Joan Wolf (16 page)

“Poor old fellow,” I murmured, and patted the gelding’s sweaty neck. I made him walk forward. “Poor love. You wore yourself out, didn’t you? That’s the boy, that’s the fellow.” The gelding put his head down and walked quietly around in a circle while Barbara was getting out her hysterics. Diccon walked the bay as well while we waited.

“I’m not getting back on,” Barbara said at last.

“Of course you’re going to get back on,” Martin said soothingly. “Look—Valentine is riding him and he’s as docile as a lamb.”

“I know! I know!” Barbara said shrilly. “Valentine can do anything. Well, I can’t, and I’m not getting back on that horse.”

“He’s half-dead, poor fellow,” I said candidly. “You really ought to keep him in better condition, Lady Barbara.”

Martin and the duchess both glared at me. The duchess herself rode like a sack of meal. Barbara evidently inherited her horsemanship from her mother; she certainly did not ride like a Bevil. I shouldn’t have been at all surprised if that was why Diccon was so slow to make her an offer.

“I won’t get on,” Barbara repeated.

 “How do you propose to get home, Barbara, if you don’t ride?” asked Martin reasonably.

“You can hire a carriage for me at the nearest inn.” Her great eyes looked even bluer awash in tears. “Please, Martin.”

“Well...” said Martin, weakening.

“We will do nothing of the sort.” It was Diccon’s voice. “The horse is less than harmless. He only bolted because a bee stung him, and any rider with a grain of competence would have stopped him before he nearly ran himself into his grave. He doesn’t have the energy to bolt should an entire hive of bees sting him at present. So please stop treating us to this very tedious Cheltenham tragedy and get into the saddle. Valentine, get off.”

Nothing irritated Diccon more than people who were careless about the welfare of their animals—unless, of course, it was landlords who were careless of the welfare of their people. I got off.

“But I’m afraid,” said Barbara in a small voice.

“Get on,” said Diccon in the voice his ancestors had probably used to order fainthearted knights into battle. He had clearly lost all patience with her. Barbara walked over to where I stood holding the gelding. He was still blowing. He had the sweetest face, and I rubbed his nose and murmured to him. With Martin’s assistance, Barbara got into the saddle; in a minute everyone else was mounted and we moved off.

Lord Stowe stuck to me like a plaster the whole way home, exclaiming over and over about my horsemanship. I made occasional noises to indicate I was listening to him, and Diccon, who rode on my other side, said absolutely nothing at all. From the look in his eye I gathered that if he had spoken it would have been to say something decidedly unpleasant, so I supposed it was best that he kept quiet. I wished Lord Stowe would do the same.

Chapter 22

Two days after our Richmond Park outing, Lord Stowe asked me to marry him. Of course I said I couldn’t and my refusal seemed to distress him a great deal. After he left, I was quite annoyed with myself. I shouldn’t have allowed him to pay so much attention to me. Really, I was no hand at this business of suitors. I didn’t want any suitors—except one, of course, and he had apparently disappeared.

Grandmama was delighted that I refused Lord Stowe. Her brain was teeming with visions of me as the next Lady Ardsley. I shouldn’t have allowed Martin to talk me into acting out that particular charade with him. Now I was going to hurt Grandmama as well. I felt unutterably melancholy.

A week after Lord Stowe’s proposal I was sitting at the piano working on Beethoven’s “Sonata Pathetique,” which wonderfully suited my mood, when Grandmama came into the room.

“Valentine,” she said to me in a trembling voice, “Valentine, dear, may I speak to you for a few minutes?”

“Of course, Grandmama.” I left the piano and went over to sit beside her on a sofa. Grandmama was looking ill and I bent toward her in concern. “What is it? Tell me, please.”

Grandmama took my hand. “My very dear child, I find I scarcely know how to tell you this. But you must know.” She stopped to breathe and panic struck my heart. Diccon, I thought irrationally. Something has happened to Diccon.

“It is about your cousin Martin,” Grandmama resumed, and the icy fear in my chest disappeared. Of course, I thought, if anything happened to Diccon, no one would think to inform me.

“Yes?” I prompted as she stopped again.

“Oh my dear, he has married Barbara Bevil.”

“What!”

