Miss Hartwell's Dilemma (20 page)

“De la Rosa,” repeated Amaryllis, troubled. “I suppose Rosa means rose? I believe I have a handkerchief of his in my dresser drawer.”

Bertram demanded an explanation, so she described her encounter with the silent stranger in the garden. He was shocked and distressed that she had not told him before.

“The next time I saw you was when we toured the castle,” she said. “The girls were with us, and besides, you had already moved from Halstead with the excuse of protecting me from the Spaniard. Then when nothing further happened I forgot.”

“It’s devilish peculiar. However, I can hardly challenge him to explain his actions when we cannot even be sure it was him.”

“He came with the Hoyles. I know Sir Peter slightly so I will see if I can winkle any information out of him.”

She was moving towards the knight and his wife when dinner was announced. On Bertram’s arm, Amaryllis joined the slow procession up the spiral stair to the Banqueting Hall.

With some adroit dodging she managed to seat herself between her escort and Sir Peter at one of the long, white-draped trestle tables. Fortunately, Mr. Majendie did not stand on ceremony at his assemblies, or Lord Pomeroy would have been sitting at the high table between Lady Dawson, deaf relict of a baronet, and the enormous Mrs. Bailey, whose husband was fourth son of a baron.

Mr. Raeburn had a place on the dais, and Amaryllis was delighted to see that Tizzy was beside him. He delivered a brief grace on the text, “Then I commended mirth, because a man hath no better thing under the sun, than to eat, and to drink, and to be merry.” Head bowed, Amaryllis peeped through her lowered eyelashes and saw Tizzy’s lips move. Without a doubt she was quoting chapter and verse.

Mrs. Vaux and Miss Raeburn sat together at the far side of the hall, the latter rigid with disapproval. The Spaniard was near them, next to the pretty daughter of a local farmer. Judging by her trilling laugh, he was making himself pleasant in reasonably good English. Of Lord Daniel there was no sign, and Amaryllis did not care to crane her neck to see if he was seated farther down on the same side of the table out of her view.

Half the population of the village had been pressed into service. They scurried about the tables bearing dishes of roast sirloin, goose, hams, pheasants dressed up in their own tail feathers. With much ceremony a pair of suckling pigs was borne in, apples in their mouths and bedecked with thyme and rosemary, being the closest Mr. Majendie could come in these degenerate days to the traditional Boar’s Head. Tankards of heady mead appeared, with small beer and cider for those with weak heads or stomachs. A group of wassailers filed into the gallery opposite the high table and serenaded the diners with rounds and carols, and the huge hall echoed with the merry sound.

Amaryllis turned to Sir Peter. A neat, elderly gentleman with a white goatee, he remembered her at once and asked politely after the school. After an exchange of commonplaces, she said, “I noticed that you brought a young gentleman with you. What a shocking mishmash the footman made of his name.”

“Was it not? Don Miguel was not best pleased, but he assures me he is grown used to it. He has been several months in this country.”

“Is he a friend of the family?” asked Amaryllis brightly, hoping she did not appear grossly impertinent.

“Yes,” said Sir Peter, looking vague. “In a way. My son fought in the Peninsular War, you know. Are you acquainted with Thomas, ma’am?”

“I believe not.”

“He is still in the army. Major by now. Stationed in Ireland at present. We have not seen him in over a year, which distresses Lady Hoyle no end.”

“I am sure it must, sir.” Amaryllis steered him gently back to the subject that interested her. “Thomas—Major Hoyle— met Don Miguel in Spain then?”

“So Don Miguel says. I do not recall that Thomas ever mentioned him, but doubtless he met any number of Spaniards. I do not care to question the Don—proud, fiery sort of chap he is.”

“Does he stay with you indefinitely?”

Sir Peter shrugged helplessly. “He has been here for several months. He was ill for some time—our wretched climate, I daresay—and he’s been off for the odd week now and then, but he always comes back. Fact is, don’t know how to get rid of the fellow. But I must not bore on, Miss Hartwell. It is kind of you to listen to the problems of an old man.”

“It is fascinating, my dear sir,” gushed Amaryllis. “The customs of foreigners are vastly odd, are they not? Does the major know he is with you?”

