Angel in Scarlet (12 page)

“How's your little friend Eppie?” Father asked as we neared the village. “I haven't seen her around for a while.”

“She's preoccupied,” I said.

“Oh?”

“She's spending all her time with Will Peterson. She isn't really all that fond of him, she just wants to make Jamie McCarry jealous. Jamie just moved to the area, he bought the old Marshall farm. He's twenty-four years old and looking for a wife. Eppie's mad for him.”

“I see.”

“All the girls are, he's quite good-looking, but Eppie has a
stra
tegy. She feels if he sees her with Will Peterson enough times he'll realize what a prize she is and snatch her for himself.”

“Seems perfectly logical,” Father said, “men being what they are.”

“What
are
they?” I asked.

“Utterly helpless when confronted with a determined female. Jamie McCarry doesn't have a prayer.”

It was market day, a fact I'd forgotten, and the village was bustling. The square was filled with wagons and stalls, and there was the squawking of chickens, the baaing of goats, the lowing of cattle and a veritable din of robust voices bartering for cabbage and squash, carrots and beans, handmade quilts, farm implements, used dishes, a plethora of merchandise. It was always festive and fun with children dashing about the stalls and matrons congregating to gossip while their husbands drove their bargains and exchanged news about crops and cows and the vagaries of weather. The pavements were crowded as Father and I strolled down High Street, and there were dozens of warm greetings from people whose sons he had taught over the years. All of them were genuinely delighted to see him, and it made me realize what a respected, even beloved figure he was in our small community.

Blackwood's, alas, wasn't crowded at all, only two other customers in the shop as we entered. I loved the place, loved the neat stacks of tempting new books on the tables, the leather-bound sets gleaming on the shelves, the wonderful smell of ink and glue and crisp new paper, but this afternoon I was nervous about seeing Teddy again and speaking to him. Father stepped over to the history section and began to examine the new titles. I looked at the new novels, watching Teddy out of the corner of my eye. He was helping a plump matron select a book on herbs, wearing the black frock coat and breeches and dark maroon waistcoat he always wore. His thick bronze hair gleamed richly in the light streaming hazily through the front windows.

The matron left with her purchase, the bell over the door tinkling merrily. The other customer left, too, and Teddy went over to speak to Father. They shook hands and talked for several minutes, and then, while Father perused a new edition of Herodotus with a critical eye, Teddy came over to see if he could help me. His smile was as amiable as ever, his voice as warm as he said hello, but those lovely brown eyes of his seemed darker, seemed sad. I had always considered Teddy Pendergast frightfully old—he was thirty-two, after all—but now I saw him in an entirely new light. His face was lined, true, but pleasantly so, and his nose was a bit too large, but those expressive eyes and that full lower lip were definitely appealing. I could easily see why my stepsister had found him so delectable.

“See anything you like?” he inquired.

“Not really,” I replied.

“It's been a while since you've been in to see us.”

“I've been busy,” I told him.

Teddy smiled again, but I thought he seemed strangely ill at ease. His shoes, I noticed, though highly polished, were quite the worse for wear, and his black broadcloth suit had the greenish sheen of age. He wasn't a wealthy man, no, couldn't keep a woman in luxury or ply her with expensive presents, but if … if one were in love those things wouldn't matter. Janine was a fool for letting her mother bully her out of marrying him, I decided. A man as gentle, as warm as Teddy could give a woman something far more satisfying than material things.

“I—I hear your stepmother has taken her daughters to Brittany for a holiday,” he said. His voice was ever so casual.

“That's right,” I said.

“I—I imagine they're having a very pleasant visit.”

“They are indeed.”

“When—uh—when do you expect them back?” he asked lightly.

There was hope in his eyes, and I realized that he loved Janine, genuinely loved her, that he was hurt and bewildered by her sudden departure without a word to him. He had asked her to marry him. She had probably led him to believe she would. Teddy Pendergast was one of the good people of this world, destined to be wounded by those harder, more selfish, less sensitive than he. I wanted to take his hand and tell him how sorry I was for what my stepsister had done to him.

“They won't be back for—for some time,” I said kindly. “I'm afraid it may be months.”