“Yes. He got a special license and they were married at his grandmother’s home in Kent. The duke and duchess are furious, but there is nothing they can do now.”

“Good God,” I said rather feebly.

“You may well be amazed,” returned Grandmama, pressing my hand tightly between her own. “He has behaved very badly, not only toward the Cartingtons but toward yourself. On
that
point, I can never forgive him.”

The poor old dear was really upset for me. I thought for a few minutes and then said, “Grandmama, there is no need to be distressed for my sake. Believe me when I tell you that I don’t love Martin, or at least not as a husband. I enjoy his company, but he has not wounded my heart.”

“Are you being quite truthful, Valentine?”

“I am. I promise you.”

She kissed me. “Your grandfather will be as relieved as I to hear this. On this point we have been wretched ever since Grandpapa heard the news at his club last night. It was our darling wish that you might be attached to each other—and we were persuaded that it was so. Imagine what we have been feeling on your account.”

I felt most horribly guilty. I had known they would be disappointed by my failure to become Lady Ardsley, but I had not imagined this concern for my supposedly wounded heart.

“I have always felt Martin to be a very unsteady young man,” Grandmama said now, and some of the old steel had returned to her voice, “but this has quite sunk him in my opinion.”

“Now, Grandmama,” I said placatingly. ‘ ‘Martin may not have behaved quite well on this occasion, but I have known him long enough to answer for his having many, many good qualities, and—”

“To elope!” cried Grandmama, not attending to me at all. “And with Barbara Bevil. I cannot believe it of her much as I might believe anything of
him.”

“She must love him excessively, I suppose. And really, Grandmama, it was very wrong of her parents to have opposed their marriage if that was the situation. There is nothing wrong with Martin. He is a pleasant, handsome, well-to-do young man, and one day he will be an earl.”

“But not the Earl of Leyburn,” said Grandmama dryly.

“Lord Leyburn had plenty of time to come up to scratch.”

“Yes. He’s back in Yorkshire, I understand.”

“Oh.”

Grandmama sighed. “Well, dear, the only comfort I can take from all this is that
you
have not been hurt.”

“I am quite safe, Grandmama. And please do not cut Martin off from you again. He is Grandpapa’s heir. Let us keep him as a friend.”

Grandmama kissed me tenderly on the forehead. “My brave and generous girl. How like you to say that.” She rose. “You will not mind going to the Bradshawes’ ball this evening?”

“Of course not.”

She gave me another speaking glance, testifying to my bravery, and went out of the room. I sat for several long minutes on the sofa.

So Diccon had gone home to Yorkshire. After a while I went back to the piano and for the remainder of the afternoon I played the most melancholy music I knew.

* * * *

The end of the Season was nearly upon us. At the end of July most of the
ton
usually left town, either for the country or for Brighton. Grandmama asked me if I wished to go to Brighton, but I expressed a preference for Ardsley.

I was so very weary of London, of balls, of gossip, of people. I had to learn to live without Diccon, I knew that. Yet I thought I could make a better job of it in the country. I needed fresh air and quiet, and most of all, I needed my dogs and horses. When one felt like this, animals were really healing.

There were only a few more dances and assemblies and dinners to endure, and finally, it was the evening of the Countess of Rye’s ball—the last ball of the Season. I let my maid array me in a thin ivory-colored gown and dress my hair with creamy white roses. I had lost weight in the last few weeks, and the gown had to be taken in. I had sworn Marie to secrecy. I didn’t need Grand-mama to start nagging at me to eat more.

There was a long line of carriages outside the door of the Ryes’ Berkeley Square town house, and once we got inside, it took us half an hour to get up the stairs. The mingled smell of women’s perfumes in the warm air made me feel faintly nauseous. How I longed for the clean, sharp air of the Dales!

I went along the receiving line, smiling and curtsying, and then on into the huge flower-filled ballroom. It was warm, too warm for all of these people to be crowded together indoors. It was a night to be out under the stars.

Grandmama had been very concerned for my social status after Martin’s marriage. After all, I had refused two suitors and the third had married another woman, which left me bereft of my usual attendants. I didn’t care if I sat and talked to the chaperones all night, but she and Grandpapa did, so I exerted myself to be pleasant to the dancing partners left me.

