Elizabeth Mansfield (16 page)

“Yes, it’s quite true. His mother told me.”

She gaped at him, her chest heaving. “It
can’t
be true!” she cried, pulling her hand from his grasp and pressing it to her mouth. “We’ve been together every day, all of us. There was never the slightest sign—!”

Her father shrugged. “For some silly reason, they’ve kept it secret. But it’s been in effect for years.”

“I can’t believe it! He even
told
me he loves me! He declared himself in just those words!”

“Did he? Then why hasn’t he offered for you?”

She drew in her breath. “I don’t know,” she said, her lips trembling. “Do you think that’s why? Because he’s already... already—?” But she couldn’t bring the word
betrothed
to her lips.

“Already committed to another? Yes, I do.” He spoke quietly but with an unequivocal firmness. “What else is there to think?”

“There could be some other explanation,” she said desperately.

“For instance?”

“I don’t know ... I can’t
think!
”

“The most reasonable explanation I can find for his behavior,” Lord Smallwood suggested in as kindly a tone as he could command, “is that he’s chosen you—forgive me, my dear, but it’s time to be blunt—as a... a... sort of last fling before he’s launched into wedlock.”

His daughter’s eyes widened in horror. “A lasting?”

He could only nod and drop his eyes from the agonized look in hers.

“Oh, God, I am a fool,” she muttered, white-lipped. “I, Cleo Smallwood, who had half of London at my feet! To have let myself be used so!”

They sat in silence for a while, she picking with nervous fingers at the fringe of her shawl, and he with his hands clasped on the head of his cane, his chin resting on them. They made a touching picture, with the setting sun behind them framing them in fire. But there was no one watching, no one either to admire or to sympathize. They were completely alone.

At last she lifted her head. Two large tears were making their way down her cheeks. “Oh, Papa, I do love him so!” she murmured. “Give me a few days more. A few days. Just to be sure.”

“Of course, my love, if that’s what you wish.” He watched as she wiped away the tears with the back of her hand. She was so lovely at this moment, with the last rays of the sun playing heavenly magic with her curls, that he could hardly blame Tris Enders for being tempted by her. With a deep sigh, he heaved himself to his feet and pulled her to hers. “Come. We must make an appearance at the dinner table. Do you think you can face them with some semblance of cheerfulness?”

She turned to him with a sudden, completely brilliant smile. No one would dream it was utterly false. “There? Will that do?”

“Admirably,” he said, patting her hand. “That’s my plucky girl.”

They started back up the path arm in arm. “I may be a fool,” she said, throwing her shoulders back proudly, “but no man can say that Lord Smallwood’s daughter is a coward.”

22

Heavy rains poured down for two days, preventing any outdoor activities. And since no special indoor activities had been planned—no parties, no dinners, no festive teas—there was no intercourse among the three houses—Enders Hall, Larchwood and Wycklands. A kind of pall settled over them all.

At Wycklands, Peter used the time to work in his library, but every so often he found himself slumped down on a packing case with a book in his hand, staring into space. It was Julie he was thinking of, and his thoughts did not please him. He was reluctant to admit something in words that he’d known in his heart for some time: he’d fallen in love with the girl.

He’d been in love before, but lightly. This was different, much too deep and all-pervading, and he didn’t like it at all. It was bad enough that the love was unrequited; what made it worse was that these feelings were, in a sense, a betrayal of her trust. He’d promised to help her capture Tris, her foolishly blind childhood sweetheart, not to attempt to win her away from him. But now that he’d become aware of his own feelings, it was becoming very painful to have to do what he’d promised. How could he hand her over to that superficial, self-absorbed Tris Enders, who didn’t appreciate his marvelous luck one whit, when he, Canfield, wanted with every fiber of his being to keep her for himself?

He began to rue the day he’d ever encountered Juliet Branscombe and, even more, the impulse that had led him to promise to deliver Tris to her on a platter. But Julie had given him to believe that she loved the deuced coxcomb—
that
was the rock on which the wave of his emotions broke. She loved Tris; there was no getting round it. And if she loved him, she would have him. That was his pledge, and he was honor-bound to keep it, no matter how it hurt him to do it.

