Elisabeth Fairchild (15 page)

Aurora laughed too. “That would have been the occasion in which I had fallen in the middle of the dance floor with Lord Walsh flailing about on top of me?”

Grace wept, so deep was her amusement. Mrs. Hall regarded them as if they had both gone mad as she finished pinning.

“By no means,” Composure regained, Grace hastened to set her straight. “The remark was not sarcasm. It was made in complete earnestness at the archery competition you won. Come, turn around and we shall have you out of that dress and into another.”

Aurora struggled to remember the day of the archery display as the gown dropped about her ankles. Another was pulled over her head and as if in pulling her head through the cloud of muslin she burst through the cloud of the past, she remembered. The coach! Miles and Grace Fletcher had been in the coach that had pulled into the clearing, that its occupants might observe the competition. Her attention had been momentarily distracted from the target. She had been watching Walsh who had gone to speak to someone just when she thought most to impress him. Instead, she had impressed a complete stranger, Miles Fletcher. What an odd turn of Fate.

“Step out and mind the pins,” Mrs. Hall instructed.

Obediently, almost blindly, Aurora stepped out of the dress pooled around her feet.

“Strange, how Fate does twist and turn on us at times,” she whispered.

Grace nodded as she helped to settle the newly donned dress along Aurora’s shoulders. “My mother always said,
Life’s a tangle and we must go about bravely unknotting it.
”

Aurora pondered the words as Mrs. Hall pinned away at her bodice again. Miles Fletcher found her sublime and yet meant to help her win Walsh! How disturbingly perverse. What a knot she had just untangled. His gift, he had said, was framing beauty that others might recognize it--and take it off his hands--he should have added.

She understood him with far more clarity than ever before. She was art to him, a bit of marble, a fist to be set in silver, a form to be measured and pinned and set in beribboned muslin and lace so that someone else might hang her on his arm.

With an indefinable sadness she asked, “Does your brother keep any of the fine bits of art he collects for other people?”

Grace looked puzzled by this strange
non sequitur
. She shrugged. “Very little. The art is, after all, his living. He must make a profit.”

“And those pieces he keeps? Do you know why he holds onto them?”

Grace looked at her as if she asked something remarkable. “How strange that you should ask. I have pondered this very matter many times. It is not value, in terms of pounds and pence that Miles holds onto. His tastes are eclectic and do not follow any one recognizable theme. I have decided, as a result, that those possessions he prizes most, have so struck a chord in his heart and soul, that he cannot let them slip from his fingers. The he does his best convince collectors who might have bought the thing off of him, that they do not really want the item after all.”

Aurora smiled, remembering Miles Fletcher’s performance on the bridge. “Well, if anyone might change someone’s mind, it is your brother. He is a very convincing fellow.”

Grace’s affection for her brother was evident in her expression. “He is, isn’t he?” She wrapped her arm around Aurora’s waist as if they were long-time acquaintances. “I am pleased you like Miles, for I have had a lovely chat with your brother this evening about artistic aspirations, of which I have a few of my own.” She gave Aurora a squeeze. “I am sure we are all meant to be the dearest of friends.

Aurora smiled, but could not so easily demonstrate carefree affection for Grace Fletcher as the engaging young woman did for her and Rupert. She still feared for Rupert’s heart with regard to this swanlike creature. “I should like that,” she said carefully. “I am sure Rupert would agree.”

Rupert did agree, vociferously, once the Fletchers and Mrs. Hall had packed up measuring tape and fabric swatches and left them in peace. The hour was much advanced, and Aurora yawned with fatigue. It was strangely wearing to have been the center of judgmental attention for hours on end.

Rupert was not worn so thin. Face alight with the happy memory of Grace Fletcher, he seemed in a mood for conversation. “They are a most delightful brother and sister, don’t you agree?” He spoke with unusual enthusiasm. “As compatible--as cheerful together--as ever I have seen two siblings.”

“Too cheerful,” Aurora said wryly, nerves frazzled by that incessant good cheer. She felt inadequate in the presence of such spritely conversation and tasteful observation effortlessly generated by the Fletchers. They unintentionally pointed out to her how woefully inadequate her relationships with her own brothers were. Other than Rupert, she exchanged pleasant conversation with not a one of them, certainly not such agreeable chatter as Miles and Grace had demonstrated.

Beyond that, their remarks madeher realize how culturally out-of-touch her life in the country left her, not only in matters of fashion and popular trends, but in the arena of global awareness as well. These two traveled to many and varied far-away places. Draped in the exotic: French muslin, Indian gauze, Chinese crepe, Italian silk, English wool; and decorated in designs inspired by Greece and Rome, Egypt and Persia, Aurora yearned to test the boundaries of her existence as they had never before been tested.

“It is a pity he cannot marry her,” she said in jest. “They would make a pretty couple.”

“Aurora!” Rupert was not used to such humor from her, though it was the very sort of playful, biting remark that had passed between the Fletchers all evening.

“Did you not think they sounded just like husband and wife at times, finishing one another’s sentences the way they did, and wrangling in as agreeable a fashion as might be expected over color, cut and cost?”

“Would that I might one day wrangle so agreeably with a wife over such things,” Rupert said wistfully.

“You will,” Aurora promised stoutly, devoid of the strength required for defending his future any more energetically. “You’ll see. All will be well.” Something that Grace Fletcher had said wandered through her consciousness. She sat up briskly. “Come! Tomorrow’s sheep shearing is soon enough for unknotting life’s tangle. I will help you down the stairs so that we might both get ourselves to bed.”

At the top of the stairs they were hailed.

“Hallo!” Miles Fletcher called

“I thought we were rid of you,” Rupert said lightly.

