Angel in Scarlet (63 page)

We chatted about inconsequential things, waiting. The delicate porcelain and gilt clock on the table across the hall chimed seven-thirty. Clinton finished his champagne and motioned to the footman who came and took our glasses. How proud I was to be standing beside him, so handsome in his elegant clothes, so dignified and self possessed, and, as I had reason to know, so very virile. I linked my arm in his. He looked down at me and smiled. We waited. Several more minutes passed. I listened for the sound of carriage wheels on the drive outside, composed now, ready for the onslaught.

The clock chimed again. It was seven forty-five. My legs were beginning to feel a bit stiff. No one wanted to be the first to arrive, of course, but surely by this time … I gave Clinton a reassuring smile. He told me I was going to dazzle them. Five minutes passed, ten, and then it was eight o'clock and I had a terrible premonition. No, I prayed. Please, no. It doesn't matter for my sake, but please, please don't let him be hurt. The clock struck eight-fifteen, and no carriages circled the drive, and finally it struck eight-thirty and Clinton turned to me, beautifully composed.

“It seems our guests have been detained, my darling,” he said quietly.

“So—so it seems.” My throat was tight.

“I believe Henri has prepared quite a spread. Shall we dine?”

I nodded, afraid to speak again.

Taking my hand, he led me into the grand dining room where liveried footmen stood behind the long buffet tables covered with snowy linen cloths, laden with a gorgeous array of food. There were glazed hams and golden-brown roasted turkeys and two sides of beef, pink and juicy. There were mounds of shrimp and pails of oysters and fillets of sole cooked in white wine sauce and a porcelain tureen of turtle soup. There were vegetables of every variety, wonderfully cooked, tempting salads and one table devoted exclusively to a seductive display of desserts, glorious cakes and tortes, miniature fruit pies, individual dishes of pudding topped with swirls of whipped cream.

“Henri has done himself proud,” Clinton remarked.

“He certainly has,” I agreed.

He handed me one of the magnificent pink and white Sevres plates delicately patterned in gold, and we moved slowly down the line with the footmen serving us. I wasn't hungry. I couldn't possibly eat. I smiled at Clinton and said the prawns looked delicious, said I must try some of that aspic. When we had made our selections, we took our plates over to the immense table with its banks of roses and gleaming silver candelabra. Clinton set his plate down at the head of the table and helped me into the seat at his left. A footman came to fill our glasses with fine white wine. Clinton lifted his in a toast.

“To you, my darling,” he said.

I smiled and sipped my wine. I wasn't going to cry. I wasn't. I was going to be as calm, as composed as he. I took a bite of aspic and said that it was marvelous. Clinton said that the ham was tasty indeed. We ate and sipped our wine and chatted as though nothing at all was amiss. Clinton said that he was very pleased with the renovations Adam had made and complimented me on the colors I had chosen, the furniture I had selected. He said that his wife had exquisite taste. The footman removed our plates and we selected our desserts. Coffee was poured into our delicate Sevres cups.

“You should taste this cake,” Clinton said.

“My torte is divine,” I told him.

When we were finished, when we had drunk our coffee, Clinton helped me to my feet. He spoke briefly to one of the footmen, telling him to see that the food was removed to the servants' hall downstairs where they were having their own party, and then he took my hand and led me out into the foyer and down the corridors to the ballroom. The chandeliers hanging from the pale salmon-pink, lightly gilded ceiling blazed, crystal pendants glittering brightly. Enormous white wicker baskets full of pink and white roses stood around the cream walls with their pale pink-orange marble panels, scenting the air with a lovely fragrance. The huge expanse of golden oak floor gleamed, the musicians stationed at one end in front of a spectacular bank of roses and white fern.

“May I have this dance, Milady?” Clinton inquired.

“You may, Sir,” I said.

