Elizabeth Mansfield (2 page)

“In what way different?”

Tris considered the question with a furrowed brow. “Her hair, for one thing. She cuts it short, little curls close to her head.”

“Like Caro Lamb,” Julie offered with a knowing nod.

“Yes. I find it charming. And she moves with the most enchanting swing of her limbs.” His eyes shone with a reminiscent glow. “Her gestures are all like that, sort of... loose and... and wide. They’re all of a piece with her character.”

“Her
character
is loose and wide?” Julie asked, amused.

He threw her a quick glare, the kind he habitually tossed at her. “Of course not, you goose. What I meant was that her gestures are, in a manner of speaking, spontaneous.”

“Spontaneous?”

“Yes. You might call them uninhibited. And... and self-assured. They seem to reveal her inner nature. She thinks well of herself, you see.”

“Does she really?” Julie could not help being impressed by his description.

“Oh, yes. She’s very sure of herself. Not simpering and missish like other girls.”

Julie’s step slowed. “That’s a swipe at me, isn’t it?” she asked ruefully. “I suppose you think that
I’m
simpering and missish.”

“You?” He looked down at her in sincere surprise. “No, I didn’t mean that at all. You’re not missish. Not with me, at any rate. However,” he added, reconsidering, “you may be so with other fellows. They all say you’re too shy.”

“Shy?
Me?”

“I don’t know why you’re surprised. You know how you are when you’re in your mother’s shadow.”

Julie winced. “Yes, I know.”

“It’s your own fault. You shouldn’t let her overwhelm you as she does. I don’t believe shyness to be an asset to a girl, Julie. Even being missish and simpering would probably be an improvement. At least you’d giggle and flicker your lashes at a fellow, instead of just... just hiding.”

She stiffened. “Hiding?”

“Yes, hiding.” Tris, ignoring her obvious dismay, barged on. “That’s what you do in society, you know. You hide. Behind your dowdy shawls, behind your mother, behind your fan.”

“Really, Tris,” she said, her voice rich with sarcasm, “you shouldn’t flatter me so.”

“If you want flattery, my girl, ask someone else. You should be grateful for the truth.”

“You’re quite right. I’ll write you a note of thanks as soon as I get home.”

He laughed. “That’s the spirit. That was saucy. Don’t you see, Julie? That’s how you
should
behave in society.”

“You want me to be
saucy?
I could never—”

Disgusted, he shrugged and walked on. She followed, not speaking. But after a while, she caught up with him. “I’m not surprised that you love your Miss Smallwood,” she remarked thoughtfully. “Someone who thinks well of herself... that must be rare.”

“She is rare,” Tris said. “I think you’d like her.”

“I only hope—
Oooh!”
The gasp came from deep in her chest, and her whole body froze in horror. There in the path ahead of them lay a small, furry little animal, quite dead.

“Dash it, Julie, you needn’t carry on so,” Tris scolded. “It’s only a dead rabbit.” He stepped over it and put out his hand to help her follow.

But Julie hung back, staring down at the lifeless bit of fur. “Shouldn’t we do something? Bury it or something?”

“Bury it? Good God, girl, one would think it was your pet! Must you always be so deuced squeamish? We’ll leave it where it is. The groundskeeper or some passerby will find it and think himself lucky for coming upon a good dinner without having to waste a bullet.”

Julie swallowed her distaste at the thought of the poor creature being turned into rarebit and surrendered to Tris’s good sense. She took his hand, stepped over the body and proceeded down the path.

Tris, dismissing the incident from his mind, returned to the subject of their meeting. “So you see, I wanted to warn you. The next time you see me, when I’ve won Cleo’s hand, we’re going to have to face our mothers.”

“We?” This time it was Julie who looked scornful. “In the first place, I don’t see why this is any concern of mine. In the second place, what makes you so sure your Miss Smallwood’ll have you?”

He stopped in his tracks. “Well, she seemed to encourage...” His eyes narrowed, and he peered at Julie through knit brows. “Do you think she won’t?”