The hope died in his eyes and the pain appeared and he tried his best to hide it. He smiled a shaky smile and began to tell me about various new novels he thought I might enjoy, and I purchased two, plus a new edition of
Duchess Annie
by Miranda James, which I had read and loved several years ago. My father bought the Herodotus, a book of engravings and two books on old Egypt. Teddy was amiable and chatty as he wrote up the sales and wrapped the books in stiff brown paper, but the pain never left his eyes.

If that's love, I thought, if that's what love does to you, I don't want any part of it. I'm not ever going to let anyone hurt me like that. I'm not going to give them a chance. I took the parcel from Teddy and thanked him politely and then Father and I left the shop. Other folks can fall in love all they like, I told myself, but not me, not Angie Howard. I've got much better things to do with my life. I'm not
ever
going to fall in love.

I was lost in thought as we left the village and started toward the cottage, and after a while I sighed, gazing at the wildflowers growing alongside the road.

“I'm glad I'm not pretty,” I said firmly.

“Not pretty?” Father inquired. “What's this?”

If you're not pretty, you don't have to worry about men wanting to make love to you all the time and you maybe wanting to do it, too, I thought, but I didn't say that to Father, of course.

“I'd much rather be smart,” I told him.

“Pretty is as pretty does,” Father said, repeating the homily with the utmost seriousness, “and you, my dear, are as pretty as they come. In fact, my gawky little colt has turned into a lovely and graceful young woman.”

“You're my father. You see me with a father's eyes.”

“And fathers are supposed to be blind?” he asked wryly. “It happens to be true, Pumpkin, but you'll never have to rely on your beauty. You're going to achieve remarkable things through your own intellect and gifts.”

“I don't have any gifts,” I protested.

“On the contrary, you've an abundance of them.”

“I'd like to be able to write, like Miranda James. She grew up in London's worst slum, yet she wrote
Duchess Annie
and
Betty's Girls
and became a great lady. I can't write, though, can't paint or sing, either, and I certainly can't
cook
. All I can do is sew.”

“Astonishingly well, incorporating your own ideas. You may grow up to be a renowned seamstress with your own exclusive shop, like Rose Bertier in Paris. She makes all Marie Antoinette's gowns and is one of the most famous women in the country.”

“Sounds dull,” I said.

Father chuckled softly. “You've plenty of time, Pumpkin,” he told me, “but when the time comes—” He paused, and when he continued his voice was serious indeed. “When the time comes, you're going to excel. You're going to leave as strong a mark on our age as Miranda James has—or any other woman. It's something I feel,” he added, so quietly I could hardly hear him. “It's something I know.”

He fell silent then, and I smiled to myself.

Achieve remarkable things? Me? What a preposterous idea. I was just a country girl without a scrap of talent. It wasn't bloody likely I'd leave any kind of mark on our age, but … but it was wonderful to have someone believe in you just the same, I thought. I took Father's hand and squeezed it tightly. I might not achieve remarkable things, but I was going to make him proud of me one day. I was going to make him very proud of me. I made myself that promise as we continued on down the lane in the splendid afternoon sunlight.

Chapter Five

Marie's dream had finally come true, and tonight Solonge and Janine would be mingling with real aristocracy, dancing in the famous gilt and marble ballroom of Alden House, wearing the sumptuous gowns it had taken me three weeks to make up. Marie had wanted gowns from London, from the best, most fashionable dressmaker, but there was neither time nor money for anything so elaborate and Solonge insisted I make the gowns, claiming they would be as lovely as anything from London and every bit as modish. She would be wearing pale yellow satin completely overlaid with frail gold tissue, Janine silver-gray brocade appliquéd with minuscule sapphire blue flowers. The material alone had cost the moon, but Marie had insisted it was imperative both girls make a good impression, their future
depended
on it, and Father had wearily given in and given her the money.

