Anne Barbour (13 page)

“Charlie!” He swung around at the sound of a feminine voice, but the young woman lightly descending the stairs was not Sally, but her sister Elizabeth.

“Sally said you would be coming over this afternoon.” Elizabeth floated gracefully over the ancient stone floor of the hall and smiled captivatingly.

“Hullo, Liz,” said Charlie, grasping her hand. “You know Sedgewick, don’t you? Lord Walford, that is?”

Elizabeth offered her sweet smile. “Of course. We danced at last year’s Christmas Ball.”

Sedgewick swept her a graceful bow. “I remember it well, Miss Elizabeth.” He stood back. “But, you seemed so much—younger last year.”

“I was still in the schoolroom then.” The smile spread into an elfin grin. “This year, Mama let me put up my hair.”

“Yes,” interposed Charlie, “but where’s ... ah, there she is. Sally, come see who I’ve brought,” he finished.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen.” Sally entered the hall from one of the small salons that dotted its perimeter, and Charlie was gratified to note that she had attired herself in a becoming gown of primrose muslin, whose sunny hue seemed to bring out all the delicious glints in her chestnut hair. Her hurried entrance had lent a delicate flush to her cheeks. Altogether, Charlie could not remember when he had seen her in such looks.

Lady Berners bustled in from the direction of the still room, and the next few moments were filled with a flurry of greetings.

“Well!” exclaimed Lady Berners. “What are we all doing standing about here? Do let us repair to the drawing room. I have sent for tea.”

Over the cups, talk was general, with the conversation being dominated by Lady Berners and the Earl of Walford. As he good-naturedly answered her questions about his activities in London and all the friends he had left there, Sally studied him covertly. Dear Lord, the man was beautiful! She shot a glance at Charlie, and was discomfited to note that he was watching her. She turned her gaze hastily back to the earl.

“No, I’m afraid I did not attend Lady Brisbane’s ball,” he was saying. “There was a meeting of the Surrey Institution, and I had been asked to read a lecture on the properties of sulfur.”

“Indeed,” said Lady Berners in a faint voice. “How very interesting, to be sure.”

Aware that Charlie’s gaze on her had turned into a minatory stare, Sally took a deep breath. “Yes,” she said brightly. “I understand that sulfur, along with charcoal and saltpeter, is the primary ingredient for black powder.”

Sedgewick set his cup down with such force that it clattered. “Miss Berners, are you familiar with the production of black powder?” His blue eyes were very intense.

Sally laughed deprecatingly. “Not really. That is, I have some slight knowledge of chemistry—I raise plants and herbs for their healing properties. I sometimes use charcoal and potassium in my potting soils— and in my reading, I came across mention of their use in making black powder. I found it interesting, and continued my reading on the subject. I—I really know very little,” she added truthfully.

“But this is amazing. I have never met a female who has the slightest interest in explosives.” Sally felt bathed in the warmth of Sedge’s gaze.

“Oh, yes,” interposed Charlie, his voice sounding loud in the sunlit room. “You’d be surprised at all the bits of useless information tucked inside that pretty little head.” Aware of the fatuousness of his words, he turned to Elizabeth and Lady Berners for confirmation. The eyes of both ladies were still focused on Sally in blank astonishment.

“B-but, Sally,” said her mother dazedly, “Sulfur?”

“Black powder?” echoed Elizabeth.

Sally felt as though the room was beginning to close in on her. Charlie’s nearness provided an anchor of reality at the edge of her consciousness, and she wished she could reach out and touch him—to absorb some of the confidence that sat so reassuringly on his features.

“Whatever is that on your skirt, Sally?” It was Elizabeth who spoke. Darling Elizabeth, thought Sally with a sigh of gratitude, who possessed the tact of a diplomat and who must have sensed her discomfiture. Glancing down, she plucked a wispy smudge of pheasant feather from the bright-colored folds of her gown.

“Why, Sally,” said Charlie, his dark eyes alight, “have you been tying flies?”

“Tying flies?” echoed Sedge. “Miss Berners, you are not going to tell me that in addition to an interest in one of my favorite hobbyhorses, you are a devotee of the piscatorial delights?”

Sally simply stared at him blankly.

“He means fishing,” explained Charlie in an unsteady voice.

