need to start ridding myself of my female problem. It’s an infestation I have on my hands.”
His wife laughed.
“I was thinking about botany,” Annalise said flatly.
“Turning into a bluestocking, are you?” he quipped. “I suppose the ball must have bored you.”
“I had a wonderful time,” she lied. Aunt Sally and Phoebe had been too caught up in their excitement to have noticed the ripple Annalise’s presence had caused at the masquerade. Annalise decided it was best to remain silent about the problem since she would be leaving soon enough.
“Sadly, Annalise’s new gown won’t be ready in time for tonight’s ball at the Danvers’. She’ll have to wear an old one,” Aunt Sally said.
Lud, another ball? It didn’t matter what she wore there. She was only going to linger in the corner, trying to be as invisible as possible. This would be her battle plan until she could retreat to the Continent.
“Oh dear, whatever shall we do?” Mr. Sommerville adopted his falsetto tone again. He dabbed his face with his linen. “Annalise must wear rags. I feel a faint coming on.” His family laughed merrily. Annalise managed only a stiff smile. Thankfully, her uncle’s tirade was cut short when the manservant entered, holding a package and several letters.
“Pardon, sir.” He bowed. “A letter has arrived in the post from your solicitor. You had asked that I inform you as soon as it arrived, sir.”
“Yes, yes.” Mr. Sommerville rose, signaling the end of luncheon, and took the letters from the servant. “I shall be in the library seeing to important business,” he said. “Should you require my audience for some trifling matter, my door will be locked.” He walked out.
“Come, Annalise, you must help me with a darling new hairdressing for tonight,” Phoebe said, coming to her feet.
Before Annalise could answer, the servant thrust the package before her. “For you, miss.”
Annalise slowly took it, noticing the frank. Her belly tightened.
“Ooh, what could it be?” Phoebe asked.
Annalise quickly turned the package, hiding the frank.
“Is it from a dance partner?” Phoebe continued. “I wondered that we should receive no flowers this morning. But maybe because it was a masquerade, our partners won’t send any because they aren’t to know it was you.”
“I suppose,” Annalise said casually, hoping to conceal her racing heart.
“Come then, open it!” Phoebe said.
“It’s from a friend from home.” Annalise changed the subject. “Flowers in your hair would be lovely. Don’t you think, Shelley?”
“Yes!” Shelley grinned to be included with the older girls.
“Then I shall dress both my cousins’ hair?” This was met with great approval, and the mystery of the package was quickly forgotten.
Minutes later, Annalise tossed the package onto her bed in her chamber. “There is nothing I want to hear from you,” she told the package as though it were Exmore himself. She turned to leave and help her cousins but stopped and groaned. “Very well.”
It was best to get these vile things over with. She recklessly tore the paper away and then gasped. Below was an illustration by Visser—the koala she had not chosen that day in the shop. How had he known? Had he been there? But she didn’t remember anyone being in the shop but herself and the clerk before her cousins arrived.
She removed the illustration from the trappings of paper, and a folded letter fell onto her lap. She set the illustration carefully on the mattress and then opened the letter to reveal neat, unadorned script.
Miss Van Der Keer:
Please accept my apologies. I betrayed your kind trust, and for that I am deeply sorry. I must own that I knew you had returned to London after I spied you in the print shop. You did not see me in the back behind a statue because you were enraptured by the illustrations of Visser. I hope you will accept the gift of the illustration you left behind that day in order to purchase “silly slippers.”
I should have made my identity known to you at the ball, and pardon if I am presumptuous, but it seemed as if you wanted to talk, that you hadn’t had someone to speak to for a long while. Had you known my identity, I fear you would have remained silent. I found our conversation delightful and regret its abrupt ending. Please know that all your words I keep in confidence, as I have your call to my home years ago. How our lives have changed since that time. I have nothing but the kindest wishes for you. I apologize if I upset you, and I give you my word that I will kindly stay away from you for the remainder of your time in London. God bless you.
Exmore.