But he had no intention of enduring this painful situation any longer than absolutely necessary. He had to get away, and the sooner the better. The only way, in honor, that he could do so was to bring Tris to his knees as soon as possible. If he was any judge of the signs, the poor fellow was already reeling. During the assembly, Tris had shown unmistakable signs of jealousy. He’d looked as if he would have liked to throttle Julie’s waltzing partner with his bare hands. One more such experience and, Peter surmised, the battle would be won. And then he, Peter, could run away to London with a clear conscience and begin the arduous task of forgetting all about the lovely, dreamy-eyed Juliet.

At Larchwood, Lady Branscombe too was eager for Tris to endure another such experience as the one he’d encountered at the assembly. She was convinced that Julie’s dance with Lord Canfield had shaken Tris up and brought him to realize how much he cared for her. Another such occasion might be the turning point that Madge and Phyllis had been waiting for.

Madge Branscombe wracked her brain to concoct some sort of plan—an outing or a gala of some kind—to bring the young people together again. She mulled it over in her mind at breakfast, continued throughout the morning, all during luncheon and even at tea. But it was not until Horsham, her butler, was removing the tea things that the solution came to her. Julie had already gone up to her room, and Lady Branscombe was on her way out when the butler chanced to ask if he might permit the maids and some of the footmen to take the next afternoon off. “The fair starts tomorrow,” he explained.

Lady Branscombe paused in the doorway. “Fair?” she inquired.

“The Amberford Spring Fair. You do remember, don’t you, ma’am? It’s an annual event. I know it’s not so important or grand as the Whitmonday Country Fair, but I do like to let the staff have a bit of a frolic whenever there’s any sort of fair in town.”

Lady Branscombe’s eyes lit up. “The spring fair, you say? Isn’t it a little early?”

“No, ma’am. It’s usually held near the end of April.”

“I must have forgotten. I haven’t gone for years. Is it still as it always was, with booths and games and entertainments?”

“Oh, yes indeed, your ladyship. Mainly there’s the cattle sale and the horse auction, but there’s many other things going on. Games and sports and all kinds of shops, like cheese stalls and wine merchants and fruit sellers. And all sorts of delicacies you can buy. The men like the skittle alley, and the maids do enjoy the smockraces, for sure, and everyone likes to lose a penny or two on the games of chance. There’s no balloon ascension like there is at St. George’s field in London, but sometimes there’s a magic show, and there’s always a gypsy telling fortunes. The staff do love it, for certain.”

“Tell me, Horsham, do any of the gentry still attend?”

“Oh, yes, ma’am, they surely do. Not on the first day, of course, when they mostly let the hired help have the day to theirselves, but every day after that you’ll see the gentry hobnobbing with everyone else.”

“I see. Well, thank you for the information, Horsham.” She crossed the room to her writing desk, adding in as pleasant a tone as the butler had ever heard her use, “And you may certainly permit the staff to take the afternoon.”

She smiled to herself as she pulled out a sheet of note paper. The spring fair, she thought, would not make the most exciting diversion one would wish for, but it would do well enough. She cut a nib, dipped it into the inkwell and dashed off a quick note to Lady Phyllis, informing her that she was arranging an outing to the fair for the day after tomorrow, weather permitting, and that she hoped (nay,
expected)
that Phyllis herself, her son, and her guests would attend.
I
am also,
she added,
sending a note to Lord Canfield informing him of the affair and requesting his company.

The weather continued to be depressing until mid-morning of the appointed day, when, to Lady Branscombe’s intense delight, the sun broke through the overhanging clouds. The entire party, including Lord Canfield, gathered at Larchwood just after luncheon. It was a very frolicsome, excited group that set off on foot to the town square, for after two days of enforced boredom, the prospect of a fair was a tonic to their spirits. With the eagerness of children let out of school, they romped, frisked and skipped down the hill and over the stone bridge to the town square, where the fair was taking place on the green.