“Of course,” said Sally calmly. From wishing to touch Charlie’s hand, she had gone to wanting to strike him with a blunt instrument. Look at him. Settled into his chair with easy grace, he might have been watching an enthralling stage play. A play directed and produced by himself. Did he not realize that they teetered on a precipice? Why, she wondered wildly, had she agreed to this mad charade? Clenching her hands, she continued in a cool voice. “Yes, I have been trying my hand at it, but only of late. My father had some beautiful ones, and—and I thought I would ...” Her voice trailed off, and she wished the sofa on which she sat could rise up and swallow her whole.

“But that is splendid, Miss Berners.” The expression of interest and open admiration on Sedge’s face nearly proved her undoing. Why did not Charlie stop that interminable grinning and come to her assistance?

In his straw satin chair opposite Sally, Charlie felt that if he had to keep smiling for one more instant, his face would crack, Lord, he had not thought his own part in the initial phases of the wooing of Sedge-wick would be so tedious. Did Sally have to look up at him quite so adoringly? And look at Sedge. He appeared positively fatuous, gaping at Sally as though she’d just been served up to him on toast for breakfast. It was enough to give a fellow a megrim.

“Perhaps before Charlie and I leave this afternoon, you will show me some of your specimens, Miss Berners?”

Sally jumped. “Oh! I think not, my lord. My efforts are sure to provoke only laughter.”

“Nonsense. Tell me, what are you creating at the moment?”

“A Royal Coachman,” she replied with some trepidation.

“Ah, yes,” said Sedge, nodding toward the pheasant feather Sally still held in her hand. “And you have chosen the proper material.”

Blushing, Sally smiled faintly.

Later, after the gentlemen had departed, Sally fled to her greenhouses. There, she soothed the turmoil in her soul as she always did, by tending to the growing things that never failed to provide solace.

True to his word, Sedge had insisted on visiting the large, untidy chamber in a remote corner of the house that Sally had outfitted as a workroom. There, amid boxes of assorted feathers, silks of different colors and weights, and the various implements needed to turn these items into simulated insects, Sedge rooted knowledgeably. His praise of her efforts was genuine, she was sure, and before he left, he had promised to return the next day to further her instruction in this ancient art.

Charlie, drat him, had simply stood about, grinning like a Cheshire cat. Obviously, he was already counting the tontine money his, as well as visualizing himself as a prosperous breeder of horses, striding over his acres and lording it over his tenants. He had whispered on his way out the door that he had unearthed a volume of Gray, another of Sedge’s favorite poets, and that he would return with it that evening for more tutelage.

Sally sank down on a nearby bench and stared unseeing through the steamy panes of the greenhouse. It had begun. Her campaign had swung into action. Would the outcome be all that she had hoped? She thought of the hours she would be spending with Charlie this evening. Charlie and the poet, Gray. With a grin, Sally turned to her work.

* * * *

Christmas sped past in a blur. The scent of pine, the crackle of the hearth as loved ones gathered for dancing, feasting and gift-giving all passed into the memory of yet another year. Sally had been caught beneath the kissing bough by an oddly shy Sedgewick, who then stood by to watch Charlie kiss her first on the cheek, and then on the mouth for an unexpectedly long moment. Sedge had retaliated to this obvious attempt to make him jealous by pressing a kiss to Elizabeth’s blushing cheek, but he danced with Sally twice that night.

Charlie reported with glee that Sedge, for the first time ever, had agreed to Charlie’s proposal to stay on at Frane Park beyond the Christmas season. In fact, it appeared that his lordship would still be in residence for the Valentine Ball.

After that, talk was of nothing but Lord and Lady Winstaunton’s annual affair, held at the couple’s estate some thirty miles distant. This event was the highlight of the social year for those living in the area, and by early January, preparations were already in full swing at The Ridings.

“But, Mama ...” The family sat at luncheon, a rather spartan meal of cold meat, salad, and fruit, and the conversation had dealt with the upcoming fete. Chloe’s voice was raised in a querulous whine. “Why can’t I have a new gown? Elizabeth says it would be no trouble to make one for me?”

“For heavens
’
sake, my dear,” her mother replied, in a tone that indicated she had heard this plaint more than once. “You will not be attending the ball, nor the dinner preceding it. You and the other children will be allowed to mingle with the guests earlier in the day, and you will be permitted to stand for a while in the gallery to watch the dancing. Your pink sarcenet will do very nicely for both occasions.”