He signaled to the musicians, and they began to play, sweet, sublime music tinkling, rising, swelling, filling the room with a beauty as touching, as intangible as the fragrance of the roses. Clinton took my hand and led me onto the floor and looked into my eyes and smiled and we began to dance. He was a marvelous dancer, executing each step with graceful perfection, and we moved to the music and my skirts swayed, rustled, and somehow the sadness and disappointment vanished and there was only beauty and joy, this man, the music, the movement, crystals shimmering above, roses blurred bits of pink and white velvet as we danced around the great, empty floor.

That first dance was followed by a second, a third, a fourth, and Clinton maintained eye contact, smiling, silently informing me of his love, his pride, his passion. The room seemed to swirl, the pale salmon ceiling with its delicate gilt patterns seemed to blur, chandeliers swaying as I threw my head back and gave myself entirely to the magic of the moment. The music stopped and my husband drew me to him and kissed me tenderly there in the middle of the floor and led me over to one of the gilt chairs as the music began again. A footman brought us champagne and I sat and sipped mine and Clinton stood behind me and rested one hand on my shoulder and I tilted my head back to look up at him and he smiled again and leaned down to brush my lips with his, banks of roses surrounding us, music floating on the air.

“Happy?” he asked.

“Very,” I said.

“Your cheeks are pink. Your eyes are gleaming. You look radiant.”

“Because of you.”

He lifted a brow. “Because of me?”

“Because you are a wonderful man.”

“A lucky man,” he amended.

He took my empty glass and set it aside, leading me onto the floor again. We danced, and the music was soft and lilting, and it seemed to lilt inside of me as well, music and emotion becoming one, filling me with a sweet, warm glow that grew as his hand squeezed mine, as his body gracefully turned, guiding me along, as those glorious gray eyes gazed intently into mine and that full pink mouth curved in a tender smile. Time seemed to melt, meaningless, and Clinton seemed tireless, dancing on and on, smiling, guiding me through the steps, and it was well after one and the glow suffused me when, finally, he signaled to the musicians and the music ceased.

He held me loosely, looking at me, gray eyes aglow.

“Want to dance some more?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“More champagne?”

I shook my head again.

“Want to go upstairs?”

I nodded. He kissed me lightly and curled an arm around my shoulders and led me out of the magic ballroom and down the dim corridors and up the curving white staircase and into our bedroom. He let go of me and I stood wearily and watched as he blew out all the candles and a haze of moonlight slowly streamed in through the windows. There were roses here, too, vases of them, their perfume heavenly, heady. He came back to me and drew me into his arms and kissed me once again, and I melted against him, my hands moving over the sculpted muscles of his back and shoulders.

“You know,” he murmured, “I think this was the best ball I've ever attended.”

“It was a beautiful ball,” I whispered.

“And the evening has just begun.”

“Oh?”

“The best is yet to come.”

“Is it?”

He smiled. “May I have this dance, Milady?” he asked, and he had another kind of dance in mind, with its own rhythm, its own steps, its own swelling splendor. “You may, Sir,” I said, and he held me closer and covered my mouth with his and we danced until dawn.

Chapter Twenty

Although the November sky was a rather forbidding gray, it wasn't all that cold as Megan and I strolled leisurely over the grounds. A light wind billowed our cloaks and brushed our cheeks, and the bare limbs swayed slightly. The gardens were bare of the riotous blossoms and greenery of spring, but there were bushes of late-blooming pink and white roses and formal evergreen trees and the lovely white marble benches. I told Megan that we were planning extensive changes in the spring, adding more flower beds, a knot garden, but I could tell from her expression that she found our gardening projects less than fascinating. Wearing a cream and rust striped linen frock and a rust velvet cloak, she had a worried look in her eyes and kept listening for the sound of horse hooves.

“I do wish they'd come back,” she complained. “They've been gone since early morning and I didn't like the look of that stallion Charles mounted. Men are so careless, such show offs, always trying to top each other—bag the most quail, leap the most fences, take the most risks.”

“Charles is a superb horseman,” I reminded her.

“Sure he is. So is Clinton. Don't you worry about
him
?”

“Sometimes,” I admitted. “Hercules is such a powerful stallion and Clinton is rather reckless, charging across the fields like a red Indian and bounding over stone fences.”

