Stormfire (29 page)

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Catherine dined alone, and after spending some hours studying a book borrowed from Flynn, she went alone to bed to lie sleepless as the new moon's thin, thready line of molten silver trickled across the black, polished sea. Finally she drifted into troubled sleep and at dawn awoke to find Culhane's side of the bed unused. Rain obscured the horizon; the room was chill and damp.,After washing, she pulled on a dark blue velveteen dress with pantalettes and an extra petticoat added for warmth. Downstairs, she persuaded Peg to find one of Culhane's old cloaks, then wrapped herself well before going out in the wet, gray weather.'

After a morning of studying and reading with Flynn, she had slipped into the infirmary ward at midday to scan the bluff, but no white scarf waved through the haze. Liam would hardly arrange a meeting in the rain, and a walk in such foul weather would be difficult to explain to Flynn. When nearly two weeks of uninterrupted wet weather followed, she was almost relieved. She saw Liam only on brief occasions, never alone.

Flynn dismissed his charge early in particularly foul weather that she might get home before the light failed entirely; on one of those stormy days, as Catherine entered the foyer she saw the ballroom door ajar. The ivory and gilt ballroom, although the same size as the great hall, was unused because Liam refused to expose its frescos and chandeliers to the careless vandalism of his brother's mercenaries. Curious, she took a peek, and finding the room empty, slipped in, then carefully shut the door. Leaving a trail of puddles across the polished parquetry, she hurried to the gleaming walnut pianoforte silhouetted against rain-washed Venetian windows. Despositing her cloak on the floor, she sat down on the bench and lifted the pianoforte cover, then struck
a
note that timidly hovered in the long room. Above gilt chairs in lonely ranks along the wall, painted courtiers and ladies seemed to listen critically from the garden fresco. Wincing at her own clumsiness, she ran through limbering exercises. Thanks to early training from a demanding French master, she had been by far the finest pianist at the academy, but now her fingers were stiff from lack of practice. Finally she ventured

Schubert's rhapsodic "Ode to Spring," and gradually her fingers began to respond. Fancifully, she imagined the one-dimensional audience was beginning to smile and tap its toes with the urge to dance.

Suddenly a few crystals on the chandeliers tinkled, and she realized the audience was not all a creation of paint. A round-eyed Moora with a scrub bucket in one hand stood just inside the door. "Come in and close the door," Catherine called softly.

In an agony of shyness, Moora obeyed, coming hesitantly to the pianoforte, her heavy shoes echoing on the bare floor. "I heard the music. It was so soft and pretty, I thought it was fairies." She paused, swallowing. "Nobody here plays but Lord Liam, only he an't touched the pianoforte since he come back from Rome."

Catherine smiled ruefully. "I'm out of practice, too, but playing for myself is a bit lonely. Would you like to hear the rest?" Moora hesitated, then nodded. As Catherine continued to play, the Irish girl's eyes took on a glow of wonder.

" 'Tis lovely," she breathed, still swaying when the last notes died away. "Like magic."

Catherine smiled. "Yes, but a magic you can learn to summon as easily as I. Would you like to try?"

Moora's rapture faded and her eyes dropped. "I don't deserve it. I thought Master Sean'd be hangin' me sure for what I done; I got twice as many chores, is all. I don't even have to clean fish no more." Her eyes lifted, warming with shame and confusion. "Ma says ye kept him from punishin' me like he wanted."

Unaware Sean had heeded her pleas for Moora, Catherine felt a catch in her heart. Would she ever understand the Irishman's mercurial moods? She squeezed the girl's hand. "Desperation can drive one to do perilous, unlikely things."

"That it can, Countess," said a clear, definite voice from the doorway.

Moora involuntarily shrank against Catherine as Liam Culhane strolled toward them. "There's no need to be afraid." Catherine steadied the girl with a firm pressure to her back. "Lord Culhane has simply come to join our recital. Haven't you, my lord?"

"That I have." The fair-haired young man grinned. "Shall we play a duet, Lady Catherine?"

Giving him a winning smile, she dragged the limp Moora onto the seat. "I was just about to show Moora a few simple scales. Naturally, any addition to the lesson is welcome."

