"Secrets of the Heart" - читать интересную книгу автора (Balogh Mary)

CHAPTER 3

The duke of Cranwell sighed and flung aside yet another ruined neckcloth. The third. He turned to his valet, who was hovering in the background, hanging up clothes that had been worn during the afternoon.

"You may take that I-told-you-so look off your face, Peters," he said. "I don't seem to be able to tie even the simplest knot this evening. Come and work one of your masterpieces."

Peters did as he was told. He selected a freshly starched neckcloth and proceeded to arrange it around his employer's neck in perfect and artful folds. "There, your grace," he said finally, eyeing his creation critically from a distance of two feet, head to one side. "I think that should do for an evening appearance." His tone suggested, even if his voice did not state, that anything the duke might have tied on his own certainly would not have done.

"Yes, yes," Cranwell agreed, glancing into the mirror beside him. "I suppose this creation even has some name? It is certainly a work of art."

"A Waterfall, your grace," Peters said with some pride.

"Ah," Cranwell said, "I am sure that there will be scores at the rooms tonight to pay homage to your art, Peters. Come, my coat. I wonder when the fashion began to create garments that cannot be donned without the assistance of one muscular valet or three ordinary ones."

Peters lovingly picked up the pale blue satin evening coat that lay on the bed and proceeded to prove his muscularity.

Ten minutes later, Cranwell was seated in his own comfortable traveling carriage being conveyed the short distance from his hotel, over Pulteney Bridge, and along to Laura Place. He had not particularly enjoyed the day and looked forward with some misgiving to at least four weeks of such dubious pleasures. After breakfast he had escorted the ladies to Milsom Street, where they might visit all the most fashionable shops and see all the most fashionable people. The activity had lasted for several hours. Lady Cavendish had constantly met, old acquaintances and stopped to make introductions and to exchange on-dies.

They had returned to Laura Place for dinner, and he had expected some reprieve. Surely a lady of Lady Cavendish's years would require a rest after the busy morning, and even the young ladies should be suffering from flagging energies. But all were as eager to venture out again as if they had been abed all morning. So he had accompanied them to Sydney Gardens, where again all the world seemed to be strolling.

Perhaps he would not have found the day such a trial if he had not constantly been fearing that they would meet Sarah and her elderly cousin again. As it happened, they had not set eyes on either of them. But he could feel no relief. Lady Cavendish and her friend had talked of meeting and taking tea at the Upper Rooms that evening. It stood to reason that where Lady Murdoch went Sarah was sure to go as well. That meant that within the next hour he would be in her company again. Worse. Hannah and Fanny would be forced into her company too.

He put his head back against the velvet upholstery of the coach and closed his eyes. Although he had thought of little else during the day, he still did not know what to do about the situation. Unless by some miracle it happened that Lady Murdoch was about to conclude her visit to Bath, the chances seemed good that there would be many meetings between the two old friends and, therefore, between the two groups. It was an intolerable position he found himself in. He could not be in company with that woman and forced to treat her with the deference he would afford a lady. He could not bring himself to converse with her at all.

And there was not even just himself to consider. He owed it to both his fiancee and his sister to protect them from such an improper connection. The trouble was, how was he to do it? He could, of course, insist on taking Fanny home at once, though his conduct would seem peculiar, to say the least, if he could offer no explanation. But that would not solve the problem of Hannah. He could not take her away with him. The only other course open to him was to talk privately with Lady Cavendish and tell her the truth.

All day long he had been wrestling with the possibility, but he had not said a word yet. How could he? At the time, of course, the whole matter had been appallingly public, but he had never talked about it or about her to anyone. Few people were likely to make the connection between the Sarah Bowen of that story and the Sarah Fitfield now in Bath. Making her identity public now would serve only to bring unbearable embarrassment to himself as well as disgrace to her. And it was the worst of all times for him to do such a thing. He had recently become betrothed. He had with him his very young and shy fiancee. He could not possibly expose her to all the unpleasantness there would be.

Perhaps Sarah would do something about the matter, Cranwell thought, opening his eyes as the carriage slowed and realizing that he had already arrived at his destination. She, after all, must be as dismayed to see him as he was to see her. Or-was she? Perhaps his presence in Bath mattered not at all to her.