“That's what I
mean
, luv. Charles is just as bad. Why did they have to go hunting in the first place? Who
needs
quail?”

“Men enjoy these things,” I said. “It'll do them both good. They'll return all flushed and triumphant and pleased with themselves. Having the two of you here has been nice for Clinton. He and Charles get along wonderfully well, don't you think?”

“Hearty mates from the first day. Charles has enjoyed himself tremendously, and he needed to get away from London for a while after
Amelia Mine
closed. Such a disappointment that was—everyone expected it to run every bit as long as
My Charming Nellie
. It
was
a delightful play, luv.”

“I know,” I said quietly. “Dottie sent me a copy.”

We stopped at the foot of the gardens and turned, looking up past the terraced beds of pink and white rose bushes to Greystone Hall, immense and impressive with its weathered gray walls and leaded windows and the multilevel gray-green rooftops. Megan's hood fell back and a skein of auburn hair blew across her cheek. I gathered my dark blue cloak closer about me, thinking about Jamie and the bitterness I knew he must be feeling.

“
Amelia Mine
was the best thing he's ever written,” I observed. “It's a shame it didn't run longer.”

“The critics loved the play,” Megan said. “For the first time in his career Lambert receives brilliant notices—‘clever, inventive, a delightful romp of a play'—and it closes after two and a half months. Charles was positively marvelous as Burbage, the ladies practically fell out of their seats during the love scenes, and Jack Wimbly was inspired as Shakespeare, best performance he's given, but the play needed a very strong actress in the lead. Young Mrs. Thayer simply hadn't the experience to carry it off.”

I was silent, remembering the newspaper clippings Dottie had sent me after the play opened.
A part tailor-made for Mrs. Howard. An actress of Mrs. Howard's stature would have done the role justice. While charming, Mrs. Thayer is no Angel Howard, for whom the part was obviously written. Lambert's brightest play demanded the presence of his brightest actress, Mrs. Howard, who was sadly missing
. How these comments must have stung Jamie, for, had I played the part, and I would have had he given me the least encouragement that afternoon at Button's, he would likely have had the success he so badly wanted. The success he so badly needed.

“
You
should have played Amelia,” Megan said.

“That was out of the question, Megan.”

“Poor Lambert. He had so much in his favor—a genuinely fine play, full of wit and verve, a superb set, gorgeous costumes, a perfect leading man, an excellent supporting cast—and, alas, a weak leading lady. Mrs. Thayer gave it a good try, but the part was too much for her.”

“I know Jamie must have been terribly disappointed.”

“He was devastated, luv.”

“What—what is he doing now?” I asked.

“Hurting,” Megan replied. “I don't know who he got to put up the money for the production, but they lost it all, and rumor has it that Lambert is deeply in debt.”

“He'll pull through,” I said. “He always does.”

We started slowly back toward the house, moving up the levels of terraces, the fragrance of roses scenting the cool November air. The sky seemed a darker gray, the color of slate, and I suspected we might soon have snow. Megan emitted a sigh and gazed at the roses.

“It's lovely here,” she remarked.

“Very,” I agreed.

“And so
quiet
. Do you miss it, luv?”

“Miss what?”

“The theater. The excitement, the vitality, the color. The greasepaint, the applause.”

“I'm very happy here, Megan.”

“That doesn't answer my question.”

“I—I have nothing to complain about. Clinton is wonderful. I love him very much.”

“But?”

“There really—there really isn't all that much to do,” I confessed. “I have hours and hours each day when—when I find myself restless, at a loss. I don't mean to sound like an awful bitch—Clinton couldn't be kinder, couldn't be more considerate—but—I'm used to being
involved
in something.”

“Exactly,” Megan said.

“At first I was kept busy with the house—going over the plans with Adam, selecting colors and fabrics, picking out furniture—but after that—” I hesitated, feeling terribly disloyal. “I visit the tenant farms now and then and perform small acts of charity. I take long rides. I read a great deal. When Clinton is around, it's fine, but—the estate takes up so much of his time. I must sound dreadfully ungrateful.”