Kitabı oku: «The Scandal Of The Season», sayfa 4

Chapter Five

Nathaniel slept little better than Cassandra for the first part of the night. But instead of pulling the blankets close round himself, he kicked most of them to the floor as he tossed and turned.

The subsequent chill permeated right through to his dreams, taking him back to the worst of his memories, memories he refused to visit when he was awake.

He was back in the mountains of northern Spain. But, unlike the reality, there was a wall of frozen corpses right in front of him. To get to safety, he was going to have to clamber over them all, the men, the women, the children and Lieutenant Gilbey. Who, though just as dead as the rest of them, was watching his struggles with reproachful eyes. And then, in the manner of dreams, the dead soldier spoke.

‘You might have let me have those few months with her,’ Gilbey complained. ‘But you didn’t want to let anyone else have her, did you, if you couldn’t? That was why you sent her away…’

‘No!’ It wasn’t true. Was it?

No. Anyway, if he’d let her marry Gilbey, she might have ended up here, in this pile of frozen, half-naked, ragged bodies.

‘No, she wouldn’t,’ said Gilbey, even though Nathaniel had not voiced his excuse out loud. ‘I would have taken care of her. You would have taken care of her…’

‘I couldn’t,’ Nate protested. ‘I couldn’t even take care of my men, or the horses, or these children… I couldn’t take care of anyone…’

And then he heard the boom of a cannon and, in spite of his revulsion, he was scrambling up the mound of dead, desperate to save his own skin, only he couldn’t get a purchase and the mound was tumbling all around him, then his foot slid and he was falling, falling, down the mountainside to the very edge of an abyss…

His foot met with empty air and jerked him awake. It took a moment for him to understand that his leg really had jerked and it was that movement that had woken him.

His mouth was dry, the way it so often was after one of these hellish dreams. He sat up and reached for the water jug he kept beside the bed every night, just in case it turned out like this. His hands shook so much, as he reached for it, that he thought he’d better sit up and place his feet on solid ground.

The floor was cool beneath his bare feet. But at least the wooden floorboards felt better than the horrid, frozen mass he’d been treading in a few moments before. Not that any of it was real, not exactly. He took hold of the jug with both hands, reminding himself, as he always did, that he hadn’t clambered over anyone in order to save himself. That on the contrary, his unit had retreated in good order, fighting a rearguard action against pursuing French troops practically the whole way across the mountains. That it had been the collapse of discipline in other units that had resulted in so many of the needless casualties from cold and starvation.

He splashed some water into a glass as well as over the dresser top before setting the jug back down with a thump. Gilbey had certainly never, at any time, accused him of wanting Miss Furnival for himself. Because he hadn’t. Not back then. She’d been too young for a man like him, or so he’d thought. Too innocent. The way she’d wandered out into the stable yard, he’d thought at the time, had been the act of a green girl. He’d wanted to protect her. From himself as much as any other of the men who’d been watching her with hungry eyes that night.

It was only after she’d shown up on Gilbey’s arm that he’d wondered if she’d deliberately lured him out there. What did he know of women, really? he reflected, lifting the water glass to his lips. He lived in a man’s world, for the most part. The only thing he knew about women he’d learned from his sister, Isabella…

He drained the glass, wondering if there was any truth in Gilbey’s accusation. Had he put a stop to the marriage because he’d wanted her himself? Was he that kind of man?

He didn’t know. Not any more. He’d always prided himself on being fair and just, and honourable. But there was nothing honourable about waging war on a woman. No matter what she’d done.

He rolled the empty glass between his hands, forcing his mind back to that day on the quayside. He’d been angry, certainly. Had given Gilbey a stern dressing down. But then, wouldn’t he have done the same if any officer had turned up with any other girl that young?

Eloping was wrong. It was not acceptable behaviour for an officer.

But in this particular case, hadn’t he also wanted to show the girl the difference between the brash impulsive behaviour of a lad and that of a mature man? Hadn’t he wanted her to think he was dependable, yet dashing? Two completely contrary characteristics!