He sighed as his footman opened the carriage door and put down the steps. He would have to wait and see what developed during the evening and then make his decision.

The Upper Assembly Rooms were already crowded when the duke and his party arrived at half-past seven. It wa^g a shockingly early hour to have to be out, Lady Cavendish had explained, but all entertainments finished at eleven o'clock each evening so that the infirm might have a good night's sleep before rising early to take the waters again. This was one of the two evenings each week when there was a public ball. It had already begun. Indeed, the minuet with which it always started was over already, and the dancers were taking refreshments before the country dances began.

Lady Cavendish led the way to the tearoom. Cranwell offered an arm to each of his younger charges and followed her. He could not help noticing the difference between them. Fanny positively glowed. Her gown of white silk, over which she wore a silver netted tunic, glittered under the lights, as did the silver ribbon threaded through her dark curls, but not more than she herself sparkled. He could tell that she was almost bursting from the excitement of making her first appearance at an adult evening function.

Hannah, on the other hand, though she looked very delicate and pretty in her gown of cream striped satin, lacked luster. It was not that she appeared bored exactly, Cranwell decided. It was more as if she did not care whether she was there or not. She certainly did not appear awed by the splendor of the rooms or by the gorgeous attire of the people who crammed them. He supposed he would have to accustom himself to a companion who seemed not given to the extremes of emotion. Perhaps he had become too accustomed to the ebullience of Fanny in the last few months.

Cranwell saw as soon as they entered the crowded room that the moment he had dreaded was upon him. Although it was full, it took but a moment to distinguish Lady Murdoch. The fuchsia color of her satin gown and plumed turban were noticeable enough, but the waving lace handkerchief made her quite unmistakable. And Sarah was seated beside her, a young man and two young ladies standing and talking to her. Cranwell felt his jaw tighten. He still had not decided how such an ineligible connection was to be avoided. For the moment he must just grit his teeth and hope that he need not stay long before spiriting his charges: sway to the ballroom.

The two elderly ladies greeted one another as if they had not met for years. It was perfectly obvious that they meant to spend the remainder of the evening in rash other's company. Cranwell bowed in the general direction of both Sarah and her cousin. He did not look directly at the former. The people who had been talking to her had left.

"Bertha, I thought you were never coming," Lady Murdoch declared loudly. "I have just been saying to Sarah that I could not understand what could have happened to you. I was hoping to reserve seats for you all, but it has been-quite impossible, has it not, cousin dear? But really, it does not matter. You must have Sarah's seat, and the young people, I am sure, will be only too happy to run along to the ballroom without having to be polite and sit with us to take tea."

Cranwell froze.

Sarah stood up immediately. "Please do sit down, my lady," she said to Lady Cavendish. "I shall be quite comfortable standing for a while."

"I keep telling his grace that I am not quite decrepit with age," Lady Cavendish said. "But thank you, dear. It will be easier to have a comfortable cote with Adelaide if I am sitting next to her. Your grace, it seems that you are fated to be the envy of every other gentleman in the ballroom. You have three extremely handsome girls to escort."

"And we would have made two more in our heyday, Bertha, would we not?" Lady Murdoch added, beaming at the young people.

"I should far prefer to stay here," Sarah said. "I see several acquaintances."

"If Miss Fifield would prefer to stay and take tea," Cranwell said simultaneously, "I should be glad to find her a chair."

"Your grace," Lady Murdoch said loudly, "what Bertha and I have to talk about would interest nobody except two old beings like ourselves. You will not mind, I am sure, if Sarah joins your party. She has not danced at all since we came, though there have been two balls already. And it is high time she did so. She does not have to stay with me all the time."

Cranwell bowed stiffly. "It would be my pleasure, ma'am," he muttered. The situation was far more intolerable than he had expected. But there was no way out. Sarah was standing stiffly near him, staring at her cousin, though he did not look directly at her to note the expression on her face.

