Lady Roma's Romance (14 page)

“Talking is worse, especially with such an ill-assorted lot as you’ve invited.”

“Ill-assorted? I don’t see how you come to that conclusion,” Roma said, seating herself before the mirror.

Pigeon began to brush out Roma’s long hair, unpinned for her nap. “If you think Lady Brownlow and that Mrs. Keane will have so much as two subjects in common...”

They are not perhaps likely to become the closest of friends, but I’m sure they know many of the same people.”

“And the ones her la’ship likes will be the very ones that Mrs. Keane can’t abide. Mark my words,” the maid said, like a prophetess of old. “Which of them do you think Mrs. Derwent will prefer?”

“Oh, Dina’s not a worry. She can talk to anyone about anything.”

“She doesn’t listen to the answers, though.”

“Now, Pigeon ...,” Roma said admonishingly, though she was always amazed how much servants knew. “The men will be all right,” she added. “I’ve invited an old army friend of Mr. Donovan’s, so they’ll enjoy themselves.”

“Is he married?”

“Mr. Morningstreet? He didn’t mention a wife, only his mother.”

“Hmph.” The maid began to braid and pin the long auburn tresses.

“Hmph?”

“Unmarried men are a mischief. The only thing worse is an unmarried woman.”

“Why did you never marry, Pigeon?” Roma asked with gentle point.

“I had my career to think of, my lady. A lady’s maid that wants to be a proper lady’s maid needn’t be burdened with a husband.” She unrolled an unevenly pinned lock and did it up again. “But for a gentlewoman, a bad husband’s better than none. Or so my mother used to say.”

“I certainly hope not! What do you think, Pigeon? The white flowers or the blue.”

“White. Here in the braid across the back of your head.”

“Oh, yes. That’s vastly pretty. What about a few little wisps in front of the ears? Too much?”

With delicate touch, the maid flicked a few pieces of hair loose, then brushed them round and round her finger to make them fall in loose curls.

“Excellent,” Roma said, turning her head from side to side to see everything. “What skill you have. You’re really wasted on me.”

“I want you to look your best, my lady. You’ve that youngest Keane girl coming. She’s said to be a beauty.”

“Are you trying to take the wind out of her eye?”

“You’ve more than beauty. You’ve charm. Beauty don’t last.”

“Pigeon, you take my breath away with so many compliments.”

“It’s what’s due you. I see the way that Mr. Donovan looks at you. If he had a penny to bless himself with, he’d make you a good husband.”

“But he hasn’t.”

“No. That Mr. Morningstreet does, though. By all accounts.”

“Indeed.” She rose and went to the bed where her evening gown lay ready. Of white muslin embroidered in old rose, it barkened back to a style of almost ten years before, but with the latest word in sleeves. “But I don’t need to marry for security,” she said, almost to herself. “Besides, Mr. Morningstreet isn’t.. .”

“Isn’t what, my lady?”

Roma smiled at her maid and gave a slight shake of her head. Though Pigeon knew many of her secrets, there were some too new and too intimate to speak. She couldn’t very well say that she felt not the slightest attraction toward Jasper Morningstreet despite his advantages of fortune. No, her heart had to incline toward a man whose chief attraction hardly made sense to her and could not be explained to someone else. “He lets me be myself” would hardly be accepted as a rationale for marriage.

Besides, Roma reminded herself, he’d never so much as breathed a word of matrimony. She mustn’t let a simple kiss run away with her imagination. In some circles, a kiss meant precisely nothing.

Fresh from Pigeon’s capable hands, Roma came downstairs to greet her guests. Her table was out, of course, with widows, a grass widow, and daughters. Besides, she knew so few men in Bath. She should have asked if Bret had any more former comrades available for dinner. But it was also so awkward when people were invited for part of an evening. The ten persons going to the theater already would strain the box they’d taken.

Her father joined her in the drawing room. She swept a few fallen petals from the table and dropped them in the fire. “It’s rather chilly tonight, Father. I hope you have your scarf.”

“Wilde will see to that, my dear. You look lovely. A new frock?”

“Yes. Thank you.” She smiled at him. In the light of the candles, some of the lines were smoothed away from his face. “You look very point-device yourself, sir.”

“Do I?” He gave a nervous tug to his lapel. “I wasn’t sure about it, but my valet said I needed a new set of dress clothes. You don’t think it’s too modern?”