He shook his head at the folly of a man trying to impress a woman.

And began to get the glimmer of an idea as to why, in his dream, Gilbey had accused him of wanting her for himself.

It was because he’d seen her earlier that night and had been so attracted to her, just as she was now, and he’d fallen asleep comparing her to the way she’d seemed back then and wishing, wishing…

He slammed the empty glass back down on the dresser. Nothing altered the fact that Gilbey had died feeling cheated. Had died with a belly full of regrets. And that he, Nathaniel, had played a part in it.

He leaned over, his shoulders aching with the weight of guilt pressing down on them, and buried his face in his hands.

In order to come out of her next encounter with the Colonel with her head held high, Cassandra decided, as she made her way back to her room with her jug of steaming hot water, she was going to have to shore up her confidence. She wanted to be able to snap her fingers under his nose and tell him he was welcome to do his worst. To inform him that she had friends now, loyal friends, who would stand by her and defend her right to be in London making the most of everything on offer. And one of the easiest ways a woman could make herself feel good, she knew, from her years with her aunts, was to dress well.

So far she hadn’t been choosing her clothes with that in mind. She’d been considering the expense and how well each item would fit into her life when she returned to Market Gooding and took up her occupation as a seamstress. She pursed her lips as she flung open the door of her wardrobe and surveyed the meagre selection she had allowed Godmama and Rosalind to purchase for her so far. Her walking dress was dowdy, her carriage dress looked like something a governess would wear on the stage to her latest posting and as for her ballgowns… She sighed. Insipid, that was the best she could say for them. She didn’t even bother looking at her bonnets. Practical to the point of being ugly, every one of them.

If the Colonel confronted her in the park, or walking along the streets, he wouldn’t credit her for trying to be economical with other people’s money. He’d take one look at her and think she was doing penance. Which, she realised, she had been doing. Even though Godmama had kept urging her to try to look the part of a wealthy young debutante and Rosalind had kept assuring her that her papa wouldn’t care about the expense, she hadn’t felt as if she deserved such treats as pretty clothes.

Well, no more! She was not going to wallow in guilt any longer, not when she hadn’t done anything wrong. So there, Colonel Fairfax! Far from making her run away from London, he’d only succeeded in making her determined to cast off the clouds of her past and make the most of the life she now had.

She pulled out the least dowdy of her walking dresses and, at breakfast, surprised Rosalind by being the one to suggest they go out shopping, rather than making excuses for not doing so when anyone else suggested it. She had fabric to buy and modistes to consult. She was going to revel in the luxury of having someone else make up gowns for her, when back home she was the one making up gowns for everyone else. She needed to try on and purchase several utterly frivolous bonnets, too, as well as choose gloves and ribbons and whatnot to set everything off.

‘Hurrah!’ Rosalind clapped her hands when Cassandra told her about her change of heart. ‘We’re going to have such fun now you won’t be hanging round disapproving of my spendthrift ways,’ she said.

‘I am sorry. Have I been doing that? It was not my intention. I just—’

‘Cassandra is used to having to practise the strictest economy,’ put in Godmama. ‘It is a hard habit to break, when one has got into it. But I do agree with Rosalind. You will have much more fun now that you have put aside your silly scruples.’

Which statement had the effect of making Cassandra experience a fleeting pang of guilt. But only a fleeting one. Because there were more important things than being economical with Mr Mollington’s vast wealth. For one thing, if the Colonel did somehow manage to bring her Season to a premature close, which she still feared he might be able to do in some mysterious manner, in spite of Godmama’s reassurances, then she would have a marvellous collection of outfits to take home to Market Gooding. Outfits that would be the envy of all their usual customers, which would bring new orders flooding in.

With that in mind, Cassandra began ordering three times as much cloth as she actually needed, so that she could give the remainder to her aunts to fill those potential orders.