"Oh, do let us go to the ballroom, George," Fanny said, almost jumping up and down on the spot where she stood. "I can hear the music. Miss Fifield, shall we walk together? I do so admire your hairdo. Will you tell me the secret of keeping it piled so high? Of course, the color of yours helps too. I have always envied women with red hair. Mine is so nondescript."

She wrinkled her nose and took Sarah's arm. Cranwell gritted his teeth and laid a hand protectively on Hannah's where it rested on his arm. By God, Fanny should not even raise her eyes to such a creature, he thought. Yet she had an arm linked through Sarah's and was chattering away as if the two had been fast friends for a lifetime. And Sarah was to be of their party for the rest of the evening-three hours and more.

He looked at Sarah for the first time that evening. She certainly had not lost her looks in the years since he had seen her last. Her gown of sage-green silk embroidered with gold thread at the hem was light and simply designed, but it revealed a figure that looked even more curvaceous than it had been before. Her tiny waist and shapely hips were obvious to his eyes as he walked behind her, despite the loose, high-waisted style of her gown.

And her crowning glory, her hair, was still sufficient in itself to draw admiring eyes. "Titian," he had taught her to call its color. "Red" was too commonplace, and there was nothing ordinary about the color and texture of her hair. He had a flashing memory of that hair loose about her shoulders and down her back, his hands buried in its softness. He clamped his teeth even harder together. She might at least, for modesty's sake, have covered her head with a cap or worn plumes. She was not, after all, a young girl in her first bloom.

She walked with her shoulders back and her chin up, but she did not look comfortable. She seemed to be making little response to Fanny's chatter. Perhaps at least there was some trace of decency in her.

“The members of the orchestra were tuning their instruments when the four newcomers entered the ballroom, and sets were forming, but the dancing had not begun.

Fanny looked around her with restless excitement. "Oh, I am spellbound!" she cried. "I had no idea so many people could be squeezed into one ballroom. And I thought my gown very special until I came in here. This is my first real ball, Miss Fifield. I shall have to trust to you to instruct me how to go on."

Sarah had no chance to protest. The master of ceremonies was bowing before Cranwell, whom he recognized from his arrival the night before, and asking leave to present the young ladies with partners for the set then forming. It seemed quite true what he had heard, Cranwell thought, that everyone in Bath was almost forced into full participation in each social event. He had solicited the first dance with Hannah, but he was relieved to accept the offer of introductions and partners for Fanny and Sarah. If they could be kept dancing all evening, all the better. He did not want any sort of friendship to be struck up between those two.

Captain James Penny and Mr. John Staple were duly introduced to Fanny and Sarah, and Cranwell felt it safe to lead Hannah into the nearest set. She danced perfectly, he found, mechanically almost, as if she had memorized every step taught by her dancing master. She did not look unhappy. What was it, then, that made her seem a million miles away from him? She was his betrothed. In four months' time she would be his wife. Yet he did not know her at all. Was there anything to get to know? Was she as empty of character as she sometimes seemed?

He felt renewed resentment against Sarah Fifield. She had occupied all his thoughts today, and he had totally forgotten that this was the first day in society that either Hannah or Fanny had spent. Fanny would do very nicely, of course. She was enjoying every moment. But Hannah was shy. The day had probably been an ordeal for her. And he had done almost nothing to ease her way. He had not used the opportunity to win her friendship. He had virtually ignored her. He set himself to paying her the attention due his betrothed for the rest of the evening.

Yet halfway through the figures of the set, which one could perform quite mechanically once one had remembered which country dance this was, his resolve was already forgotten. He was remembering the first time he saw Sarah. She told him later that she had seen him once before, the last time he and Fanny had visited their cousins the Saxtons, but he could not remember the occasion.

This time Fanny was not with him. She was away at school. He came reluctantly, only accepting the invitation at all because he had made excuses on so many other occasions. The twins were to have a house party this time, seven guests besides himself, all to stay for a week. He expected seven days of utter boredom. He could not imagine what could be organized for a whole week that he would find at all interesting. But he went.