“Lady Hoyle wrote of his arrival, and Thomas replied that he hoped we would offer him our hospitality for the Spanish guerrilleros were no end good fellows whatever anyone may say of their regular troops.”

“I suppose you do not know why he chooses to remain in this corner of Essex?”

“He has not seen fit to inform us, but he and his servant ride out in all directions and at all hours. I would not have you think he is a difficult guest, ma’am. He fits himself to our little household ways most graciously.”

“Indeed,” Amaryllis murmured.

She could think of no more questions, so she looked up at the subject of their conversation. He was glaring across the room, she could not tell at whom, with a look of such animosity on his face that she was excessively glad it was not directed at her.

Bertram claimed her attention at that moment, and she was glad to turn to a comparison of the present jolly occasion with the elegant dinner parties they had both attended in the past. Geniality versus insipidity were the words that sprang to her lips, vulgarity and propriety to his. They argued their cases good-humouredly, careful not to be overheard by their fellow guests.

The first course was removed. In its place appeared pies and jellies, mince tarts and syllabubs, crisp, sweet russet apples, and nuts of all kinds. Bertram cracked a mixture of hazelnuts, almonds, and brazils for Amaryllis, while she glanced around the hall again. Tizzy, her cheeks pink with animation, was deep in conversation with the vicar. Aunt Eugenia, looking every inch grande dame in her blue-striped lutestring and matching toque, was holding forth to Miss Augusta, who looked overawed and had no attention to spare for her brother’s misdeeds.

At last the banquet came to an end. The ladies were invited to step upstairs where the upper floor, with its myriad alcoves and niches, had been transformed into a dressing room for their convenience. The gentlemen went back down to the Guard Room, while the trestle tables were removed and the Banqueting Hall prepared for dancing.

Amaryllis and Tizzy went up together. At the top of the stair a maid curtsied and handed them each a card with a column of numbers and a pencil attached by a ribbon. Miss Tisdale turned hers over curiously.

“It’s a dance programme,” Amaryllis whispered. “The gentlemen write their names against the numbers so that you know which dance you have given to whom.”

“Oh, but I shall not dance.” She tried to give it back to the maid.

Amaryllis snatched it. “If Mr. Raeburn asks you, you most certainly will,” she hissed, “if I have to drag you onto the floor myself.”

“He...he did mention the cotillion. But he is a clergman, surely he will not dance?”

“Remember his text, Tizzy dear. Mirth and merriment. Our vicar is no preacher of hellfire.”

Miss Tisdale flushed. “Oh dear, I gave him that text. He had forgot he would be expected to pronounce grace, you see.”

Amaryllis laughed so loud that several people stared at her. She hugged her governess and kissed her. “Let me see,” she said, consulting the back of the card. “The cotillion is number four. I shall write in Mr. Raeburn’s name.”

“You shall not! If he cares to sign it himself, I…I shall stand up with him.”

Amaryllis clapped, and they went to tidy their hair. Soon the sound of an orchestra tuning its instruments floated up the winding stairs from the gallery below. A young lady scarce out of the schoolroom tiptoed down and returned breathless to report that the gentlemen were already entering the Banqueting Hall. As if blown on a steady breeze, the ladies began to drift towards the stair.

Bertram pounced on Amaryllis as she emerged at the bottom. “Let’s see,” he said, “the first is a country dance. I’ll take that. And then the waltz, there seems to be just one, and whatever is just before supper. Are you sure you will not give me more than three?”

“I never said I should give you more than two, and indeed I ought not.”

“Gammon! No one will notice.” He scrawled his name three times on her program.

Amaryllis gave in, though she knew very well that everyone in the room would notice. As heir to an earl, Lord Pomeroy was by far the highest-ranking person present. It was not in his character to put on airs of self-consequence.

By the time the orchestra struck up “Strip the Willow,” only two dances remained unclaimed on her card. Bertram swore that rather than let her remain a wallflower he would stand up with her willy-nilly, if no one forestalled him. They took their places in the set.

Skirts swirled primrose, cherry, celestial blue, and demure white. Gentlemen bowed to their partners and swung them right and left. When Amaryllis’s turn came she danced up the row, returning breathless after swinging with each gentleman to link arms with Bertram in the middle and swing the other way. He danced back down the row of ladies and together they formed an arch for the other couples to promenade through.

