Chapter 8

“You should be sitting on this side of the carriage, Rebecca, dear,” Lord Holmes said. “This lap-robe is quite large enough to cover your knees too. I fear the draft in this conveyance, though I have given repeated instructions for the doors and windows to be refitted.”

“I am really quite warm here, Uncle Humphrey,” Rebecca replied. “We are fortunate that the weather has turned mild again. I believe even an open carriage would feel quite pleasant this evening.”

“Never say so!” the baron said with a shudder. “But, of course, you are funning me, Rebecca. Night air is the very worst bringer of dangerous chills. Maude, my love, put your hands beneath the robe. Your knuckles will be unbecomingly red by the time we reach the Langbournes’ house if you do not.”

“Yes, my lord,” Maude replied, obediently tucking her already warm hands beneath the fur-lined robe that her husband had insisted be laid across their laps during the six-mile journey to their destination.

All the occupants of the carriage except Lord Holmes were feeling the discomfort of the stuffy interior of the carriage long before they arrived. Somehow five of them had squeezed into a vehicle meant to hold no more than four. Lord and Lady Holmes sat facing the horses because having his back to them always made his stomach decidedly queasy, the baron said. Across from them sat Rebecca, Harriet, and Mr. Bartlett. Harriet complained loudly that her new turquoise-blue satin gown would be hopelessly crushed before they arrived in the ballroom, but Mr. Bartlett soon restored her good humor by assuring her that the great beauty of her face and the perfection of her coiffure would render all beholders quite oblivious to a few wrinkles in her gown.

Harriet had been in an exuberant mood all day, as Rebecca had found to her cost. Again she was not teaching school and had stayed at home all morning. Harriet had visited her in her room, intent on talking about the previous day when she had journeyed to Wraxby, the closest town of any size, in company with Mr. Sinclair, Mr. Carver, and Ellen. The idea for the outing had been entirely Harriet’s. She had mentioned in the hearing of Mr. Sinclair that she really needed new blue slippers and a fan for the ball, but the village could supply neither. Mr. Sinclair had taken up his cue with flattering haste and suggested that they must go into the town.

And he had been most attentive, Harriet told her cousin, both during the journey and in the town. He had not seemed to mind that they had had to visit three separate establishments in search of just the right fan and that even then she had not been able to make a choice between two. He had suggested that she buy one and he the other as a gift, but she had not been so dead to propriety as to accept that offer when they were not even betrothed.

Of course, Harriet added, that situation was like to change very soon. She fully expected that Mr. Sinclair was about to declare himself—perhaps even at the ball. Certainly he would do so soon.

That Mr. Carver was a perfectly horrid man. She really did not know how Mr. Sinclair tolerated him. And it must be perfectly dreadful for the Sinclairs to be obliged to be civil to him for so long. She could not understand why he had not taken himself back to London or wherever he came from long before now. She had been understandably weary after her busy afternoon of shopping and had wanted nothing more than to sit down and have an ice before starting for home. Ellen had been whining forever about a length of ribbon she wanted to take back for Primrose as a surprise, and Mr. Carver had insisted that they complete the errand.

That would not have been so dreadful, perhaps, if he had offered to accompany Ellen while she and Mr. Sinclair had gone for the ices. But he had insisted that all four of them go—merely to purchase one length of ribbon, and he had dared—dared!—to reprimand her when she had protested.

“He had the effrontery to look at me with that odious smile that he pretends is so amiable,” Harriet said indignantly, “and tell me that I must not behave like a spoiled brat. Can you imagine, Rebecca? I was so angry I could not speak. I think Mr. Sinclair showed admirable restraint in not calling him out on the spot. It really would not have done in the middle of a street in Wraxby, you know.”

Rebecca had the good sense to make no comment but to let Harriet’s monologue flow over her head. She had really not enjoyed hearing about the attentions Christopher was showing her cousin. She could have wished that he had been the one to give Harriet the well-deserved setdown.

The Langbourne mansion was an imposing building, though Lord Holmes had never been induced to admit as much. The driveway led straight from the gates to the main doors and was lined with tall elm trees. On this occasion, as always during the annual ball, the trees were hung with lanterns, and the front of the house was ablaze with lights.

“What a magnificent sight!” Mr. Bartlett was unwise enough to remark.