Pretty soon boxes and parcels began arriving from the most expensive shops in London, until her wardrobe scarcely had the room to contain all her lovely new clothes. Every time she put on one of her pretty new outfits, she kept her eyes peeled for the Colonel, just in case he should leap out at her from behind the bushes in the park, or the tea urn at a supper party, to confront her.

But the days dragged by, with no sign of him. She was starting to feel a bit disappointed that he seemed to be, as Godmama predicted, too busy to bother chasing her down. Although she was jolly glad she’d started to take more care over her appearance when, almost a week after she’d made her vow to snap her fingers at the Colonel and all those who thought they had the right to look down their noses at her, two ladies who claimed to have been friends of her mother paid a morning call on Godmama.

‘Such a shame, all that unpleasantness,’ said Lady Bradbury, eyeing Cassandra with a mournful shake of her head.

‘Dreadful, dreadful,’ said Mrs Cornworthy, dabbing at the corner of one dry eye with a little scrap of lace.

Cassandra looked to Godmama for her cue, which Godmama promptly supplied.

‘Well, of course, that is why I was so determined to do something for Julia’s daughter. That man she married…’ she said, then pursed her lips and took a sip of tea as though she disliked even mentioning him so much that she had to wash the taste out of her mouth.

‘And not a word of truth in it, I don’t suppose,’ said Lady Bradbury, lifting her own cup to her lips.

‘Not one word,’ said Godmama firmly. ‘As if I would sponsor a girl who had…’ She looked at Cassandra. ‘Perhaps, dear, you would be so good as to run up to my room and fetch my shawl.’ She eyed Rosalind. ‘You can help her carry it down, dear.’

Both girls got up and curtsied, then left, trying hard not to giggle at the implication it would take two of them to carry one of the Duchess’s delicately woven shawls. But they both knew it was just a ruse to get rid of them so that Godmama could speak privately to her mother’s former cronies. And, knowing her, tearing her stepfather’s reputation, or what was left of it, to shreds.

Cassandra supposed she ought to be concerned about what slanderous things Godmama might tell the ladies about her stepfather. She also wondered why these ladies had, after all this time, suddenly decided to unbend. But both concerns went out of her head when, as they returned after a suitable interval, Godmama leapt to her feet, holding out gilt-edged invitations to the kind of select soirées where so far they’d signally failed to be able to take Rosalind.

‘I knew I could do it,’ she declared in triumph. ‘After all, if I managed to fire off both my daughters with such success, with all the disadvantages we…’ She pulled herself up. ‘I was sure people would accept you, darling,’ she said to Cassandra. ‘After all, you are the granddaughter of an earl. And if only your mother had made a push to cover up that silly episode, which was after all little more than a bit of a girlish scrape, rather than giving in to her horrid husband’s determination to banish you, you would have received such invitations years and years ago.’

Cassy’s heart swelled. Dear Godmama. She’d promised she would restore her reputation, but somehow she’d never truly believed it would happen.

‘And you will be so proud of me,’ Godmama added with a glowing smile. ‘Bearing in mind how you feel about such things, I did not utter one single untruth! I may,’ she added, with a slight lessening of her smile, ‘have stressed certain facts, while leaving out others, but…’

Cassy didn’t wait to hear any more. Swept forward on a tide of affection, she simply dashed across the room and flung her arms round Godmama, the one person who had gone out of their way to do something about the mess she’d made of her life.

There was nothing, she decided there and then, that she wouldn’t do for her in return, no matter how this Season turned out.

That evening, Godmama’s son, the Marquess of Devizes, had invited them to join him at the theatre, where he’d taken a box. Before setting out, Rosalind and Cassy went along to Godmama’s boudoir so she could inspect their outfits, as she routinely did. But before she could say anything, Rosalind, who was still learning about the way aristocrats inherited their titles, had asked, rather rudely, how come Godmama had given birth to a marquess, but not a duke. “It is a courtesy title,” Godmama explained. “Younger sons, as I have already explained, don’t normally have any title at all. But it was just typical of my late husband,” she said bitterly, “to grant that, and all the land that goes with it to Nick one day, and then evict us from our house practically the next. But enough of that…let me look at you. Ah, you look fine as fivepence,’ she said to Cassy for the first time since bringing her to London. And for once, Cassy rather thought she did. The bodice of her muslin gown was covered all over in fine embroidery, with a similar border around the hem. She’d tied a peach-coloured sash beneath, so that the ribbon points fell to her knees. Best of all, though, was the satin amber pelisse with the chocolate chenille border she had draped over her shoulders. It was trimmed all the way round with swansdown and was the most decadent confection Cassy had ever owned. To top it off she had bought a white satin hat, turned up at the front in the Spanish style, which boasted an ostrich feather dyed amber to match the pelisse exactly.