She drew in her breath and reread the letter. She was struck by Exmore’s kindness, as she had been when she had known him only as a musketeer. He had been a villain for so long in her mind, it was hard to think of him in any other role. Had what she thought was betrayal of her trust merely been confused compassion? Should she write him back of her forgiveness?
Did she forgive him?
“I don’t know,” she whispered.
And hadn’t she not been entirely without fault the night she called, unchaperoned and unkempt, to his home? Theirs was a tangled mess of emotions and history, and she would rather avoid him and the memories he kicked up.
She studied the koala, and suddenly, an image of her father cradled in her arms, laboring for breath as he died, filled her mind. She had squandered most of their lives together, assuming he was dull and boring. It hadn’t been until the end that she truly knew him. Exmore had lost someone too. She remembered the pain in his voice. My wife died. Who was she to judge? She was foolishly holding on to Patrick, a man who didn’t love her. Exmore had told her as much that evening long ago, but she had refused to believe him because the truth hurt too much. No, she had never learned to love more wisely, as he had said she would. Her heart was as stupid as ever.
Yes, perhaps she could forgive.
She crossed to her desk, drew out a piece of paper, and dipped her pen. What to say? A large blob of ink dripped onto the page. Again, that old anger she had nursed for Exmore returned afresh. She hastily scribbled.
What do you want from me? Why couldn’t you leave me alone?
Her door opened, and Phoebe popped her head in. “Are you coming to help us with my hair for the ball or not?”
“Yes, yes, of course.” Annalise turned the page over and rose from the chair. She needed a little more time to think about forgiveness before she wrote any more.
* * *
Exmore cursed himself for sending the letter and illustration as he ambled toward his club. He might as well have tossed them into a void.
Although he had written that he would kindly avoid her, he desired to see her eyes and hear what she had said when she read the letter. Their conversation had been left dangling. Its incompleteness bothered him, because he had so much he wanted to say to her. He couldn’t explain it, but the only person in London he really wanted to talk to was her. He wanted to speak about more than Patrick. He wanted to tell her about Cassandra and how disoriented he had felt after she died.
But the kindest thing he could do was keep silent and walk away from Miss Van Der Keer. Too much bad history rested between them for any kind of friendly acquaintance. But during that time with her, as the fat moon had looked on, she had raised him above the gloom that weighed daily in his chest. He had a glimmer of hope that he could be attracted again to a proper lady and not sink to emotionless, soulless trysts.
He found himself standing before the print shop window where he had spied Annalise a few days ago. The small optimism in his heart faltered. All the illustrations of Visser had been taken down, replaced with political cartoons about the Prince Regent. He didn’t know why, but it felt like an omen as he gazed at the grotesque, exaggerated images of the corpulent prince instead of the beautiful drawings that had captivated Miss Van Der Keer.
He stepped inside. A different clerk, older than the one Annalise had enthralled, was setting out more ugly caricatures.
“Where are the Visser images?” Exmore demanded, a strange note of panic in his voice.
“Couldn’t sell them,” the man replied with a shrug. “We sold the lot of them to a shop on the Continent.” The clerk then nodded to a newspaper folded on the table beside Exmore. “Aye, but if you’re interested, Mr. Visser is in London lecturing. Perhaps he will have some prints with him.”
“May I?” Exmore lifted the paper and flipped through the pages until he found:
Mr. Christiaan Visser, renowned Dutch naturalist, will speak at the Royal Institution. Interested ladies and gentlemen are invited to attend.
The article went on to give the specifics of the time and room. Annalise needed to know about this lecture!
Yet, he had written that he would keep his distance from her. Hang it all.
“You may take the paper, sir, if it pleases,” the clerk said.
Exmore shook his head and replaced the paper on the table. “No, thank you.” If Annalise were meant to attend that lecture, she would have to learn about it through another means. He had given her his word.
He left, feeling that old edgy restlessness set in. For the rest of the afternoon, he could settle nowhere for very long, moving from club to club until the day’s session of Parliament began. He wanted to disappear into a gaming hell, letting brandy and the thrill of the turn of cards crowd out his gloominess. But dammit, he had to get better. He couldn’t live his life this way. He had to find a way out.
