Elizabeth Mansfield (19 page)

But how?

There was only one possible solution: Peter would have to be told the truth. Once he knew that it was not Tris but Peter himself that she loved, the tangled threads would fall apart. The knot would not even exist. But she could not do it. Such a confession would take more courage than the shy Miss Juliet Branscombe possessed.

Besides, even if the knot were untied, there was no reason to suppose that anything would change. No substantial improvement would come of it. Peter didn’t love her. If he did, wouldn’t she have seen a sign of it? Of course, he
had
kissed her once, that afternoon in his library, but that had been because they’d both been drunk with poetry. Though it had been an unforgettable moment for her, it had not meant anything to him. There was, therefore, no reason to put her courage to the test. She would make no confession. There was no point in it.

The next morning, hoping that life would go on as it had before the altercation at the fair, she took out her horse as she usually did when the weather permitted. To her surprise, there was no sign of Cleo or Tris at their usual meeting place. She trotted along the river to the place where Peter generally joined them, but there was no sign of him either. She circled around for a while, hoping he might eventually appear, but he did not. She wondered if, now that he believed his goal for her had been accomplished, he no longer wished for her companionship. She was crushed with disappointment. Though they might never be lovers, she’d hoped they would still be friends.

Deeply depressed, she returned home. When she came in the door, Horsham informed her that her mother, Lady Phyllis and Sir Tristram awaited her in the upstairs sitting room. Without pausing to change her riding clothes, she hurried up the stairs to them.

The warmth of their greetings surprised her. Her mother was smiling broadly, and Phyllis too looked as if she were bursting with good news. But it was Tris who spoke. “Sit down, Julie, for we have something to tell you.”

“Really?” She glanced from one to the other in puzzlement as she sank down in an armchair. “You all look as if you’ve a surprise present to give me. But it isn’t my birthday.”

“It’s better than a birthday present,” Phyllis said, giggling.

“Tell her, Tris,” her mother ordered. “The suspense is becoming too much for me.”

Tris perched on the arm and took her hand. “We’re going to be married,” he said, smiling down at her fondly. “I’ve made up my mind. We need only to set the date.”

“Oh, Tris!” Julie exclaimed, her eyes brightening. “So Cleo has accepted you at last!”

“
Cleo?
”
The shocked cry came from her mother, but everyone’s face fell.

“No, you goose,” Tris said quickly. “I meant you.”

“Me?” The gladness faded from her face. “You want to marry
me?
Have you lost your mind?”

“What a thing to say!” her mother exclaimed, shocked. “Of course he hasn’t lost his mind. He’s regained it!”

Julie leaped from the chair, almost knocking him over. “No, he hasn’t. He’s mad!”

Her mother reddened in enraged disappointment. “You’re the one who’s mad!” she cried. “Oh, what have I done to deserve such a contrary daughter?”

But, Julie, who’d heard all that before, took no notice of her. It was Tris who troubled her. “What’s gotten into you, Tris?” she demanded, glaring down at him. “Have you forgotten all about Cleo? And about all the machinations to get me wed to someone else just to clear the way for you?”

“I haven’t forgotten,” he muttered, abashed. “I just grew up is all.”

“What on earth does that mean?”

“I grew up. I suddenly realized that our years of knowing each other, of closeness and friendship, made a sound basis for marriage. We’ve always been good together, haven’t we? Then why wouldn’t a marriage between us be good?”

Her brows knit suspiciously. “Cleo turned you down, is that it?”

“Not at all. Just the opposite.”

“The Smallwoods have gone back to London,” Phyllis put in gently. “You see, when Tris became insanely jealous of Lord Canfield, it became clear to everyone, including Tris, that he loved you.”

Julie peered at Lady Phyllis in disbelief. “Are you saying that Tris—on his own, without coercion—decided to offer for
me
instead of for Cleo?”

“Yes. That’s exactly what she’s saying,” Tris declared.