‘And you, too, Rosalind, well done.’ That second statement met with less enthusiasm from its recipient, since, after only a few days under her care, Godmama had hired an extremely strict dresser who’d soon put a stop to Rosalind’s penchant for an abundance of ruffles and ribbons and ropes of jewels.

However, both girls now looked as pretty and as elegant as it was possible for each of them to look, considering they had access to Mr Mollington’s apparently bottomless purse.

‘Now, Rosalind,’ Godmama said firmly as she picked up her own elbow-length evening gloves. ‘And you, too, I dare say, Cassy, if you haven’t attended the theatre before. Have you? Anyway, as I was saying,’ she warbled on, without waiting for a reply, ‘you should know that nobody goes to the theatre to watch what is happening on the stage. Except some of the gentlemen when the dancing girls come on. So you must not be surprised if you find a lot of gentlemen turning their quizzing glasses in your direction. And then, of course, they will come to our box during the interval, for an introduction. You see,’ she said, placing one hand on Rosalind’s cheek, ‘very many men who cannot get invitations to the better sort of places can simply purchase a ticket to the theatre, then get a friend to effect an introduction. You must be guided by me in your reception of them. No matter how handsome the gentlemen are, or how much address they may have.’

Rosalind nodded. ‘No flirting with anyone below the rank of Baron,’ she said solemnly.

‘Good girl,’ said Godmama, turning the caress into a gentle pat. ‘Not that there is any harm in flirting, of itself. Only I did promise your papa to find you a really good match and if you get a reputation for being fast…’

She turned to Cassy. ‘The same applies to you, of course. People are starting to believe our version of events, at last, so naturally you won’t want to give anyone any excuse for saying that there was no smoke without fire.’

‘No. I mean, yes. I mean, of course I won’t do anything to undo all your hard work, Godmama,’ Cassy vowed. Particularly not after the Colonel had reminded her how horrid it could be when he’d flung it all in her face.

‘Good girl. Now, if we are all ready, let us join Captain Bucknell, who is to escort us to the theatre tonight.’

‘Why,’ Rosalind murmured into Cassy’s ear as they trailed along the landing in Godmama’s perfumed wake, ‘isn’t her son escorting us, since he’s the one who issued the invitation to join him?’

‘Because,’ trilled Godmama over her shoulder, making Cassy suspect she must have exceptionally good hearing, ‘he is far too indolent to put himself out on my account, darlings. Inviting us to share his box for one night is an immense concession on his part, let me tell you. So do make sure you thank him properly. Oh…’ She paused at the head of the stairs and frowned at Rosalind. ‘I had better warn you not to waste your time flirting with him. And don’t poker up like that,’ she added sternly, when Rosalind’s lips pulled into a mulish line. ‘I am telling you this for your own good. So many girls claim to fall in love with him at first sight that he finds that kind of behaviour excessively tiresome. Besides which, he is so wealthy that he has no need to look for a rich wife, even if he were the kind of man to want to settle down, which he gives no indication of doing,’ she concluded, before sweeping down the stairs to the hall where Captain Bucknell was standing, gazing up at them with that habitual look of dog-like devotion which made Cassandra feel a trifle queasy.

