Blessed Offense (Sixteen Seasons)

Blessed Offence

WHEN I WAS
thirteen, Lynford Townsend pushed me into the duck pond. I have never forgiven him.

Perhaps that is why, at the age of three and twenty, I am less than thrilled at the announcement that he and my sister, Celia, are engaged to marry. I should be happy. Why am I not happy? It isn’t jealousy that keeps me from congratulating them wholeheartedly. Truly it isn’t. I could never think of marrying myself to a man who would purposefully push me into a body, however small, of stale and brackish water.

The announcement has just been made, and well received. My smile is taught. I can feel it pulling at the corners of my eyes, willing them to cooperate in the gesture. A toast is offered. My sister blushes charmingly. Mr. Townsend is all pride and masculine conquest. Of course they have my blessing. I try harder to appear as sincerely happy for them as I know I ought to feel.

In the drawing room, Mama embraces Celia and sheds tears upon her fair head.

“Oh, Mama,” my sister chides. “You make too much of it. You always knew it would happen. Admit it.”

Mama, for some reason I cannot comprehend, gives me a surreptitious, and rather pointed, look before turning back to my dear sister. “Of course we did, my darling. Though we had begun to wonder... But now it is at last decided upon, you must allow me to be happy. It is my right, after all.”

Celia shakes her head, sending the curls that frame her face bouncing. She kisses Mama again and rises to sit next to me. She takes my hand in hers. “You are not disappointed?”

“Don’t be silly. Mr. Townsend is one of the best men I know. You could not do better.”

“That was my thinking,” she says and looks a trifle uncertain. If she is afraid I resent the fact that my little sister is to be married before me, I intend to put her at ease on the matter. “You know you’ve been in love with him since anyone can remember. Why shouldn’t you have your heart’s desire? You deserve to be happy.”

“Yes,” she says, “but to own the truth, I had always thought he liked you better.”

“Don’t be absurd. We can’t get on for five minutes together. And you know me. Being liked isn’t enough. I must be adored. And he adores you—it is quite plain to see.”

“Do you really think so?” she asks and takes my hand.

“Did you not see how proud of himself he is for catching you? You’ll make him very happy. And he you, I’m quite certain.”

“I do hope so,” Celia answers, and looks, for just a moment, as if she might cry.

“At least I doubt very much he will ever be tempted to throw you into the pond.”

“What can you mean?” Celia says in apparent confusion. “Surely you can’t mean to say you are still angry about—”

But before she can finish the question, which I’m not sure I would have answered in any event, the men enter.

WHEN I WAS
fifteen, Lynford Townsend killed my beloved terrier. I’ve never forgiven him. I don’t know that I ever shall.

It is father who enters the drawing room first, Lynn following close behind. Papa is no doubt anxious to congratulate his soon-to-be-wed (and off-his-hands) daughter. He kisses both of her blushing cheeks. “My darling,” he says. “I am
so
proud.”

“And I am so happy, Papa,” she says and glances at Mr. Townsend. But I am no longer certain she is. And to think I had convinced myself that the hesitation was all on his side. But why should
she
be reluctant? He has never once threatened her, or her cherished cat Tilly, any harm that I know of.

Mama summons Celia to her side once more, anxious to have her near now she is so soon to leave home. Mr. Townsend takes a seat opposite me. Juniper II begs at his knee, and soon finds himself lifted onto the gentleman’s lap.

“Put my dog down, if you please.”

“Why should I? He wants me. And I gave him to you, if you recall.”

“In replacement of the one you destroyed.”

“Destroyed? That is strong language. You know very well how troublesome that beast was.”

“That didn’t give you the right to kill him.”

“It was an accident.”

“So you say.”

“I
am
sorry, Caro,” he says, and appears quite sincere. But I do not want him to relent. I do not regret his marrying my sister, and I want him to know it. I take the dog from him and return to my seat opposite, holding dear Juniper II very close, as if protecting its dear little life. Which I admit may perhaps be taking it a bit far.

“We are soon to be brother and sister,” he says now. “I would like it if we could be friends.”

“We have had these past twenty years to learn to be friends. I’m afraid if we have not learned yet, we never shall.”