“No, Father,” she said, trying to keep her smile. “And Girton was quite right, you did need new dress clothes.” Had needed them for years, in fact. Why had he chosen this time to have them made? “I’m glad you found a tailor you like.”

“Oh, I’m no dandy,” he said, rather unnecessarily, looking at himself in the mirror over the fireplace.

A rap on the door sent Wilde past the drawing room to open the door. Roma turned to face her guests with a welcoming smile.

“You’ve had the entry painted,” Lady Brownlow said, entering. “I like it very much.”

“Thank you. You remember my father?”

“Of course. How well you are looking, Lord Yarborough.”

“Ah, time does not stand still for us all, dear Lady Brownlow,” he said, gallantly bowing.

Though Roma’s eyebrows twitched at this unusual gaiety, she could look only at Bret. It wasn’t his black coat and white linen that took her eye. It was his steady gaze and the slightly ironic twist to his mouth that she watched as he crossed the floor to her. Only when he came near did she see the anxiety at the back of his smile.

“Am I forgiven?” he asked, taking her hand.

“Do you want forgiveness?”

“Not particularly. I’d like reassurance, however, that one lapse in ...” He hesitated.

“Judgment?” she supplied, slipping her fingers out of his grasp.

“Self-control,” he countered. “I’d hate for it to spoil the friendship I have come to prize.”

“No, I don’t think it will. How have you been?”

“Very well. I needn’t ask you. You look magnificent.”

“Thank you,” she said and blushed. She remembered what he said about her, that she was as beautiful as a Fairy Queen. She peeped at him out of the corner of her eye to try to determine if he was thinking of it, too. She saw him appear thunderstruck, staring at her as if he couldn’t believe his senses. “What is it, Bret? I mean . . . Mr. Donovan. You look so surprised.”

“Nothing. That is ... no, nothing.”

A
s
she looked toward the entryway, hearing another knock, she heard him laugh. Glancing at him, she saw that all the sparkle had returned to his brilliant eyes. He whispered, or she thought he whispered, “Roma, I can’t promise I won’t do it again.”

There wasn’t time to ask him if he’d spoken. The rest of her guests were arriving.

As usual, Pigeon had been right. This was the most ill-assorted group of guests that she had ever invited into any of her homes. At first, Lady Brownlow had greeted Dina with pleasure. They apparently knew each other through their husbands. Roma had relaxed a trifle, but after this promising beginning, they evidently had difficulty finding common ground. Dina looked bored by Lady Brownlow’s line of inconsequent chatter, and her gaze kept drifting to the men. Mrs. Morningstreet, a sweet-faced woman, smiled at everyone equally, being rather hard of hearing.

Bret was listening with a good imitation of interest to her father, but Roma knew what he looked like when honestly engaged in conversation. He’d been his usual charming self, hailing Mr. Morningstreet with pleasure untinged by any hint of embarrassment, making his mother laugh, complimenting Dina on her gown. Mr. Morningstreet had a smile for his friend, but his general air was one of unmixed gloom. Roma began to be sorry she’d invited him. He had seemed so different when they’d met. At any rate, he was an extra man.

Judging by her expression, Mrs. Morningstreet was making heavy weather of following the other ladies’ conversation. Roma seated herself beside her on the settee. “Do you have a garden at your country house, Mrs. Morningstreet?” Roma asked, turning toward her so that the older woman might see her lips.

“Yes, indeed. I never saw Ravensby more glorious with roses than this summer. Do you garden?”

“No. I have no place to create my own. Yarborough’s gardens were laid out by my grandfather fifty years ago. The gardeners carry out the plans.”

“I’ve toyed with the idea of doing something on a grand scale. My late husband was fond of knot gardens and the like. I would like something a little more natural.”

Mr. Morningstreet smiled approvingly as Roma drew her mother out. She looked up to see him wink at Bret. Bret nodded back but didn’t look at Roma.

Her father, she noticed, had been keeping one eye on the entry. The Keane party had not yet arrived. They were late. He turned back to the men.

“As I was saying, Lord Yarborough,” Bret said, “every schoolboy knows his Julius Caesar’s
De Bello Gallico,
but it wasn’t until I myself became a soldier that I may say I understood it.”