I was not deserted. In fact, I struck up a friendship with the Duke of Burford, who was having his first Season just as I was. He was extremely handsome and awesomely intelligent, and we got along very well. He had an understated sense of humor that I appreciated, and he found me entertaining. He said I reminded him of his young cousin.

Burford came over to me almost at once and we danced and then sat out a set, chatting comfortably. Grandmama was beginning to look at him hopefully, but I knew his interest in me was not romantic. We were becoming friends—and a friend was a great deal more valuable to me at the moment than another suitor whose feelings I would have to tiptoe around. I could say anything to Burford without fear of his misunderstanding me or thinking I meant more than I did. I think he felt the same about me. We were a great comfort to each other.

“Will you be going home for August, Your Grace?” I asked him now.

“Yes. I have quite a staggering amount of things to attend to.”

I looked at him speculatively. “Do you have plans to go into government?”

“I sit in the Lords, of course, but do I want a minister’s post? No. My main interest is mathematics, not politics. And for the moment, at least, the real business of government is still the land.”

“That’s what Lord Leyburn always says.”

Burford raised an elegant eyebrow at my use of that name. “Well, he’s right—for the moment. In fifty years it will be very different, however. Most people will be living in the cities.”

“Factories,” I said with loathing.

“Factories,” he agreed. “It’s progress, and it won’t be stopped.”

“Progress,” I said with even greater loathing.

Burford smiled. “You do sound like a disciple of Leyburn.”

“On the subject of factories, I am.”

“You may as well try to hold the planets from their appointed rounds as try to hold back progress, Miss Langley.” Quite suddenly he laughed. “Although if anyone could do it, Leyburn is the man.”

“How?” I asked curiously.

“Sheer force of personality,” he retorted, and we both laughed.

“Val!” said a voice at my elbow. “Here you are! I’ve been looking for you.”

“Martin!” I turned and grinned at him. “Congratulations. Where is your bride?”

“She’s dancing with Rye.” He picked my hand up and kissed it. “You are a genius, cousin,” he said, “but don’t tell Barbara.”

“I won’t. I haven’t told Grandmama either, so I am afraid you are in her black books again.” I added ruthlessly, “Better you than me.”

He chuckled. “You must help me bring her around.”

Burford had courteously drawn back while this cousinly exchange was going on, but now he laid a hand on my arm.

“I rather believe someone is looking for you, Miss Langley.”

I looked up, my eyes drawn as if by magnets to the door. There, staring at me across the glittering crowd, was Diccon.

Chapter 23

The orchestra was playing and the floor was filled with dancing couples. Diccon walked straight across it, ignoring the protests of the dancers whom he disturbed. I watched him coming—we all did—and it was as if something fierce, masculine, and beautiful, like a panther, had been let loose in the civilized confines of the ballroom. He came on, unwaveringly, and as he reached us, I saw that his eyes were now on Martin.

Martin looked frightened and I couldn’t blame him.

“You goddamn bastard,” said Diccon quietly. Martin flushed deeply and then became very pale. He opened his mouth to speak, failed, and then tried again. “Barbara loves me, my lord,” he managed—quite bravely, I thought.

“Barbara! Who the hell cares about Barbara. It’s Valentine you’ve hurt, you ...” Well, I won’t repeat the words Diccon used. Suffice it to say they were not appropriate for a ballroom.

“Valentine!” said Martin in genuine astonishment, and looked at me.

“My heart is not broken, Diccon,” I began.

“What do you mean, your heart is not broken?” He turned on me, eyes narrowed.

“Er—I believe you are beginning to attract some undue notice, my lord,” Burford said softly. “Might I suggest you and Miss Langley go out onto the terrace and finish your conversation there?”

Diccon transferred his attention to the speaker. “Burford,” he said. “By God, as soon as my back is turned ...”

I looked around me and saw that we were indeed the center of interest for almost the entire ballroom. “Good God,” I said faintly. Thank heavens Burford had noticed.

“Diccon,” I said firmly, “come out on the terrace with me. Everyone is staring at us.”

Diccon turned his head and stared back. Everyone suddenly began to talk again. I had to stifle a giggle at the look on Martin’s face. Suddenly I felt very very happy.