“So stop all this foolishness,” her mother ordered, “and help us to plan the wedding we’ve been dreaming of all these years.”

“No, I will not!” Julie cried, wheeling about to her mother, an uncontrollable fury overwhelming her usual cowardice in the face of her mother’s imperiousness. Angry tears filled her eyes and began to roll down her cheeks. “I don’t
care
about your dreams! Have you, or Tris, or even Phyllis ever given one thought to
my
dreams?”

“
Julie!
”
her mother exclaimed, appalled at this outburst.

“Oh, my dearest girl!” Phyllis clutched her hands to her bosom in anguish. “Don’t you
want
to marry Tris? Are you trying to tell us you don’t love him?”

“Tris knows
exactly
how I feel,” the girl replied, wiping at her cheeks uselessly, for the tears continued to pour from her eyes. “And to th-think that he, who knows me so well, could possibly b-believe that I would accept this complete about-face without so much as a by-your-leave and agree to w-wed him is... is... the outside of enough!”

All three gaped at her, aghast. She looked from one to the other, hoping for a flicker of sympathy, but she saw only utter astonishment. Why, she asked herself furiously, were they so astonished at what she felt was a perfectly reasonable reaction to their high-handed assumption that she would jump as soon as Tris snapped his fingers? It was the last straw. She did the only thing she could—she fled from the room.

Out in the hallway, she came to a stop and leaned against the stair bannister, her chest heaving. Her mind was in a turmoil, but above the anguish and chagrin and all the other disturbing emotions, she felt a touch of pride. Never before had she been valiant enough to face her mother down, but she’d done it now. She’d spoken her mind, and in no uncertain terms. Where had that burst of bravery come from?

As she stood motionless, trying to catch her breath, a new thought came to her. Perhaps, while this heady infusion of courage still raced through her veins, she could do the other thing that required courage—courage that until this moment she didn’t know she possessed: she could go to Wycklands and make her admission to Peter.
Yes,
she told herself firmly,
now is the time to untie the knot I made. With this feeling of pluck inside me, I can do anything!

She brushed back the strands of wild hair that fell over her face, took another swipe at her eyes and started down the stairs. She would go now, this very minute, before anything would happen to change her mind. But she’d taken only three steps down when Horsham came round the turn of the landing. “I was just coming to find you, Miss Julie,” he said, holding out a note. “There’s four draymen downstairs carrying in a pianoforte. From Wyck-lands.”

“What?” She stared at him in bewilderment. “A
piano?
”

“Yes, ma’am. So big they could barely get it in the doorway. I told them to put it in the drawing room, between the windows, which they’re doing right now, but they’ll hang about to see if you wish to move it somewhere else.”

She still didn’t understand. “What are you saying, Horsham? The piano is for me?”

“Yes, miss. P’rhaps the note will explain.”

She took it from his hand and broke the seal. There were only a few lines written in a neat, firm hand.
Dear Julie,
she read.
By the time you read this, I will be gone and my house closed, so don’t try to return my gift to sender. I realize that it is a bit early to send you and Tris a wedding gift, but since I’m not likely to be available at the time of your wedding, this seemed the best time to send it. An instrument like this needs playing. I hope that playing it will bring you many happy hours, and that married life with Tris will be everything you dreamed. Please accept the sincere best wishes of your humble servant, Canfield.

By the time she finished reading, her hands were trembling. After a frozen moment, during which she stared at the butler with unseeing eyes, she came to herself, brushed passed him and ran down to the drawing room. The four draymen were placing the beautiful rosewood pianoforte at an angle between the windows so that the light would fall over the player’s shoulder onto the music page. But Julie didn’t care about that. “What does he mean, the house is closed?” she demanded of one of the draymen.

He knuckled his forehead. “Wycklands, ye mean? Tis closed, miss,” he said. “The master an’ staffs gone off t’ Lunnon.”

“To London? For a visit? When will they be back?”

“Dunno, miss. Not fer a long while, seems t’me.”

“How long a while? A week? A month?”