“Well enough,” Lord Holmes said, not even deigning to glance out of the window. “Nouveau riche, my dear Stanley. The style of the house is totally derivative. Nothing original whatsoever. Yes, it is well enough, I would grant you, but it lacks character.”

“Oh, precisely,” Mr. Bartlett agreed. “I was, of course, comparing the house to most that have arisen during the last twenty years or so. I did not imply any comparison with established country homes like Limeglade, naturally. The idea is quite laughable.”

The baron inclined his head graciously.

The stairway leading from the tiled hall of the manor to the ballroom above was crowded with a surprising number of people. The Langbourne ball was considered to be one of the major social attractions of the year and drew guests from miles around. The five members of Lord Holmes’s party joined the group on the stairs that was waiting to pass the receiving line. The Sinclairs were up ahead of them, Rebecca could see, and she lowered her eyes to avoid any accidental eye contact with Christopher. Even as she did so, though, she realized how foolish she was being. Could she avoid looking at him all evening?

She was relieved to be claimed for the first dance by Mr. Bartlett. She felt unaccountably nervous at the splendor of the occasion; it was several years since she had attended anything so lavish. The ballroom was decorated with what must have been hundreds of flowers. The room was heavy with their perfume. And the chandeliers, filled with candles and reflected in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors that stretched one length of the ballroom, were dazzling to the eyes. Philip was not yet there. He had told her that he would probably be late as this was the evening when he liked to compose his Sunday sermon.

Christopher was leading Harriet out for the first set, Rebecca saw even as she laid a hand on Mr. Bartlett’s arm. And she looked at him for the first time. He was-wearing black, the new fashion that Mr. Bartlett had described to an incredulous Uncle Humphrey a few weeks before—and he looked quite magnificent. The contrast between the black and the startling, almost luminous white of his linen and stockings was quite breathtaking. He succeeded in putting all the other men in their bright colors quite in the shade.

“I see that Sinclair is exercising his usual bad judgment,” Mr. Bartlett said. “Such a controversial fashion is totally inappropriate for a country ballroom, do you not agree? But then I understand that being noticed is of great importance to the man. He thrives on attention.”

“Then I would suggest that we pay him none,” Rebecca suggested, smiling dazzlingly at Mr. Bartlett. Somehow she was going to enjoy this evening. And even if she could not enjoy it, she would appear to do so. She had not seen Christopher Sinclair since their disastrous encounter in the country lane, and she had no intention of showing him that she had been in any way affected by that experience.

It was not difficult for Rebecca to live up to that resolve for the first part of the evening. She was looking well, though she did not fully realize the fact. A new rose-pink gown flattered her coloring and added a glow to her cheeks. She had not been seen in any large company for a long time. She was, therefore, much in demand as a partner. She danced with men she had not seen perhaps for a few years. And she danced with Julian and with Philip when he finally arrived.

Philip was a good dancer. He despised the activity, but he always felt it important to socialize with all classes of his parishioners. And as always with Philip, if he was going to do something, he would make the effort to do it well.

“Did you finish your sermon, Philip?” Rebecca asked him. She looked at his tall, slender figure, dressed in green, at his good-looking face and his shining blond hair and tried to feel an attraction to him.

“Yes, I did,” he said. He smiled suddenly, a rare enough sight to capture Rebecca’s attention. “I have a surprise for you tomorrow, Rebecca. You will be pleased.”

“Oh?” she said. “Tell me, Philip. Suspense makes me ill.”

“You will find out at school tomorrow,” he said, his manner almost teasing for a moment.

“Philip!” she said, exasperated.

“I am pleased to see Lord Holmes still in the ballroom,” he said, looking around the room. “I thought he would have disappeared to the card room long ago. He really does not have enough exercise, you know.”

“It is surprising,” Rebecca agreed. “He has even danced twice, once with Lady Langbourne and one—of course— with Maude.”

Philip frowned, his eyes coming to rest on the last-named lady. “Lady Holmes looks like a girl at her come-out,” he said, “and not at all like a matron.”

“And very glad I am of it,” Rebecca said warmly. “She is very young, Philip. Younger than I am, you know.”

He looked at her. “Yes,” he said, “I suppose you are right. I had not thought of it that way. However, Rebecca, she is a married lady, and I cannot approve the frivolity of her gown.”