“I’m sure I couldn’t say. I don’t know the lady. But if it were me, I wouldn’t.”

“You only say that because you know I won’t ever ask you. I’ll have you know that Cleo hinted she considers me a catch.”

“A
catch?
”
Julie gave a disdainful little laugh. “Really, Tris, you can’t be serious.”

“Why not? I’ve a title, haven’t I? And an estate that’s not inconsiderable. And a certain confidence in address. And I’m told that my appearance is pleasing. So why am I not a catch?”

“Because you’re a peacocky, bumptious
ass
is why!” She stalked off down the path, tossing some of her long tresses over her shoulder contemptuously.

“Ass?” he echoed angrily, striding quickly after her, grasping her shoulders and pulling her round. “How dare you call me an ass?”

“I dare because you
are
one. Do you think you’re
worth
your wealth just because you
have
it? Anyone who believes that a title and an income will win him a lady’s heart
has
to be an ass. If the lady in question is half the creature you described, she’ll be looking for more than mere superficialities in the man she weds.”

“So that’s what you think of me, eh? Merely superficial?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think, does it?”

“No,” he snapped back, “it doesn’t matter one bit.”

“Then why ask me?”

“I don’t know why I did.” He loosed his grip on her and threw up his hands. “It was a moment of weakness.”

Julie relented. “You needn’t look so murderous. Your lady may not find you as superficial as I do.”

“Thank you, ma’am, for that encouragement. You are saying, therefore, that in order to succeed, I need only hope that my lady remains ignorant of the shallow nature of my character.”

“Don’t let my words worry you,” Julie assured him with a sudden, unexpected smile. “She’ll probably have you. Most girls would.”

“Good God, ma’am, have I heard you alright? Did you actually say something kind?”

She laughed. “It was a moment of weakness.” But then her eyes abruptly clouded. “
You’ll
have to tell our mamas.”

“Yes, soon or late.” Tris, his expression darkening also, kicked at the pebbles in the path. “But not quite yet.”

Julie threw a quick glance up at him. “Why not yet?”

“I haven’t even made Cleo an offer. It’s best to wait until the matter is a
fait accompli
, isn’t it?”

“Is it? Or are you just being cowardly?”

Tris glowered at her. “Is that what you think? That I lack courage? That I’m a deuced muckworm?”

“My, my, you are quick to take offense today. I don’t look on you as a muckworm, you gudgeon. I just don’t see why you can’t tell them now. Straightaway.”

“Would you, if you were in my place?”

“Of course I would,” she answered promptly.

“Ha! What a hum! You of all people.”

She lifted her chin in offense. “Why not me?”

“You shudder at the sight of a dead rabbit!”

Her eyes fell. “I’m not saying it would be easy...”

“Easy!” He gave a mirthless laugh.
“Impossible
is more like it. I can just imagine the scene—my mother weeping copious tears, and your mother shouting the roof down.”

Julie sighed in agreement. “I know, Tris. But you’ll have to face it, as you said, soon or late.”

“Better late. When I’m already wed, their tears and shouts won’t have any effect.”

“Tris! You’re
not
—!” She stared at him in horror. “You can’t mean you’re planning to wed before telling your mother!”

“I’m not planning anything,” Tris responded tersely, striding off angrily down the path away from her. “I told you before. Cleo hasn’t even accepted me yet.”

“Well, you needn’t snap at me,” she called after him. “It isn’t my fault that she hasn’t.”

He paused and turned slowly back. “I’m sorry. I tend to lose my temper when I think of the fix our mothers put us in.” He grinned sheepishly, the dimple in his left cheek making an appearance. “In a way, all this is your fault, you know. If you hadn’t been born, our mothers couldn’t have leg-shackled us.”

“Yes,” she said with a sneer, “that would have been nice for you.”

“Nice? It would have been bliss.”

“You wouldn’t have had me to contend with.”