Catching her breath as the next lady made her way up the set, Amaryllis glanced up at the gallery. Two of the arches were filled with musicians, scraping and bowing and blowing with a will. Beneath the next arch, nearest the stair, a solitary figure caught her eye. Lord Daniel leaned on the balustrade, watching the dancers broodingly.

He noticed at once that she had seen him, sketched a salute, and stepped back into the shadows. She thought he was still there, but at that moment it was her turn to spin and she lost sight of him.

When the dance ended, she moved from the floor in the direction of the stairs. “Go and find your next partner,” she ordered Bertram. “Yes, I daresay you have not signed any other cards, but there are plenty of young ladies, and not so young, who are in need of partners.”

“I shall dance with Mrs. Vaux,” he said obediently, grinning. “I’ve no intention of raising hopes in any maidenly breast but yours.”

“Coxcomb!” she snorted as he went off. She hurried up the stairs.

Lord Daniel was leaning against a pillar, gazing at nothing. He started as she appeared, then bowed to her with a sardonic look.

“You do not appear to be enjoying yourself, my lord,” she commented.

“I do not dance, Miss Hartwell.”

“Do you mean you cannot dance, or you will not dance?”

His mouth was grim, almost sneering. “You know my disability. What do you suppose would happen if I swung my partner with my right arm at the wrong moment?”

“She would fly off across the room.” Amaryllis giggled, and unwillingly his face relaxed a little. “No, you are quite right, I cannot advise you to join the country dances. But I see no reason why you should not waltz. Do you waltz?”

“My sisters taught me when they learned,” he said guardedly. “That was a decade ago, and I have never tried it in a ballroom.”

“It is very easy,” she assured him. “The music practically tells your feet what to do. I shall put you down for the waltz.”

“I have not asked you, ma’am.”

“No, I have asked you. Think of it as a challenge. Surely you will not cry craven. I depend on you. There!” Ruthlessly she scratched out Bertram’s name and wrote in Lord Daniel’s. As an afterthought she put Bertram’s in one of the empty spaces, which happened to be the last. “I must go, my next partner will be looking for me.” She flashed him a dazzling smile and hurried down the stairs.

Chapter 15

As the second dance ended, Sir Peter approached Amaryllis and begged leave to present the Spaniard. Don Miguel bowed with a flourish and requested the honour of standing up with her. Uneasily, she agreed and allowed him to sign the one remaining space on her programme, only because she thought she might be able to find out his purpose in visiting Essex.

In the meantime, she had the felicity of seeing Miss Tisdale and Mr. Raeburn leading the cotillion, performing the intricate figures with amazing expertise and grace. Concentrating on her own steps, she had no time to try to discover what Miss Augusta thought of their performance.

She told Bertram she had substituted the last dance for his waltz. He raised his eyebrows, but as she expected he was by far too gentlemanly to protest.

Her next partner was Don Miguel. To her relief the dance was a polonaise. She had not watched him during the country dances, but it seemed unlikely that he had mastered the Gay Gordons and the Eightsome Reel during his brief sojourn in Britain. The polonaise was sufficiently international that even the Spanish might be expected to know it. As it consisted mainly of a stately promenade, there would be plenty of opportunity to interrogate him.

He opened the conversation with a succession of fulsome and elaborate compliments. They made her want to giggle. She decided to reciprocate and spent some time admiring his waistcoat and his sword, which was quite appropriate to this particular dance but must have been a decided hazard at times. The gold embroidery on his waistcoat depicted a pattern of intertwined roses. She enquired whether this was significant, in view of his name, and was told that it was his family emblem.

“Is mark on many of my possessions,” he said, confirming her guess that she had met him before under very different circumstances. Before she could think what to ask him next, he took the initiative. “Sir Peter say you have una escuela—a school, no? The English ladies are muy independientes. You teach the young ladies?”

“Yes, I do.” As you are very well aware, she thought. “You are particularly interested in schools, sir?”

“De ningùn modo—not at all,” he said airily, but he went on, “Your pupils are gone now to the houses, the homes, for La Natividad, as I believe?”

“La Natibithath?”

“The Christmas. Until when are gone?”