Rebecca too looked at Maude. She had thought the white silk underdress covered with delicate white chantilly lace a particularly glorious creation. And it suited its wearer, emphasizing the lovely auburn of her hair and the daintiness of her figure.

“And the neckline is quite indecently low,” Philip continued. “If you were ever to wear something so immodest, Rebecca, I should tear it to shreds and throw it away.”

Rebecca had to bite her lip and turn away. It was a small point and not worth arguing over. But for some reason, she felt more irritated with Philip than she had ever been before. Why must he always single out Maude for criticism? Lady Holmes’s behaviour was always above reproach, as far as Rebecca could see, especially when one realized that she was not a happy person. And who could be happy married to someone like Uncle Humphrey? It was easy enough to tolerate him, even to be amused by him, as an uncle. But as a husband? Maude conducted herself with admirable dignity.

Fortunately for Rebecca, she was saved from further irritation by a new partner, who had signed her card earlier and had now come to claim his set. And she was kept busy until after the supper break. She was able to stay away from Philip and the decision about him that she knew she was going to have to make very soon. She still was not quite sure whether she should break off their betrothal or whether she should try to continue with her plans to marry him. But this was neither the time nor the place to worry over such a thorny problem.

And she was able to avoid Christopher. She had seen him frequently, had even danced past him on a number of occasions. But somehow she had contrived to avoid looking at him or meeting his eyes in all of that time. She was, of course, aware of him every moment of the evening. She knew exactly with whom he had danced. She knew that he danced both the opening set and the supper dance with Harriet. And she was aware of the fact that neither of them was at the supper for a full twenty minutes after everyone else was sitting down. The evening was warm; several couples had left the ballroom through the French doors in order to stroll in the garden.

Mr. Carver asked her to dance after supper, and Rebecca smiled mischievously at him. It was a waltz, the second of three that the Langbournes had planned for the more daring and fashionable of their guests.

“You are very trusting, sir,” she said. “Are you willing to risk having your toes trodden on when I have had merely one lesson in the waltz?”

“Well, ma’am,” he said, “if you tread on m’foot, I might tread on yours. And I can vouch for th’fact that you would get th’worst of it.”

Rebecca could feel laughter bubbling up inside her as he rumbled with mirth. “Very well,” she said. “I shall endeavor to keep my feet to myself, sir.”

“You really are a naturally good dancer,” he commented after a minute. “Sometimes waltzing can be suspiciously like lugging around a sack of meal.”

“Oh,” Rebecca said, “now you have made me really nervous, sir.”

Mr. Carver was unable to keep up the repartee. The tempo of the waltz was very lively, and soon he was almost audibly counting steps. He stopped when they were opposite the French doors.

“Very sorry, Miss Shaw,” he said. “Bit off a little more than I can chew this time. Dancing ain’t quite my thing unless the tempo is slow and sedate. Would you care for a turn in the garden, ma’am?”

Rebecca smiled. “I should be delighted, sir,” she said. “The smell of the flowers in here was quite lovely at first, but now, I must confess, it has become oppressive.”

They strolled in silence at first across the lawn, Rebecca’s hand resting on the massive and very solid arm of her companion. The night was lit softly by lanterns set in the trees that bordered the grass.

“Have you made any progress on expanding your school to include girls?” Mr. Carver asked.

“I have not broached the subject for a while,” Rebecca said. “I shall wait until the results of the present school are quite obvious and then renew the campaign.”

“Diplomatic,” Mr. Carver said. “Should have come with Sinclair to see you teach, Miss Shaw. Can never drum up as much interest as he in such things. Should be ashamed of myself.”

“Not at all,” Rebecca said. “I should prefer you to stay away altogether than pretend to a charitable interest that you do not really feel. I cannot stand pretension like that.” Her tone was more vehement than she had intended.

“Eh?” Mr. Carver said. “Y’ain’t referring to Sinclair, are you?”

“Yes, actually I am,” Rebecca said. “He came to the school merely to look good, I am convinced. What does he really care?”

“Eh?” Mr. Carver said again. “Y’don’t know?” He looked away from her. “No,” he said, “seem to remember he mentioned something of the sort. Sorry, Miss Shaw, excuse me. Talking to m’self. Often do it, y’know. Sign of advancing senility.” His arm beneath hers shook with the mirth that she was becoming accustomed to.

