Danse De La Folie Read online

  She entertained herself with imagining the room fitted up with new hangings and new furnishings in an elegant classical style. She had finished the room, and was busy replanting the garden outside the window when the door opened, and St. Tarval entered.

  She felt a momentary confusion, but his quiet and pleasant “Good morning, Miss Harlowe,” set her at ease. He was dressed in riding clothes, his worn boots shining from a good polishing, and his outdated blue coat setting off his shoulders admirably.

  She looked away quickly when that thought formed. “I am come with what I fear might be disappointing news,” he said. “I have just met with Mr. Bede, who agrees that it might be safer to delay your departure one day, as we cannot trust the main roads.”

  She was surprised by the bright leap of warmth—of hope—inside her. “I quite understand.” And because she could not hide the warmth in her cheeks, she picked up the book lying on the table next to her chair, and opened it, noting with relief noted that he had several letters in hand.

  She pretended to read, though her eyes did not see the printed text on the page. The marquess did not demand her attention, or intrude upon her notice. He quietly read his letters.

  And so, in spite of the previous evening’s conversation, which had troubled her for half the night, this morning, it seemed, all they needed was the thin light of winter—and the respectable intrusion of letters of business—to establish a congenial atmosphere. Clarissa kept to her book (it was a book of hymns), aware of every rustle of his papers, the shift of cloth as he moved, and she felt curiously suspended in time.

  She recognized the cause, for hers was a reflective nature. It was so simple to pretend that this was her own parlor, and that wintry garden outside was hers to order when spring’s thaw began. And this man sitting so close by, with the substantial table between them, what would it be like to have his company each day? And at day’s end, as the servants brought the bed candles, to walk on his arm up the stairs to...

  She must stop herself there. This gentleman was not hers to imagine such things about. He seemed to have formed an understanding with another, so delicacy forbade trespass even within the safety of her own mind. That could not lead to any happy conclusion.

  The maid brought in the tea, and because Kitty was not yet downstairs, Clarissa bestirred herself. The tea must be poured, which in turn required a little bustle, and a little talking, but that, too, was accomplished with a minimum of words.

  The marquess had only meant to see that their guest was well occupied, since Kit was so late in coming down. But he found himself enjoying the quiet fireside with Clarissa. Hers was such a calm presence, and as she was safely absorbed in her reading, he could permit himself a glance or two—she would be gone on the morrow—and observe the curve of her throat, the unconscious grace with which she sat. The softness of her lips, as she gazed fixedly at that old book of hymns. Did she really read such? No, her eyes did not move across the page. What could she be thinking about? Or did she merely wish to avoid speech with him?

  For the first time he began to regret his situation. He had never permitted himself the luxury of looking for love, not with nothing to offer a lady but this barrack of a house, lands mortgaged to the hilt, and an all-but-empty title. Lucretia was the daughter of a neighbor upon whose goodwill the marquess depended; Sir Henry Bouldeston knew exactly what St. Tarval was worth, for he held some of those notes of hand.

  Lucretia had been pretty and persistent at sixteen—it had seemed natural to kiss—and Sir Henry had only smiled, said, that youth would be youth, but sixteen was too young to think of marriage immediately, and so nothing had been said past Understanding.

  Since then, St. Tarval had considered himself bound, whenever Lucretia wished to speak. As the Bouldestons were not wealthy, his only thought about the matter had been a modest expectation that she would bring as dowry a forgiving of some of his father’s debt to the baronet.

  But here was Miss Harlowe pouring tea, and there was the quiet smile again, as she held out a cup and saucer. The marquess reached out his hand, aware of a tremble in his fingers, and his heartbeat quick in his ears. The room had never seemed so cozy, and he wished he would see her there tomorrow, and the next day, too.

  He took the saucer, and the brief contact of their fingers was so sweet, so dangerous, he had to turn away, and sit at a distance where the fire was not so warm. He forced his mind to the matters at hand. “If you will forgive my vexatious return to the topic of my sister, Mrs. Finn has told me the secret of the gowns. I will not trespass further upon your good nature beyond my wish to thank you yet again.”