Her father would surely never be able to resist a gambit so close to his own heart. But he answered only absently, and Roma felt the world shake a little as if she sensed an approaching earthquake.

But it was only someone knocking. Wilde hastened to the door for the third time. Lord Yarborough started forward, a smile of eager anticipation lending him an air of youth.

Mrs. Keane’s empty laugh entered the room ahead of her, her youngest daughter in her trail. “I’m so dreadfully sorry,” she said, advancing to shake hands with Roma. “I hoped and hoped she’d be recovered in time for this evening. Such a treat! Such a disappointment.”

“Someone is unwell?” Roma asked.

“My daughter, Sabina. She seems to have caught rather a chill today while out shopping. Do forgive me for not writing you a little note, but she believed that she’d be perfectly well enough to accept your invitation. But alas, she felt unequal to the exertion. My married daughter is staying with her. Such devoted sisters.”

“It’s not serious?” Lord Yarborough asked.

“No, no. A mere chill. A hot brick to the feet, a little sleep ... young girls are so resilient.”

“I’m so happy you and Miss Livia could come. Convey my regrets to Miss Keane, and do tell Mrs. Martin I am longing to have her visit.”

Though her table was still out, promiscuous seating came to the rescue, as Wilde had already arranged. With each male seated between two females, it didn’t look too odd. With this slight worry out of the way, Roma could devote herself to creating general conversations. They were too few to speak solely to one’s immediate neighbor on either side. Though apparently happily engaged in listening Dina expound on the latest scandals, or encouraging Mr. Morningstreet to describe his political ambitions, Roma covertly studied her father.

His upright posture had softened, and he toyed listlessly with his
poulet supreme en anglais,
though it was always one of his favorites. He spoke when spoken to, smiled, opened his mouth as if in laughter, but it was all pantomime, like a puppet on the stage. His thoughts were miles away.

Roma herself found keeping up her hostess duties to be something of a strain. She did not like the way Dina was flirting with Bret. Little Miss Keane could hardly open her mouth without her fledging words being clipped by Dina’s dropping of some great name or by her rippling laughter. Roma was glad to see Mr. Morningstreet coming to the younger girl’s rescue and making the attempt to draw her out.

After dessert, Roma gathered the women together, and they left the dining room. “Remember, only one glass,” she said, raising a playfully chiding finger. “The curtain rises in half an hour.”

* * * *

Once arrived at the theater, Roma felt the strain lift. She need no longer fret over her guests’ entertainment, for she could leave it to the professionals. Indeed, the play was all one could wish for, full of color, laughter, and tears by turn. The actresses were lent glamour by the intervening distance, and the actors possessed charm enough to make Miss Livia Keane’s eyes grow dreamy. Nor was she alone in that. Mrs. Morningstreet proved susceptible to a deep, flexible voice and a manly stance, hand on hip.

“You know I was quite frightened when he threatened the heroine,” she said when the interval came.

“Oh, yes,” Miss Livia sighed. “So dashing. I heard it was based on an event that actually happened in Italy.”

“Truthfully? How dreadful. He did have quite a fierce look in his eyes, I thought. It’s a wonder the young lady can bear it night after night.”

“It must be wonderful to be an actress,” Miss Livia said.

Roma left them to their raptures in order to devote herself to Lady Brownlow. “Have you everything you want, dear?”

“Oh, yes. This iced punch is quite delicious. Most refreshing. I wonder how they make it,” she said, licking her lips as if to analyze each flavor.

“A pity they had no champagne.” Dina sat flicking her fan to and fro, even though the theater was not overly warm. She had stated that she’d seen the play before but had preferred seeing it again rather than sit at home alone.

“Shall I bring you some, Mrs. Derwent?” Mr. Morningstreet offered.

“You mean they do have it? By all means, let us go and seek it out. Punch is rather insipid.”

Roma noticed that quiet Mrs. Morningstreet watched them go with a faint line traced between her brows. But when asked if anything was not to her liking, she smiled sweetly and began to talk about the play again.

Only after the curtain had risen upon the third act did Roma realize her father had not returned. Neither had Dina or Mr. Morningstreet.

Roma left her chair and, as discreetly as possible, made her way to the rear of the box. A hand grasped hers. “What is it?” Bret asked under cover of the last dying conversation from the audience in the pit.