Miles smiled. Aurora had never before noticed how attractively his gill flower eyes crinkled up in the corners when he smiled. “I’ll gladly go away again if you wish,” he said, his remark, indeed, his entire attention focused on Rupert. “It occurred to me you might appreciate a stout shoulder to lean upon, Ramsay. I came back to offer mine.”

Rupert readily accepted. Aurora was impressed. It was unusual for her brother to so readily entrust himself to a stranger’s care.

As the two made their slow progress down the steps, she half expected Miles Fletcher to glance up at her, to ascertain her reaction to his offer of assistance to her brother. She was even more impressed when he did not.

“I appreciate your assistance,” Rupert said when he and Miles reached the foot of the stairs.

Miles thought Aurora’s brother looked exhausted by the effort of taking the stairs by peg and crutch, as exhausted as the fabric that made up his coat and waistcoat. Both had seen better days. Miles had noted the same worn condition on the hems of several of Aurora’s dresses. The Ramsays were not particularly flush in the pocket, it would seem. He motioned to a nearby bench. “Will you sit a moment and talk? I am ashamed to admit I have not assisted you for purely altruistic reasons.”

Curious, Rupert readily sank onto the bench. “Your motivation is a selfish one?”

“Absolutely!” Miles made light of what he would ask. “I am hopeful you now feel so indebted to me that you will reveal the mystery of why your sister,”--he looked around to be sure they were not overheard--“is bent on receiving an offer from Walsh.” His manner was that of a man in jest, but his question was in earnest.

Rupert shrugged. “That is a question best asked of Aurora,” he equivocated. “I do not even begin to pretend to understand the motivations of my siblings.”

Miles frowned. “Perhaps I approach the topic too bluntly,” he apologized. “You must know that I have promised to help your sister in her quest for Walsh’s affections?”

Rupert nodded, but would not meet his eye. “Hence the wardrobe business upstairs,” he said.

“Exactly,” Miles studied Rupert. “It is not commonly my role to play matchmaker with anything other than antiquities. I would not meddle in such a matter if I felt such a course ran contrary to good sense. You have but to say the word and I will cease dabbling in your sister’s affairs. I would not continue down any road if you feel it runs contrary to that which will in long-term make Aurora happy.”

Rupert studiously avoided his eyes, staring instead at the top of his crutch, which he held before him like a cross. “My sister must decide upon her own happiness,” he said at last. “Her reasons are her own. If you come to me, seeking endorsement of your assistance, I must send you away unsatisfied.”

“Let me ask you plainly then, have you any objection to Walsh as a brother-in-law?”

“No, nor of my sister’s marrying him if he will make her happy.” He frowned. “Circumstances I am not at liberty to divulge factor heavily into this course she has chosen. Due to said circumstances, I am quite certain my own definition of marital bliss would not coincide with Aurora’s.”

Miles thought he was rather more informed as to the mysterious circumstances Rupert mentioned than either Ramsay would have appreciated. He did not disclose as much to Rupert

With the aid of his crutch the young man rose. “I wish you a pleasant evening.” His politeness had a frosty edge that put an end to further questions.

“Good night.” Miles remained where he sat, puzzling the matter as he watched Rupert’s slow progress across the gleaming marble floor.

“Blast!” he said forcefully under his breath, setting off after him. The promise he had made to his uncle was proving far more difficult to honor than he might have imagined.

Rupert seemed to expect him. He paused in his progress when Miles’s strident footsteps rang in his wake.

“One question and I will pester you no more.”

Rupert looked him in the eye, waiting.

Miles passed a hand across his lips. “Are these circumstances you referred to financial?” he asked bluntly. “Perhaps I may assist you?”

Rupert regarded him keenly. “You are very kind, Mr. Fletcher. But I cannot accept your kind offer. The circumstances I mentioned run far deeper than mere money. A river of gold has already run through Ramsay hands. I would not have you casting good money after bad.”

The following morning the sheep shearing began. From a very early hour the level of noise and bustling activity around Holkham Hall increased tenfold. The noisy concentration of carriages, people and livestock milled in masses around the barns.

Aurora was in her element. The crowd was enough to daunt most females. Not Aurora. Barns had always been a safe haven for her. All of Thomas William Coke’s guests were on hand, as were most of his laborers and a great majority of the local neighborhood. In looking at the vast crowds, Aurora felt she shared a special kinship with the men and women gathered. These were the folk, common and noble, who would rather sit horseback than on a drawing room fainting couch. Love of the outdoors was written all over their sun-toud faces.

The air of a country fair enlivened the proceedings. There was not just the shearing to observe. The hall’s prize bulls were paraded around, along with a number of fine horses and a huge pig or two. The latest of farming equipment and machinery had been arranged in one area for all to see and discuss. A group of aproned and bonneted women clustered together some distance from the sheering, cleaning, carding, spinning and dying the freshly sheered wool.

Closer to the barns, in a scythed, grassy space, makeshift willow branch pens held the sheep. The gentle sound of their baby-like blatting reminded all of the reason for this gathering.

Dressed sensibly in boots and riding gear, her skirt buttoned high, Aurora made her way among the press of spectators, sheep, shepherds, dogs and shearers. The shearers had spread large squares of oiled canvas. One by one their shepherds, easily identified by long, pale smocks, woolen hose and tall staffs, led the sheep to the mats. At their bidding clever, sharp-eared dogs moved with concise, concentrated precision among the press of men and beasts, herding sheep to and fro. The shearers, also smocked, were bent to their task, as they would be all day and for many more to come. This was no entertainment for them, but a long, backbreaking day’s work amid the press of onlookers. Wielding wicked looking, long-bladed sheers as casually as butter knives, their object was clear. They meant to trim away the fleeces on every sheep that came within arm’s reach.