  Clarissa blushed. “It is nothing. So easily done. Your sister’s delight already dispels the fatigues of early spring in anticipation of the move to London.”

  “Kitty will never be able to effect a fashionable ennui, I fear.”

  Her hand flew up in protest. “Do I sound jaded? It is not that. But... The need to be continually in the mode... The round of parties in spaces too small for the company, frequently stuffy and overheated, and people saying the same things endlessly repeated... The truth is, I prefer our life in the country. I am a bit like my mother, in being an enemy to the hurly-burly of city life.”

  St. Tarval laughed. “Will I sound demented if I admit that sometimes I agree, and other times I wish to revisit the foreign cities I only caught a glimpse of, when I was an impecunious lieutenant?”

  He was interrupted by the appearance of Clemens, who announced that there was a message from the abbey that required an instant answer. The marquess found himself annoyed with his butler, an unsettling reaction that warned him he had already trespassed into dangerous territory.

  So he set down his untouched tea and excused himself.

  Clarissa watched him go, aware of a sharp sense of disappointment. They had finally got themselves past the tedium of polite gratitude and were embarking on a real conversation, so rare in her life! Then he was gone.

  It was better that way—she must depart. She welcomed the opportunity to be left alone, for she had to restore order to spirits.

  Kitty entered the salon at last.

  After hearing out the messenger, the marquess had waited beyond until his sister finally appeared. He followed her in order to say to them both, “I am the bearer of an invitation. It seems the main road is entirely snowed under, but the Bouldestons are having River Road cleared at this moment. You and Miss Harlowe are invited to spend the afternoon with the ladies.”

  Kitty had been looking forward to another day of conversation about her novel, clothes, and London. Her expression changed from happiness to dismay.

  The marquess looked uncomfortable. “Kit, you know I’m not cognizant of the ins and outs of female niceties, but it seems to me that after having turned down their generous offer, it might seem rude give them the go-by today. Especially as they must have old Tom Garrow and half their men out in the road now, clearing it.”

  “Yes, I agree,” Kitty said quickly. “It is very kind and generous in them.”

  The marquess’s expression eased. “Young Tom is in the kitchen now, drinking some hot coffee. I’ll give him the message.” He vanished.

  Clarissa was silent, aware of her own disappointment, but she was also curious to know more about this young lady to whom St. Tarval was attached. First impressions could be deceptive, and she must not judge too hastily.

  Kitty turned a troubled gaze her way. “I think... I think this invitation is in your honor,” she said tentatively.

  Clarissa said the proper nothings, and a few hours later, found herself welcomed by Lady Bouldeston herself, a round woman dressed very stylishly, with a quantity of curling light brown hair done up in a youthful style under her lace cap.

  She conducted Clarissa to the best chair in a pleasing salon, where the sideboard was loaded with good things to eat. Then Lady Bouldeston brought forward her second daughter, Lucasta, to introduce to Clarissa.

  Lucretia poured out the tea, an
d Lucasta — who looked very much like her sister but with darker hair and a higher voice — said, “Oh Miss Harlowe, you cannot conceive how excited I am to enter society at last, and yet my trepidations. You will laugh at me, I know, when you see how shy I am. Everyone teases me about it.” Her head drooped forward, but not far enough to hide how assiduously her eyes darted about to see the effect her words were having.

  “Another cream cake?” Lady Bouldeston said, gesturing impatiently at the neat maidservant. “Pray, bring Miss Harlowe another cake.”

  “No thank you,” Clarissa said.

  “You must know that my cook is French. Escaped the guillotine, just barely, though the rest of the family did not. They were noblesse présentée, of course. Sir Henry is quite particular that way. It is said that these almond cakes were favored by Queen Marie Antoinette herself, but the receipt was not for sale.”

  Lucasta had been waiting impatiently for her mother to finish speaking. “Oh, Miss Harlowe, surely you have a French cook. You must be accustomed to everything of the best, situated as you are with respect to the Devereaux family, and her grace of Norcaster, your grandmother.”