“Are you trying to tell me that Mr. Sinclair really is interested in the school?” Rebecca asked incredulously.

“Oh, assuredly so,” Mr. Carver said. “Never knew anyone like Sinclair for always having some charitable concern eating at him. Puts me to shame. Never think of it m’self unless someone reminds me. Unfortunately for me, m’mother or Sinclair are constantly reminding me.”

Rebecca was silent. She was feeling somewhat stunned. Could Mr. Carver be exaggerating? Christopher concerned about the welfare of others? He had in the past, of course, but she had long ago discovered that the real Christopher Sinclair was a selfish, mercenary man, who rode roughshod over the feelings of others. Yet Mr. Carver seemed to be an honest and a trustworthy man. Well, perhaps there was a grain of truth in what he said. She would be glad now to know that there was some trace of conscience or kindness in the man she had loved and still loved.

They reached the end of the lawn in silence and would have turned back toward the house again. However, both became aware suddenly that they were not alone. Someone wearing light-colored clothes was among the trees, and both realized with some embarrassment that there were actually two people there in very close embrace. Mr. Carver turned away with rather more haste than he would otherwise have employed and walked Rebecca quickly across the grass until they were out of earshot.

“Never could stand that sort of thing,” he said indignantly. “Young fools should wait until they can be sure no one will come upon them and be mortified with embarrassment. No sense of restraint. M’apologies, Miss Shaw.”

“It was in no way your fault, sir,” Rebecca said lightly. “Let us forget about it. The incident is not worth remembering.”

The music had ended by the time they returned to the ballroom. Rebecca excused herself and pushed through the crowd that surrounded the floor. She did not know where to go. If she went to the ladies’ withdrawing room, she would encounter the maids who were there at all times to help unfortunates mend sagging hems or detached bows. She ran hastily down the staircase and found a shadowed alcove where she could find privacy for perhaps a few minutes. She had to have privacy. She had to have a few minutes in which to collect herself before having to face any more dancing partners.

She was very thankful that Mr. Carver had not seen. He could not have seen or he would surely have been even more embarrassed than he had been. He had thought the two people strangers. But she had seen. She had recognized them, both of them. It seemed incredible. She was almost inclined now to think that her eyes must have been deceiving her, but she knew they had not. The gleaming gown of the lady and the light hair of the man had belonged quite indisputably to Maude and Philip. And they had been in very deep embrace, their bodies touching at all points, completely lost to their surroundings in the kiss they had been sharing.

Ten whole minutes passed before Rebecca came out of her place of hiding and climbed the stairs to the ballroom again. She had blanked her mind. It was merely one more problem that she must consider when she had leisure in which to do so. Her face was composed, her walk unhurried.

The first person she saw when she reentered the ballroom was Maude, who was standing close to the door, apparently in the process of refusing to dance with an earnest young man, who was bowing elegantly before her. She was, Rebecca saw in one hasty glance, as white as the gown she wore and in very obvious distress. Her hands twisted the fan that she held as if she were intent on breaking it. There was no sign of Philip.

The trouble with coming to a social event with other people, Rebecca thought ruefully, was that one had to await their pleasure at the end of the evening. She would have liked nothing more than to return home so that she could crawl into bed and escape into merciful sleep. Her life and emotions were becoming hopelessly tangled. She very much feared that she was about to lose all her faith in humanity. Could no one be depended upon to act true to character? Philip! He had never so much as kissed her. And Maude? Rebecca could have sworn that she was the soul of dignity and honor and sweetness.

Rebecca looked around her. Harriet, she was relieved to see, was not with Christopher, though she could no longer be sure even of her own motives. Was she watching that relationship out of a concern for the welfare of Harriet, or out of a concern that Christopher might be ensnared by her and lead a life of misery with such a selfish partner? However it was, all seemed safe for the moment. Harriet was being led onto the floor by a smiling Mr. Bartlett. She too was smiling and blushing. He must have just paid her a compliment. She hoped that poor Mr. Bartlett would not develop a tendre for Harriet. He deserved better than that.

“Will you dance, Becky?”

She spun around to look into the blue eyes very close to her.

“It is a waltz,” Christopher said, “and I observed earlier that you perform the dance with great competence.”