“True. No discord. No wrangles. No bickering. Oh, the peace and quiet!”

“No two-family dinners. No shared birthdays. No being pushed to go to the assembly together...”

“A veritable heaven on earth!”

“Yes, heaven,” she agreed, “but may I point out that it would have been just as heavenly if it
were you
who hadn’t been born?”

“You have me there.” He sighed in mock surrender. “I suppose we’ll have to accept what is.”

“Yes.” She too expelled a sigh, but hers was real.

He studied her face with sudden, unexpected compassion. He was on the verge of escaping this life, but she was still mired in it. “Don’t look so glum, Julie,” he said cheerfully. “My betrothal to Cleo will change everything. Our mothers will have to admit defeat.”

Heads lowered in thought, they slowly returned to the summerhouse. There they said their good-byes. “As soon as Cleo says she’ll have me, I’ll come back and deal with our mothers,” he promised. “And after they accept the fact that they’ve lost this battle, things will change. Life is suddenly full of interesting possibilities.”

“Yes, for you,” she muttered glumly.

“For you too. Just wait. You’ll see.” He tipped his hat and started toward home, adding, “As soon as I’m betrothed, you’ll be perfectly free to find yourself a fellow of your own.”

“That
is
an interesting possibility,” Julie said, throwing him a last wave.

She climbed the stile, but before dropping down on the other side, she looked back at his retreating figure. He looked almost tall in his fine beaver, with the capes of his greatcoat flapping in the wind. As the distance grew between them, she reviewed the one hopeful note that had been sounded in all that had been exchanged between them this afternoon.
You’ll be perfectly free to find a fellow of your own,
her mind echoed as she watched him walk away.
A fellow of my own. Yes!

But... who?

2

With her chair pushed behind her mother’s, a mere six inches back from the line of seats placed along the edge of the dance floor, Julie sat quite literally in her mother’s shadow.
But there’s nothing remarkable about that,
she told herself ruefully as she watched the dancers swirling round the dance floor in a lively “Horatio’s Fancy.” Everyone at this small Derbyshire Biweekly Assembly knew she was always in her mother’s shadow, figuratively as well as literally. Even Tris had said so.

Julie cast a glance over at her mother. It was no wonder she was overshadowed by the woman. The dowager Lady Branscombe was a formidable presence. In her stockinged feet Mama would have towered over all the other women in the room, but tonight she seemed even taller because her imposing head of carefully coiffed hair was topped by a jeweled turban with plumes. And she was not only noble in height but in breadth. With wide hips and an ample bosom, Julie’s mother did indeed make an impressive picture.

The tall feathers of Lady Branscombe’s turban were bobbing gently as she chatted with her best friend, Lady Phyllis Enders, who was seated on her other side. But after a moment, as if she felt Julie’s eyes on her, Lady Branscombe turned and cast her daughter a look of disapproval. “Hiding yourself again, I see,” she scolded. “Juliet Branscombe, you promised me when we set out this evening that you would try to have a pleasurable time. I would have no objection to your circulating about the room. Or even if you danced one or two of the country dances.”

“Yes, Mama,” Julie mumbled, coloring, “but—”

“You know very well why our dear girl is not dancing,” Lady Phyllis intervened gently. “All the young men in the neighborhood are aware that you disapprove of them. She’d be dancing often enough if my Tris were here.”

“Under duress on both our parts,” Julie muttered under her breath.

“What did you say?” her mother asked suspiciously.

“Nothing, Mama.”

“Hummmph!” was Lady Branscombe’s only reply. She knew that Lady Phyllis had spoken nothing but the truth: all the young men who attended this weekly assembly (which drew its constituency from the fewer than fifty families comprising the entire society of the town of Amberford and its environs) were well aware of Lady Branscombe’s intentions for her daughter. They knew there was no point in dancing with the girl, for as soon as they showed her the least interest, the mother would not permit them any further association—not even a second dance. Everyone understood the rules: Juliet Branscombe was spoken for.