“But it makes me look such an infant,” wailed Chloe.

“But you are an infant,” interposed her brother William, now mercifully mumpless. He was a sturdy youth, just past his eleventh birthday, with merry brown eyes. His hair, also brown, sprouted from his head in a series of unruly cowlicks. He reached past Elizabeth for a comfit and had his fingers gently rapped for his pains.

“Mama ...” gasped Chloe, swinging on her brother, ready for battle.

“Now, children,” said their mother agitatedly. The quarrel continued unabated until Sally, rousing herself from an abstraction, said quietly, “That will do, William. Chloe, stop railing at the boy. You know he only wishes to annoy you.”

Chloe subsided into a series of resentful sniffs, while William, oblivious, made another attempt, this time successful, on the comfits.

“Elizabeth,” said Lady Berners. “Have you decided on the trim for your gown? I think I rather prefer the blond lace.”

“Oh, Mama,” replied Elizabeth, “I don’t think that would go with mulberry. I thought perhaps a border of deep pink silk rosebuds.”

“Well,” concluded her mother placidly, “I bow to your judgment. Your taste in dress is impeccable.”

Elizabeth blushed at the compliment, then turned to Sally. “Will you come to my room this afternoon for a fitting on your gown? I have set in the sleeves, and I think you will be pleased.”

“Yes, although I am meeting Charlie a little later.”

“Charlie?” echoed Lady Berners. “Where on earth are you going to meet him?”

“Oh. Um, at the Shallows.” Sally squirmed in her chair. “We are going fishing.”

At this, her mother dropped her fork. “But—but it is February! Have you two children gone mad?”

Sally stiffened. “Mama, really. We do not plan to be gone long. We are merely going to test out the new flies I finished last night. They are meant to float, but Charlie insists they will sink like stones. I wish to prove him wrong.”

“Can I come?” asked William eagerly.

“ ‘May I come?’ “ Sally’s correction came automatically. “Yes, I suppose, if you think you can manage to keep from falling into the river as you did last winter,”

“Pho! I was just a baby then.”

Chloe, obviously unable to resist this opportunity, sang out, “You’re still just a—” but closed her mouth immediately upon becoming the recipient of three severe stares. “May I come, too?” she concluded in a subdued voice.

Thus it was that an hour or so later, a large and merry party gathered on the bank of the River Croid, which flowed through the environs of The Ridings. Elizabeth, too, had joined the group, and when Charlie hove into view, fishing poles in hand, it could be seen that he had brought Sedgewick.

Sally presented her collection of lures, and they affixed them to the ends of their lines.

At the first cast, Sally squealed in triumph.

“Look! Look, Charlie, the Jock Scot is floating. See? You’d swear it was a live insect! I’ll have my apology now, my good man.”

“Never tell me you doubted Miss Berners?” Sedge laughed and handed his pole to Sally. “Would you like to try it?”

With an expert flick of her wrist, Sally cast the line into the stream and was delighted to observe that the second fly performed as well as the first.

“Ah, I see you have been fishing before,” said Sedgewick.

“Oh, Sally and I have come to fish right here at this very spot hundreds of times,” interposed Charlie, his eyes on the little fly still bobbing enthusiastically in the shallows.

“When I was much younger, of course,” Sally hastened to add.

“If you would allow a suggestion,” continued Sedge. “By holding the rod thus”—he placed an arm about her shoulder to adjust the rod to a different position— “and flicking the line just so ... Yes, that’s it. A much more accurate cast, don’t you think?”

Sally’s heart thudded wildly at the unaccustomed nearness of that splendid physique. How very broad his shoulders were, to be sure. And how strong, yet gentle, his hands. Feeling the heat rise to her cheeks, she stepped away.

“Like this?” she asked breathlessly, hurling the line into the river, where it splashed several feet away from its target, the base of a low-hanging branch.

“No, no.” It was Charlie, springing forward impatiently. “Like this.” Placing both arms around her, he grasped her hands in his and placed them around the rod. She turned to stare at him in surprise, and found that there was a vast difference from looking Charlie in the eye from across a drawing room and finding oneself just a heartbeat away from him. How odd, she reflected in that brief moment. Charlie’s shoulders were not as broad as Sedge’s, and he was not as tall, but she was intensely aware of the strength emanating from him like the energy waves from a magnet.