A gaudily brilliant sight met their eyes. Dozens of tents and booths had been set up in two rows along the sandstone walkways that edged the green, each trying to outdo the other in the loudness of its colors. Yellows and oranges vied with reds and purples, as gaily garish as the pennants and flags that floated over them in the breeze. A hundred or more villagers milled about the green, laughing and cavorting and bargaining with the merchants in loud voices. A great deal of shouting emanated from a tent where a wild cockfight was going on. A large group of children were surrounding a booth where a Punch-and-Judy show was stirring them to shrieks of laughter. Delicious aromas of roasting pig and frying pies rose in the air. Madge Branscombe was immediately heartened by the holiday atmosphere. “It’s better than I dared hope,” she whispered to her friend.

Unable to agree on which attraction to visit first, the group split up to indulge in their different likings. Lord Smallwood went off to wager on the cockfight. Phyllis made for the stall where a particularly famous local Cheddar cheese was being sold, while Madge began immediately to haggle with a wine seller. Tris, who was interested in adding a horse to his stable, excused himself to attend the horse auction. And Peter laughingly challenged Julie and Cleo to a game of ringtoss. Cleo, who had been at considerable pains to hide her depressed mood, made up her mind to concentrate on the game, and she not only surpassed Peter in her score but bested every other participant who competed. By the time the proprietor of the booth awarded Cleo a prize for her skill—a huge doll with a painted porcelain face—she was ready to agree with everyone else that she was having a marvelous time.

The afternoon passed quickly. Tris, not having seen a horse to his liking, soon rejoined his friends and spirited Cleo off to see the magic show. On the way to the magician’s tent, Cleo, delighted at his renewed attention, almost pranced as they made their way across the green. “I’m so glad you didn’t spend all afternoon at the auction,” she said.

“So am I. I’d much rather be with you.” Tris glanced over at her and noticed for the first time that something was tucked under her arm. “What is that you’re carrying?” he asked.

“A doll. Look at it, Tris. Hasn’t it a charming face?” She peeped up at him with a grin. “I won it with my tossing skill.”

Tris gazed down at her in admiration. “You, Cleo Smallwood, are amazing in your talents. Riding and billiards and now this! Top-of-the-trees, that’s what you are.”

It was a very happy young woman who took his arm.

Meanwhile, Julie and Peter strolled along the sandstone paths, stopping here to taste a plum pastry and there to watch a wrestling match. The sun was almost setting when Julie spied the gypsy tent, set off by itself a little way behind the row of booths and stalls. It was a shabby structure, its green-and-pink striped fabric so faded it almost looked gray. Julie was surprised she’d even noticed it, for it was almost hidden by a brightly painted booth bearing a sign reading “HOT BRANDY BALLS, TUPPENCE.” “Look, Peter, a gypsy fortuneteller!” she cried.

“Where?” he asked, looking about.

“There, behind the brandy ball booth.” She looked down at the ground, feeling a bit shamefaced. “Excuse me, Peter, but I must go in. I know it’s all foolishness, but I’ve always wanted to have my palm read.”

“Then by all means do,” he urged, pressing a gold coin into her hand.

She thanked him, walked quickly round to the shabby tent, hesitated for a moment and finally lifted the tent flap and stepped inside. The interior was very dark. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dimness. When they did, she saw a wrinkled old woman sitting at a table covered with a long, colorful cloth that hung down to the floor. The woman was colorful too, with a striped bandanna covering her head and more than a dozen strands of beads hanging from her neck. “You wish fortune?” the woman asked in an exotic accent.

“Yes,” Julie said timidly.

“Sit, then,” the gypsy ordered. “Sit an’ give me right hand.”

Julie did as she was bid, her hand trembling slightly in the gypsy’s tight grip.

“This,” the woman said, feeling her palm with a knobby forefinger topped by a long, cracked nail, “is life line. Nice, long. Is good. But this... love line ... is strange. Broken off.”