“But it hasn’t always—”

He stops as Celia lays her hand upon his shoulder, a worried expression on her brow. “You are not arguing again?” she asks.

“We have formed our habits,” I answer. “I should think them quite impossible to break at this point.”

Celia sits down between us, taking each of our hands in hers. “It is my sincerest wish,” she says, “that you will love each other as I love you both. Will you try, for me?”

“You know you have
my
word,” Mr. Townsend says and squeezes her hand.

“And you?” Celia says now as she turns to me. “Will you promise? Promise me you will at least try?”

I do not answer right away. I, for one, am happy with matters as they are. Well, not quite happy, but reconciled at least. I see no reason to change them.

“Caro, my dear,” Celia says, pressing for an answer.

And when I still have none to give, she places my hand in Mr. Townsend’s. He takes it obediently and looks at me for the merest moment. I cannot endure it. I stand and excuse myself from the room, and do not look back to see what the effect of my abruptness may be on the company. Is my behaviour a little heartless? It may well be. That is, after all, what they say—that I have no heart. Why shouldn’t it be true?

It would be better if it were true.

WHEN I WAS
eighteen, a very exuberant, and perhaps slightly inebriated Lynford Townsend tore the sleeve of my very best dress. I do not have to tell you I have not forgiven him.

It was on the night of my debut. My hair was up, my corset laced to within an inch of my life, and Papa had invited some very distinguished guests. I did not mind dancing my first dance with my childhood friend. It was comfortable to dance with him. I knew he would forgive any mistakes I made. And he helped me to feel a little more confident before I was handed off to the up-and-coming and one-day-to-be-titled of my father’s acquaintances.

Only I never got quite that far.

I cannot recall how it happened. No doubt it was attributable to his clumsiness. He had worn his grandfather’s tie pin, which he somehow managed to catch on my new gown and ripped the shoulder from neckline to sleeve. Only there wasn’t a sleeve, and so . . .Well, let’s just say he, and several others in the room, saw more of my underpinnings that night than I have been wont to show anyone who was not familiar with our nursery and my years in it.

Suffice it to say, it was a very short night. I quit the ball and refused to return again to it.

But tonight it is Celia’s turn to be debuted. Her eighteenth birthday and the formal announcement of her engagement. I trust Mr. Townsend will take greater care to keep Celia’s underpinnings properly concealed.

“You won’t dance?”

“With you?” I ask Lynn, who has appeared very suddenly beside me. He looks well tonight. His hair droops a little over one eye and makes him look ever so slightly rakish, which he isn’t, but I suspect he likes people to think him the dashing gentleman who is ever at ease in the company of a lady. “I think I learned my lesson.”

“You still won’t forgive me for that incident with your gown?” He laughs.

“Not if you’re going to continue to make a joke of it,” I say. “And no. I won’t dance, not with you or anyone without a title or at least something to offer by way of compensation for the trouble.”

“You’re very proud, aren’t you?”

“I must think of my future as well as anyone. And I don’t like to be undressed in public view. I doubt you’ll find many who do.”

“It isn’t likely to happen twice, you know.”

“That’s what the tyrant Bonaparte said when he was exiled. The
first
time.”

Lynn laughs. Silently, almost companionably, which is a rare feeling these past months, and watches the company mingle and dance, and, like me, not dance.

“Charles Montegue will inherit a mountain of money when his father dies,” he says, nodding in the young man’s direction.

“Yes, but he spits when he talks, which is all well and good across a table, but when you’re dancing face to face . . .”

“What about young Lord Ashcroft?”

“Have you met his mother?”

“Good point. There’s Henry Oliphant, of course.”

I simply look at him.
Have you seen the way he dances?
I might have asked.

“Yes, yes, all right. But you shouldn’t be so picky, you know. Not at
your
age.” This he adds with a wicked grin.

“Well, I’m not dancing with you, so you can just put that thought out of your mind. Where is Celia?”

“I cannot find her.”

“You can’t find her?”

“No. And that’s the second time you’ve refused me this quarter hour. I never asked you, you know. To dance, that is.”

This sends the heat into my face.