He noticed Sarah immediately. Sarah Bowen she had been then. No one, of course, could not notice Sarah with that bright hair and the pretty, elfin face that appeared to look on the world with quiet surprise from beneath arched eyebrows. But it was her quietness that made him take a second look. She had always sat in the darkest, remotest corners. When they rode or walked, she always hung back slightly behind everyone else. When they entertained one another indoors with music, she always shook her head quickly when asked if she would play or sing. The others seemed to dismiss her quickly as a girl of no account, but something about her drew him.

He did not think her quietness due to shyness. There was a calm gravity about her and a directness about her eyes that suggested she was quite self-possessed. Wits she bored perhaps, so different from the other members of the party that she could find no common ground on which to interact with them? He was a quiet man himself, someone who enjoyed being alone. I le decided that he would try to get to know this girl whose looks and figure should have set her firmly at the center of an admiring group.

At first there was no penetrating her silence. When tic tried to converse with her, she drew farther into the shadows and answered in monosyllables. When she looked into his eyes, her own were guarded. When he drew back his horse on their rides in order to keep lace with her at the back of the group, she glanced hastily at him, something akin to panic in her eyes. Yet he persisted, perhaps because he found nothing of greater interest with which to fill his days.

And gradually she responded. When they were all out walking one afternoon, they stopped to look at a folly built in the form of a Greek temple and positioned artfully on top of a hill that commanded a view of the.valley and their hosts' home beneath.

"I should like to see a real Greek temple," she said wistfully in her low, sweet voice that he had scarcely heard in the three days since he had met her. "Is this very like, do you think?"

"As much like as a toy soldier is to the real thing," he said with a smile. And he felt a totally unfamiliar rush of tenderness when she glanced at him, startled and blushing. He guessed that she had not meant to speak aloud.

He walked beside her, telling her about Greece as he had seen it several years before during his tour abroad. At first she kept her eyes on the ground before her and he did not know if she was listening or not. But after a few minutes she looked up bright-eyed to question him on something he had just said, and he soon knew that she was deeply interested. And knowledgeable. She knew a great deal about Greek mythology and history. He also discovered that she looked ten times more beautiful with her face animated. This was the real Sarah Bowen, he felt. The other, graver manner was a mask she hid behind.

They were still strolling along half an hour later when he looked up to notice that the rest of the group was so far ahead that they were almost at the house.

"Look at that!" he said, laughing. "We have been outpaced and left behind quite shamefully."

Her reaction mystified him. She looked up, startled, and darted looks of dismay and near-panic at the wooded hillside around them. And she clutched her skirt and began almost to run in the direction of the house. When he increased his pace to match hers and reached for her elbow to help her over the rocky slope ahead, she snatched her arm away and increased her speed still further.

"Don't, please!" she said in a voice that he could only describe as frightened.

He concluded that she must have had such a strict and sheltered upbringing that she was almost incapable of mingling comfortably with new acquaintances. He was not offended. And he continued to seek her company.

And gradually, through the remaining four days of the house party, her reserve broke down to the extent that she often smiled at him with animation while they talked, and sometimes looked up at him and smiled with real pleasure when he came into a room. He had found his breath catching in his throat at such moments. He had never known a more beautiful girl. They talked endlessly. It was hard now to remember what they had found to talk about; Cranwell did not usually find it easy to hold a sustained conversation with anyone, man or woman. He could remember talking about books-he was surprised by the range and extent of her reading. And they talked about art and music. He told her all about his travels and his home, a subject that he did not normally broach with anyone. It was too precious a part of his life to be the subject of light conversation. And she listened, wide-eyed and flushed with wonder. They became friends. Almost.

Almost. Yet there was something unknowable about tier. Sometimes when they were deep in conversation she would suddenly begin to fidget and glance about tier, ill-at-ease, especially if the rest of the group was not very close by. At such times she would not meet his eyes. And she would never let him touch her. Not that he would have presumed to behave with any familiarity. But more than once he offered his arm to lead her into the dining room. Each time she acted as if she had not noticed the offer. If it had happened once, perhaps he might have believed that it really was so. But every time?

And she had a strange reaction to her own beauty. Although her quietness had set her a little apart from the group as a whole, she nevertheless had her fair share of compliments, about her hair or about a dress she wore. Each time she disclaimed the compliment. Some females did so artfully. By denying that they had the attribute commented upon, they forced the speaker to redouble his flattering remarks. But Sarah Bowen seemed alarmed, even frightened, by the compliments. She convinced him almost that she did not want to believe them true.