  Lucretia interpolated a remark here. “Lucasta, you ought not to trouble Miss Harlowe with such questions. She told me herself, upon our introduction, that she seldom sees any of her Devereaux connections, except in town.”

  Clarissa was surprised that Lucretia should remember so threadbare a politeness. She had become accustomed to young ladies offering a kind of mendacious friendship in order to obtain an introduction to Clarissa’s handsome cousin, the Honorable Philip Devereaux, or failing an invitation, at least to insinuate through questions news of where he might be expected next.

  Clarissa had become skillful in deflecting such ruses, though not without sympathy. It was the business of young ladies to marry as well as they could, and Cousin Philip was not only eligible, he was very rich, third in line to a dukedom, and she had grown up hearing everyone praise his handsome countenance.

  “It is true,” Clarissa said, feeling safe enough in that.

  Lady Bouldeston pressed more refreshments on Clarissa, who refused politely while noticing that none of the Bouldeston ladies bestirred themselves so assiduously on Kitty’s behalf.

  But by now she suspected the cause behind this invitation and the fulsome treatment. It was a passport to claim acquaintance in London.

  It was no more than so many others did. She should not be angry, but she could not prevent the thought that this was another reason why she detested the London Season as Lady Bouldeston leaned toward her and said with a rehearsed air, “Perhaps we may amuse ourselves with a little music. Lucasta? Pray entertain us with that German air you have learnt.”

  Lucasta protested, hiding her face. “Oh, pray, Mama! Miss Harlowe is sure to have such exquisite taste, hearing London performers!”

  Lady Bouldeston lifted her hands. “Miss Harlowe is certain to be charmed, Lucasta, and as for Lady Catherine, we quite count her as one of the family, old friends as we are.”

  Clarissa’s middle sister, who alone of the family had a lovely voice, commonly made just such protestations, so Clarissa offered polite assurances.

  Even so, Lucasta displayed a tendency to dramatize her reluctance until her elder sister said in a sweet tone, “If you cannot overcome your apprehensions, Sister, I shall offer an air of my own.”

  Lucasta tossed her head. “I would not wish to disoblige Mama.” She moved with alacrity to the pianoforte on the other side of the room.

  Lucretia sat down to play, and Lucasta took up a stance, eyes soulfully turned toward Heaven, and began to sing Schiller’s “The Song of the Bell.”

  Lucasta’s voice was nothing remarkable. In point of fact, she did not always hit each note true, but seemed to feel that adding embellishments such as trills, and striking affecting poses, masked these shortcomings. If she was even aware of such shortcomings, for her mother exhibited every evidence of enjoyment.

  When Lucretia joined her on a French ballad, the two sisters dragged one another off the note entirely. They sang the louder, or perhaps that was the effect, while their Mama beat the time on her knee, and as she turned her smiling face to Clarissa, it was clear from her countenance that she believed she had offered her guests a rare treat.

  “As you can see, my girls have had the benefit of superior training,” Lady Bouldeston said at the end, and leaned forward with an air of confidence. “I understand that it is not always the thing to mention Lady Hamilton, and yet she was once received everywhere—her entertainments were tres jolie, as I am certain you are aware, Miss Harlowe, therefore you will not mind when I confide to you that Lady Hamilton was present at a little gathering when Lucasta was still very much a schoolgirl. So she did not go out into company. But Lady Hamilton positively begged to hear my girls sing, and afterward, pronounced them quite distinguée—agreed that had they not had the disadvantage of being ladies of birth, they might have performed anywhere on the European stage, even before kings.”

  This call for compliments was too loud to be ignored, and perforce Clarissa must provide the expected praise, which Lady Bouldeston and her daughters took as a request for further entertainment.

  Kitty largely remained silent throughout, betraying a faint wince during a high note, which Clarissa secretly found reassuring. She was not being too nice in her tastes. Still, when at last the visit drew to its close and there must be a bustle of further compliments and thanks, and assurances of seeing one another in town, as hats, gloves, and coats were putting on, Clarissa wondered if her own mother might have boasted in like manner of Clarissa’s modest talents, had she lived?