The man shrugged. But another, who’d been kneeling to adjust the wheel at the bottom of one of the piano legs, stood up and wiped his hands on his apron. “I ‘eard from ‘is lordship’s cook that they didn’ think they’d be back fer a year’r more.”

“A
year?
”
Julie sank down on the piano bench, the color draining from her cheeks as all the energy drained from her body.
I’m too late!
she told herself in despair.
My courage came too late!

“Is this place for the piano t’yer likin’, miss?” the first man asked.

She didn’t respond. It was as if she wasn’t even there.

Horsham, peering at her worriedly, motioned for the men to go. Then, throwing her a last look of concern, he quietly followed them and closed the door.

She turned slowly on the seat, absently brushed back the strands of hair that had fallen over her face and ran her hand lightly over the piano keys. It was a lovely instrument, a magnificent gift. But it was all she would ever have of Peter Granard, Lord Canfield. She gasped in the agony of that realization. It was terribly painful to discover that no gift, however magnificent, could keep a heart from breaking in two.

She did not know how long she sat staring, unseeing, at the piano keys, but the sound of the door being opened broke into her reverie. She looked up to discover her mother, Phyllis and Tris standing in the doorway, eyeing her—and the piano—with concerned bewilderment. “It’s from Lord Canfield,” she explained. “A wedding gift.”

“A wedding gift?” Tris asked, amazed. “Good God!”

“At least
he
believes there’s to be a wedding,” Lady Branscombe muttered dryly.

“I must believe it too,” Julie said with a small, sad smile, “for apparently I’ve accepted the gift. I suppose that means, Tris, that I’ve decided to marry you after all.”

27

Julie gave herself a good talking-to. With her mother blissful, Phyllis walking on air and Tris declaring himself in love with her (though that was still very hard to believe), it would be ill-natured and mean to be unhappy. She could not, in good conscience, spoil the happiness of those around her by permitting herself to indulge in bad moods and crotchets. Whatever pain she felt in her heart had to be hidden. More than that, it had to be overcome. She was going to marry Tris, who was as dear to her as anyone in the world, and she was determined to make a good job of that marriage. True, she could never love him in that special way she’d loved Peter, but perhaps Tris was right when he said that friendship and loyalty and long years of familiarity were a better basis for wedlock than romance.

So she smiled at everyone, everywhere, whenever she felt anyone was looking. She smiled at the dinner party the vicar and Mrs. Weekes held in honor of the betrothed couple. She smiled at the assembly, when Tris stood up with her for three dances. She smiled when the banns were read at church, when she rode with Tris in the mornings, when Mama and Phyllis met with her to discuss wedding plans, when Mama’s modiste came for the first fitting of her wedding gown. She sometimes believed that the contrived smile would be forever frozen on her face.

A month went by. The time had passed pleasantly enough, Julie told herself, what with everyone finding ways to celebrate the coming event and making her the center of attention. With the wedding set for the second week in June, only one more social event was looming up before it—Lady Phyllis’s prenuptial ball. Other than the wedding banquet itself (which, if Lady Branscombe’s plan came to fruition, would be the grandest ever held in the vicinity of Amberford), the ball was to be the most splendid affair of the prenuptial festivities. Phyllis had sent to London for champagne, three maids had been hired to assist in the kitchen, and no fewer than nine musicians had been engaged to provide dance music.

On the eve of the ball, it was not only Enders Hall that was the scene of excited activity. At Larchwood too, the servants were scurrying about madly. Lady Branscombe had found a crease in the sash of Julie’s gown, a bead was missing from the trim on the neckline of her own dress, and the hairdresser who’d been specially hired to cut Julie’s hair had not yet arrived. Her ladyship was beside herself. “We’ll never make it on time!” she shouted at anyone who came near her.

The matter of the hair was troubling Julie. Tris had made a special request that she cut her hair short. “It’s always getting in your face,” he’d said bluntly, “and never looking as it ought. Why don’t you just cut it off and wear it curled?”