Even as she placed her hand in his and allowed him to lead her onto the floor, Rebecca’s mind began to come out of its stupor. Was she mad? This was the very last thing she wanted to be doing at the moment. And how could he have the effrontery to have asked her? A waltz, too—the third and last of the evening. She would have thought that he would be as anxious to avoid her as she was to avoid him. Or did he want the satisfaction of conquering her heart again? Rebecca turned to face him, her expression grim, and placed one hand on his shoulder and the other in his.

He said nothing for a while but held her loosely and guided her expertly and gracefully through the movements of the dance. Rebecca kept her eyes on the silver buttons of his waistcoat.

“I knew,” he said finally, “that the longer I left it without saying anything to you, the more embarrassed we would be to meet. I had to talk to you this evening, Becky.”

“I cannot think that there is anything for either of us to say.” She spoke so quietly that he had to bend his head toward her to hear the words. “Our acquaintance came to an end many years ago. We are strangers now.”

“Yes,” he said after a short silence. His voice was strained. “You are right. You have made a good life for yourself, Becky. You do a great deal of good; you matter to a large number of people. And you have chosen a good man for a husband. Philip Everett must be one of the few men worthy of your love. These facts make my behavior of a few afternoons ago the more reprehensible. I can say in my own defense only that I did not intend to do what I did. My behavior was unforgivable. I ask your forgiveness, Becky. You have a generous heart, I know.”

She darted him an astonished look. What game was he playing now? She could not understand and dared not try. Her faith in her own judgment had been severely shaken over the last few hours.    .

“I think we should forget the whole matter,” she said to his silver buttons again. “I would prefer to forget it, Christopher.”

“Yes,” he said, “if you wish.”

They danced silently for a few minutes, Rebecca almost dizzy with her confused thoughts and with his nearness. She was afraid that her hand was trembling in his, but she could neither know for sure nor do anything to prevent its happening.

“What do you know of Stanley Bartlett?” he asked unexpectedly at last.

“Mr. Bartlett?” she asked, looking directly into his eyes in her surprise. “He is Maude’s brother. He knew you in London, I believe.”

“Oh?” he said. “He admitted as much, did he?”

“Is there any reason that he should not?” she asked. She could feel indignation rising in her. Was he anxious to know how much of the truth about himself Mr. Bartlett had told?

He looked searchingly into her eyes. “I wish you would have a care for your cousin, Becky,” he said hesitantly.

“What?” she said. “You mean Harriet? Are you trying to tell me that she may be in some danger from Mr. Bartlett?” She almost laughed in her incredulity.

“I would not wish to be so melodramatic,” he said. He took a deep breath and continued with seeming hesitation. “But your cousin is a wealthy heiress, Becky, even if Lady Holmes should produce an heir, and Bartlett is not a wealthy man.”

“You are accusing him of being a fortune hunter!” Rebecca said, stopping in the middle of the dance floor and staring at him with wide-eyed indignation. “How perfectly despicable you are! It is true that he has no money—he is the first to admit the fact. But he has qualities that are vastly superior to all the wealth in the world. He has kindness and integrity and concern for the welfare of others.”

“Becky,” he said sharply, “are you sure you wish to create a public scene? Shall we dance? You may continue your tirade into my ear.”

Rebecca felt as if she would explode with anger, but the wisdom of his words was not to be denied. She forced herself to smile as they began to dance again and composed her face.

“I will not allow you of all people to throw suspicion upon Mr. Bartlett,” she said with controlled fury. “He has told me about you, sir. I know that you have already ruined his life and that of the woman he loved. Can you not be content with what you have done and cease tormenting him now?”

“Do you refer to Angela?” he asked quietly.

“You must know that I do,” she said. “And you must know that I despise you, sir. You may believe that everyone whose pockets are to let is scheming to acquire someone else’s money. But not every man is like you. I would consider Harriet fortunate to receive an offer from Mr. Bartlett and I would applaud her good sense if she accepted him.”

‘‘I see,” Christopher said, his voice almost unnaturally calm. “There seems nothing more for me to say then, does there? Pardon me, Becky, for trying to offer advice where it is not wanted. The music is ending—to our mutual relief, I am sure.”

And the ball was ending too, Rebecca discovered. She had never been so glad of anything in her life. She could not have imagined an evening more full of emotional upheaval.