Back at home after Parliament, he shuffled through his invitations. He received six or so invitations for balls or recitals for any given night during the Season. He rarely received invitations to dine anymore, having left too many embarrassed matrons with an empty seat at their tables. As he glanced at the names, he wondered where Annalise might be.
Why can’t you stop thinking about her? Let her go, good man.
He tossed the invitations face down on the table and blindly picked one—a ball given by Lord Carruthers.
He had his valet adonize him and the carriage sent around.
For all his trouble, he danced three sets with pretty young things who possessed sweet smiles and insipid conversation. He could see the large moon looming through the windows—the same full moon that had shone the night of the masquerade, yet this night had none of the previous night’s magic. He caught himself scanning the crowd, looking for Annalise. But she wasn’t there. Frivolity surrounded him, yet he felt miserably alone and despondent. The sirens sang in his ear, Come away to a gaming hell. Stop trying, it’s no use.
By ten o’clock, he had succumbed. He slumped in a chair around a card table, drinking his second brandy and pondering whether to hold or ask for another card in a game of vingt-et-un. He held a ten of spades and an eight of diamonds. Good, but perhaps not quite good enough to win. But as he considered the probabilities of his cards, he realized he didn’t care about winning or losing. They felt the same—empty and dull.
Behind him, two young bucks were drinking at a small round table. They had been there for almost half an hour, but now their conversation drifted to his ear.
“Miss Littleton. I’ll wager she will be engaged in two weeks,” he heard one say. “Many fellows are vying for her.”
He glanced over his shoulder. The two men had been joined by a third, a dandy wearing a padded black coat and a collar so high it brushed against his earlobes. A book was set on the table before the men, and a servant had brought over an inkwell.
“I’ll put down ten pounds that she’ll be engaged in six days,” the dandy said in an affected bored drawl. “She has tolerable looks and possesses a very tolerable dowry.”
A gentleman with reddish-gold hair and dry skin spotted with pale freckles wrote down the wager. Their friend, a slight man with dollop-like blond curls that fell over his eyes, put forth another name. “Miss Poplin. Let us discuss, gentlemen.”
Exmore returned to his cards. He accepted another from the dealer. A seven. He had overplayed. He laid down his cards, took another sip of brandy, and waited for the next hand to be dealt because he couldn’t think of anywhere else to go. Going to the theater or another party seemed like too much effort.
The name Miss Van Der Keer seemed to pop from the conversation behind him.
He spun around.
“You are cracked, Ronald,” the curly blond said. “Don’t you know who she is? Let me enlighten you.” The man launched into tales of Annalise’s previous Season, either embellished or plainly false. Exmore’s fingers balled into a fist.
“No one will ask for her hand,” the curly-haired man concluded. “I’m betting ten pounds Miss Van Der Keer won’t be accepted in any homes by next week, let alone receive a proposal. Write it down, Simon. Write, man. Seven days to social disgrace.” Delighted maliciousness filled his laugh.
The dandy waved his hand dismissively. “That’s too easy, my boy. She’s already been cut by the Danverses tonight.”
“What?” Exmore exclaimed.
The men’s faces brightened from Exmore’s attention.
“Good evening, Lord Exmore!” said the freckled man recording the wagers. “We were placing bets on the fates of this year’s crop of ladies. Care to wager?”
Exmore bit back the retort to put him down for one hundred pounds that his fist would bloody their faces within the next five minutes. “What did you say about Miss Van Der Keer?”
“She’s been cut by the Danverses.” The dandy’s mouth was twisted in the smug smirk of a man who knew a piece of news before anyone else. “I was there myself not fifteen minutes ago. The old girl was in tears because no gentleman of any consequence had asked her to dance. I recall you weren’t very fond of her. Warned your cousin off that wild hoyden. Care to wager?”
“Go to hell.” Exmore headed for the door.