Cassy saw exactly why Godmama had warned them to beware of her son, the moment the golden-haired Marquess glided forward to welcome them to his box, took his mother’s hand and raised it to his mouth for a kiss. He was extremely good looking. Extremely well dressed and positively oozed charm. When he turned to her, lowering his eyelids as he examined her slowly from head to toe, she felt the strangest urge to giggle and blush like a schoolgirl. She managed to stop at the blush, although Rosalind was not so strong-willed. But then Rosalind had already been showing signs of becoming rather overexcited from the moment she stepped out of the carriage and joined the crowds making their way into the theatre. She’d gaped at the plush decor, her head swivelling from the glittering chandeliers, to the marble columns, to the velvet curtains, until Captain Bucknell had brought her back down to earth by chuckling at her.

Captain Bucknell wasn’t chuckling now. On the contrary, he was scowling at Marquess, who’d somehow managed to take up Godmama’s attention to the point that she seemed to have forgotten all about everyone else. Cassy wasn’t sure what the correct form was for a man who was entertaining his mother’s lover, but while freezing him out entirely was perfectly understandable, she didn’t think it was fair for him to exclude her and Rosalind, as well.

Although, on reflection, she recalled Godmama warning them both that Marquess was not at all interested in debutantes. Especially not ones who blushed and giggled. So she decided to put his rudeness out of her mind, and simply enjoy the experience of her very first visit to a London theatre.

‘It’s just as well Godmama warned us about the behaviour of people at the theatre,’ Cassy said to Rosalind, in an effort to distract her and stop her gazing at the back of Marquess’s neck with wounded eyes. ‘Otherwise I would have wondered why so many people are staring at us in that rude fashion.’ She indicated the space beyond their balcony, at the wall of similar boxes opposite, which were filled with people training their glasses in their direction.

‘Now I know what the sideshows at the fair must feel like,’ said Rosalind, lifting her chin as a florid-faced matron actually leaned right round a pillar to get a better view.

‘Never seen such a pretty pair of faces, I don’t suppose,’ put in Captain Bucknell gallantly, tearing his eyes from the sight of Godmama and Marquess with their golden heads together, chatting away nineteen to the dozen. ‘Definitely not when she looks in her mirror, anyway,’ he added wickedly, causing Rosalind to giggle.

It was Captain Bucknell who helped them place their chairs so that they could get a good view of the stage, since Marquess continued to ignore everyone except his mother.

In a way, Cassy was glad he’d been so lacking in manners because it meant both she and Rosalind were in the mood to give someone a frigid set-down. By the time the interval came, bringing with it the predicted influx of visitors, Cassy at least had a whole list of suitable phrases to hand and the disdainful look Rosalind turned upon the first of them to approach was worthy of a duchess. But then the lanky, rather dishevelled young man who’d burst in before the actors had even quit the stage thoroughly deserved it.

‘This the heiress you was telling us about, Devizes? Don’t suppose,’ he said, turning to Cassy, ‘you’d settle for a mere Mr, would you? My pockets may be to let, but I promise you I wouldn’t give you half the trouble some fellows would. Never meet a more amiable chap. Ask anyone! Besides which, I’d be so grateful to you I’d worship at your feet like a—’

‘Don’t be such an ass, Smithers,’ Marquess drawled. ‘That is not the heiress. That is her friend. This is the heiress,’ he said, waving a languid hand at a by-now fuming Rosalind.

‘Ginger,’ observed the friend, with the owlish expression of the very intoxicated. ‘Might have guessed,’ he added, his face falling.

It was at this point, while Rosalind was quivering with affront and Cassy was trying hard to stifle a completely inappropriate fit of the giggles, that the hairs on the back of her neck began to prickle. As though some sixth sense was picking up a threat. And, since she’d been looking over her shoulder every few minutes since the last time she’d seen the Colonel, she was not a bit surprised to see him standing in the doorway to the corridor, scowling at her.

But at least this time she was prepared to face his anger. In fact, she felt as if she’d been awaiting this moment ever since he’d marched away from her the last time. Her breath hitched in her throat. Her pulse speeded up. And everyone else vanished from her consciousness, as completely as the actors who’d disappeared when the curtain had come down.