It was four o'clock now. A splendid carriage had come for them at one, sent by the Duke of Alden himself, for Alden House was a good distance from our village, at least fifty miles. A tall footman in blue-and-silver livery had helped them into the carriage. Another had taken charge of their gowns, carefully folded in large white boxes. They would change at Alden House, in the guest rooms assigned to them. Marie was in ecstasy, of course, had been ever since Solonge had met the Duke's son and heir, Bartholomew, in Brittany last year. Though the Aldens were rarely in residence at Alden House, spending most of their time in London, young Bart had come to call on my stepsister three times during the intervening months, and he had persuaded his father to invite both girls to the ball tonight. Marie was convinced it was only a matter of time before her daughter became the Duchess of Alden, as Bart was clearly infatuated and the present Duke, at fifty-seven, was already doddering.

Standing at the window, I had watched them leave, Solonge blase and not at all impressed by the dazzling carriage or the cool, imperious footmen, Janine looking as though she'd much prefer to be taking a nap. They had come back from Brittany last September, and now it was September again, unseasonably warm, and the miscarriage Janine had had thirteen months ago might have happened to someone else. She was as indolent, as lovely as ever. The miscarriage had been a blessing as far as Marie was concerned, much tidier than leaving an infant with the nuns in Brittany, as they had originally planned. Clarise Duvall had made all the arrangements, but fortunately it hadn't been necessary to carry them through. Things had all worked out for the best, my stepmother declared, and if they hadn't gone to Brittany Solonge would never have met the future Duke of Alden, who happened to be visiting there. Janine would meet someone just as impressive at the ball tonight, Marie was sure of it, and soon both her daughters would have attained their proper stations in life.

She had been so excited at seeing her daughters drive off in the crested brown and gold carriage that she had developed a splitting headache. She had already gone upstairs to her room and was presently in bed with a cologne-soaked handkerchief over her eyes. She had left a platter of cold sliced ham for dinner, but Father had declared he wasn't a bit hungry after eating such a large lunch. He had gone up to his room, too, telling me that I really should go to the fair, it was bound to be amusing. He'd take me himself, he said, but he was worn out after all the excitement. The house seemed unnaturally quiet now. I could hear the clock ticking in the parlor. I was restless and on the verge of feeling sorry for myself, but I didn't have any desire to go to the fair.

It came to our village twice a year, in April and September, and it was always rowdy and colorful with gypsy caravans and rides for the children and dozens of gaudy stalls. There was a wooden dance floor, too, with Japanese lanterns strung over it on wires. I'd gone several times with Eppie in days gone by, but Eppie was married to Jamie McCarry now, living on his farm, and I rarely saw her. Going by myself wouldn't be any fun, and I really wasn't interested in seeing the calf with two heads or the dancing bear or to have my fortune told or toss the wooden hoops at a stake trying to win a gaudy painted doll. I was seventeen years old now. Such foolishness was beyond me.

I sat in the parlor and read, not really concentrating on the book. I was genuinely pleased for my stepsisters and glad they were going to have an exciting and glamorous evening. Wouldn't want to go to a silly ball myself, of course. Not for a minute. It was after five now. They would already be at Alden House, probably having tea in the gold drawing room before going up to their rooms to change. They were going to look gorgeous tonight in their new gowns. Me, I'd look silly as a goose in anything so elaborate, and I'd be nervous as could be surrounded by all those haughty swells with their powdered hair and diamond studs and lacy frills. Glad I was staying home, even if … even if I did feel so restless I was near to jumping out of my skin. Maybe I
would
go to the fair for a little while, I decided. It would be better than sitting here in the parlor, turning the pages of a book without the least idea what I'd just read.

I went upstairs and took a sponge bath and brushed my hair until it fell to my shoulders in glossy chestnut waves, and then I put on the sky blue muslin dress printed with tiny violet flowers and tiny green leaves. This would be the first time I had ever worn it anywhere, even though I had made it some eighteen months ago, right after my sixteenth birthday. It was already a bit snug at the waist, and the bodice seemed much lower than I remembered, or was it that my bosom was even fuller than before? I tried the violet velvet sash, adjusting the trailing ends in back, then turned to study myself in the mirror. Too tall, slender but pleasingly curved now, not skinny. My cheekbones were too high, too sculpted, and my eyelids were etched with faint mauve shadows.