She was a strange girl. Yet he found when he was back home again, alone in the place where he most loved to be, that he could not forget her. She had a beauty that set her apart from the ordinary. And he had seen flashes of a vibrant, intelligent, and well-informed mind that was closely in tune with his own. It did not take him many days to realize that finally, without his at all knowing that it was happening, he had fallen in love. He spent the whole of the winter scheming to meet her again, and wondering if they had been acquainted long enough for him to call on her uncle without further ado and ask permission to pay his addresses.

He had been very foolish to allow his feelings to overcome his judgment, Cranwell thought now. Even at the time he had realized that there was something mysterious about Sarah Bowen, some part of her that he was not even close to knowing. He had certainly not suspected that she had spotted him for a fool from the start and had set out very carefully and cleverly to trap for herself a title and a fortune. He had not suspected that she lacked a heart.

And now it looked very much as if she was up to her old tricks again. That poor fool she was dancing with was making sheep's eyes at her and was probably enormously impressed with her grave modesty. She danced with lowered eyes. But she was easily the loveliest female in the room and was drawing the eyes of the other gentlemen in her set, if he was not mistaken.

Sarah was feeling extremely uncomfortable. She had hoped beyond anything that she could convince Lady Murdoch that she really did prefer to sit and drink tea rather than to dance. It was quite intolerable to have her cousin scheming to throw her into company with the very people in Bath she most wished to avoid. But she might have known it would be hopeless. Lady Murdoch seemed quite determined to treat this visit to Bath as basically a pleasure trip for her adopted daughter. And this evening Sarah had been able to put up almost no fight at all. It would have been absurd to have insisted on staying with the two friends when they so obviously wished to be left t?te-a-t?te. And there was no chair for her anyway. And then Lady Fanny had caught her arm and drawn her in the direction of the ballroom as if the matter had been all settled.

She was horribly embarrassed and very much aware of George and his fiancee walking behind her and his sister all the way to the ballroom. What must he be thinking? She had not dared look at him in the tearoom, but she had felt his disapproval. The few words he had spoken had suggested his own eagerness that she remain with Lady Murdoch. And how could it be otherwise? He must be feeling horror indeed to be watching her walking along, his sister's arm linked through hers, the younger girl chattering away brightly to her. He must long to bound forward and snatch them away from each other.

It was almost a relief to find that the master of ceremonies was determined to find partners for all comers to the ballroom. The timidity she would normally have felt at attending her first ball-if Lady Fanny only knew! — was completely swallowed up by her desire to move away from her present company. She went through the introduction to Mr. John Staple with all the calm aplomb of one used to such social niceties and allowed herself to be drawn into a set across the room with a feeling of deep relief. If she could only keep her distance for the rest of the evening. Three interminable hours! Surely by the time this set was over she would have spotted some other acquaintance with whom to converse between dances.

Mr. Staple, she found, was a personable young man. He was tall and fresh-faced, with unruly brown hair and unusually high shirt points half-covering his cheeks. And he made an effort to please during those minutes when they danced together. Sarah tried to respond, though she kept her eyes lowered to the floor. She had a dreadful feeling of being an impostor. She felt conspicuous, exposed, as if everyone was looking at her and realizing that she had no business being there. And the man who could really expose her for what she was was even then in the ballroom, dancing with his fiancee. She dared not look up even once, for fear of encountering his accusing glance. She hated what she was feeling. For a few days she had learned almost to relax in company. Now the old fears and sense of unworthiness were back.

Mr. Staple was also a very correct young man, she discovered when the dance drew to an end. Sarah told him that he could leave her close to the orchestra, where they had finished the dance, but he would not hear of doing so. Nothing would do but for him to deliver her safely to the party with whom she had arrived. And again she found herself standing with the silent figures of the Duke of Cranwell and his betrothed and the excited person of Lady Fanny.