  EIGHT

  Lady Bouldeston had loathed Lady St. Tarval for her beauty and her instant popularity in the parish after her disgraceful marriage. It was (she had assured anyone who listened) a disinterested dislike, as she was a just woman, and faulted the marquess for jilting her elder sister in order to make this runaway match. She had put a mourning band to her hat when the wretched woman had killed herself riding a half-tamed horse, but as she had observed to Sir Henry on the way to the funeral, “It can only be regarded as an act of Providence.”

  Sir Henry, who had very much admired the dashing marchioness, had wisely kept silent.

  Providence had been dilatory in administering justice. By the time Lady Catherine reached the age of ten, it had been obvious to all that she had inherited her mother’s beauty. Lady Bouldeston had done what she could to aid Providence by talking everywhere of the girl as a “sad romp” when the present marquess had permitted his sister to gallop around the countryside, and lamented Lady Catherine’s brazen lack of humility when she came to church in her mother’s turned gowns.

  She had instructed Lucretia, being the same age, that it was her Christian duty to administer hints at Lady Catherine’s sad lack of social grace. Lucretia, who had inherited much of her mother’s nature, was an apt as well as enthusiastic pupil to her mother’s teachings.

  Kitty was only aware that this visit had gone much better than most of her visits to Riverside Abbey. She was certain she had Clarissa to thank. She had never seen Lady Bouldeston more cordial than when, on their departure, she had said, “It is a pleasure to observe that we will all see one another in London quite soon.”

  So her spirits were high as they returned to the quiet of Tarval Hall, where they found the marquess in the warm study. Kitty had pulled off her hat, and, swinging it by its ribbon, she said, “Do find Ned, Carl. I propose an evening of whist—I feel as if I shall win thousands!”

  At the marquess’s behest the cook had put forward the salt pork in keeping for Sunday; his intention was to offer their departing guest a fine meal, after which he would keep himself occupied in another part of the house. But he could not forebear to glance at Miss Harlowe—he saw her smile—and he thought, It’s only an evening. Why should he not enjoy it, as it would be the last?

  Clarissa’s thoughts ran along the same path, and so, e
ntirely due to Kitty’s and Ned’s wish for untrammeled wild play, Clarissa and St. Tarval found themselves partnered for the game.

  The poets would never laud the words spoken that evening, any more than the wits of London would hail the speakers. There was no flattery, no clever references to Cupid’s shafts or slain hearts or the powers of the cruel fair—the sort of flirtatious talk that Clarissa hated most. Praise of the excellent dinner led to the weather, and thence to roads, subjects so mundane they could be tedious, and yet weren’t. The marquess would occasionally interpolate mild observations, such as his comparison to the roads of Sicily, which adventure the marquess described so well that Clarissa forgot that it was her turn to play, and kept the Decourceys waiting until she recollected herself.

  She would have been glad to hear more, but Edward interrupted his brother, saying, “We’ve heard all that times out of mind. Who cares about places we shall never see? Your trick, Kit, I believe.”

  St. Tarval might have been justified in expressing affront, or even irritation at being so summarily interrupted, but he only said, “Quite right, Ned. I do not have license to bore my auditors about my travels until I have passed fifty. Did you say clubs are trumps?”

  There could be no intimacy in such a gathering, and yet in Clarissa’s eyes, a gentleman who took evident pleasure in a family party was more interesting than the best dancer or whip she had ever heard extolled. She found herself distracted by the humor in his voice, by the glimmer of firelight in his eyes, by the fine shape of his hands.

  Soon—too soon—there would be a Lady St. Tarval sitting in this very chair. Clarissa could envision Lucretia Bouldeston in her place, a thought that hurt so much she almost missed a trick, and had to scold herself into self-control.

  She ought to have known better, she thought when—too soon—the evening came to an end, and Kitty lit the way to their bedchambers. There, Clarissa found a candelabra lit, a generous gesture that only hurt the more. When she blew the candles out, she resolved that she would keep to her room until it was time to depart.