"Miss Fifield," that young lady began as soon as Sarah took up her position beside her, "did you have a pleasant partner? I do declare I do not know how he succeeds in turning his head with those shirt points, but he seems gentlemanly enough. Did you take note of my partner? Do you not just adore a man in regimentals? He hardly needs to be handsome or witty; the uniform is enough. Captain Penny said that he will engage to dance one more set with me later in the evening." She giggled.

"I think we will not lack for partners," Sarah said quietly to her. "Here comes the master of ceremonies again."

And indeed he was advancing in company with two other gentlemen. Fanny, affecting not to notice their approach, turned and chattered brightly to Sarah. But before they could be interrupted by the master of ceremonies himself, Sarah found that someone on her other side had laid a hand on her shoulder.

"Well, upon my word," a pleasant masculine voice said before she could turn, "if it isn't Sarah. And looking quite breathtakingly lovely, as usual. What are you doing in Bath?"

She turned, not at all surprised. "Hello, Win," she said. "I had the advantage of you. I read in the subscription book last week that you were here. I am here with Lady Murdoch."

"Murdoch," he repeated, eyebrows raised. "Am I supposed to know her?"

"No," she said quietly. "I have been living with her for the last month. She is a relative of my father's."

"Really?" he said, a frown marring his handsome features for a moment. "You are not reduced to being a poor relation, are you, Sarah?"

She flushed and turned away from him and realized immediately the extreme awkwardness of her situation. Lady Fanny was standing a mere few feet away, looking interested. The Duke of Cranwell and Lady Hannah were beyond her. The master- of ceremonies and the two gentlemen with him had disappeared, possibly on seeing Winston accost her. What was she to do now?

Winston solved her dilemma, though not necessarily to her liking. He eyed Fanny with open appreciation and smiled down at Sarah. "May I beg the honor of being presented?" he asked.

Sarah closed her eyes for a moment, realizing the enormity of what he asked. She drew a steadying breath. "Lady Fanny," she said, "may I present Viscount Laing, my step-cousin? Winston, Lady Fanny Montagu."

Fanny was gazing with heightened color at the extremely handsome young man who was smiling and bowing elegantly before her. She curtsied. But Cranwell, seeing what was afoot, had grasped her by the elbow and was looking inquiringly at Sarah. She met his eyes and felt her stomach turn over inside her.

"Your grace," she said, "may I present Viscount Laing to you? Winston, his grace, the Duke of Cranwell." She felt utter misery and despair. Could fate have played her a more cruel hand?

Cranwell bowed coolly. Winston smiled.

"Ah," he said, "we have already made each other's acquaintance, Cranwell. Many years ago on a country road when you were visiting the Saxton twins. Your cousins, I believe? And you were present too, Lady Fanny, though you were a mere child at the time. I could not know then that you would one day become such a dazzling beauty."

Fanny's face was scarlet. Lady Hannah was behind Cranwell, and he made no move to bring her forward.

"May I have the honor of leading you into this set, ma'am?" Winston asked, bowing again and making full eye contact with Fanny. He looked politely at Cranwell. "By your leave, your grace?"

Cranwell inclined his head, and Fanny laid her hand in Winston's and was led away. Sarah closed her eyes again. When she opened them a few moments later, it was to find Cranwell staring into them, his own eyes hard and cold. He said nothing, but she could not look away.

"Your grace," the hearty voice of the master of ceremonies said from behind Sarah, "here is a set lacking one pair. Would you bring your partner, and we will be ready to begin? I have taken the liberty of introducing Mr. Sheldon Parke to Lady Hannah Lane."

Cranwell looked sharply behind him to find that indeed Hannah had disappeared, and back again into the wide eyes of a petrified Sarah. "May I have the honor, ma'am?" he asked in a voice so cold that she scarcely recognized it as his. He held out a hand.

It was as she had always thought. There was very little freedom of choice in one's life. Sarah looked down in dismay at the hand held out for hers. Even now it looked familiar: slim, long-fingered, fragile almost, if one did not know that its palm was callused from working on his farms. She placed her own hand in it and closed her eyes yet again. His fingers closed around hers. Warm. Surprisingly strong. George's hand. Sarah opened her eyes and allowed herself to be led toward the set indicated.