Moora had difficulty even with basic scales for she could not read; letters assigned to notes made no sense to her. With simple rhyming phrases, Catherine taught her to play a timid scale and silently vowed to teach her the alphabet. Noticing Moora's nervousness in the presence of her subtly yawning master, Catherine lured Liam into a light, bantering conversation that gradually allowed Moora to relax and even to take part. When the girl doggedly managed her scales several times without error, Catherine showed her a simple song; then, to give her an idea of musical structure, she elevated the piece into an easy minuet, changed the timing to a fugue, then expanded it into a waltz. Liam clapped with tactless enthusiasm, oblivious to Moora's faint flush. "My lady, you make me glad I stayed awake."

"It's just as well you did; it's your turn to play." As Liam eagerly slid onto the bench, Catherine silkily slipped off the other side, propelling Moora gently but purposefully ahead of her. Liam sat alone, baffled once more. "If you'll play a minuet," she coaxed, "I'll show Moora a dance suitable to a ballroom." Giving him no chance to demur, she quickly led Moora, clopping awkwardly, onto the floor.

"We'll have to remove our shoes," Catherine told her. "I'll teach you a lady's part, then play the gentleman and partner you." The Irish girl showed a surprising aptitude for the steps and easily mimicked her partner's casual grace, despite Liam's initially rusty playing. Saucily grinning at one another, the two girls began subtly to compete. Catherine led the way to increasingly complicated steps and the Irish girl followed virtually without error. Liam, completely surprised by Moora's unsuspected ability, was openly admiring. At last Catherine spun to a halt and swept her a deep curtsy. "I declare," she laughed merrily with a teasing brogue as Liam applauded, "you've outdone me entirely!"

Moora playfully imitated the curtsy as aptly as a mirror while Liam applauded. "I do dance nice now, don't I?"

"Beautifully!" Catherine assured her. "In fact, so marvelously well you may have the talent to succeed at ballet."

Moora looked dubious. "Ye mean, where doxies flit about in their unmentionables for rich geezers to gawk at?"

Liam laughed. "Moora, you've got the idea exactly."

Catherine glared him into amused silence. "Ballet is more than a display of anatomy. My grandmother, who studied with Beauchamp at Louis's court, considered it an indispensable part of my education." Seeing the girl's still doubtful face, she gave Liam a defiant look, then began to unhook her dress.

"Christ," he swore softly. "What are you doing?"

"If you've seen a ballet, my lord, you're sophisticated enough to accept the necessity of light attire for freedom of movement." Moora's jaw dropped as Catherine stripped to camisole, petticoats, and pantalettes, briskly tied her hair up with a dress lacing, then addressed the goggling lord. "Do you happen to know Mozart's Concerto in G Major?" Vaguely, he nodded.

Though quite warm, she went through a brief barre to limber her muscles, then nodded to him and began to move airily to the gentle opening passage. Soon her movements acquired quick, hummingbird precision, then again changed to a fluid, dipping, turning waltz, her bare toes pricking out the intricate designs of the more stylized phrases. With her arms taking on the liquid, soaring grace of a winging lark, her fleeting
bourrees
and
piques en tournants
skimmed the entire ballroom. Splitting darts seemed to hover breathlessly, impossibly, in space.
Ronds de jambe en I'air
followed quick, scissoring flicks of the feet. As the music slowed, the control necessary to the technically more difficult pace seemed unnoticeable. With flawless balance, she finished a
pirouette en attitude
with an extension into
arabesque,
petticoats falling in a gentle blur of white as she was silhouetted in a deepening
penchie
against the rain-streaked windows. Liam's fingers almost ceased to move as the living poetry of the dancer absorbed him like a cool, intense flame, blue white in the fading light, incandescent. He would have happily gone on forever, but Catherine sagged to the floor. He quickly went to her. "Are you all right?"

Wet with perspiration, she looked up at him and panted, "Quite all right! Though I shall regret this in the morning
. . .
I feel like a wheezy grandame!" He helped her to her feet, and, despite her gasps, she gave him an impish look. "Are you still convinced, my lord, that ballet is a bloomer parade?"

"You make me feel like a fool; less, an incompetent," he replied penitently. "I've never realized more keenly the limits of my art. When you ceased to move, it seemed my heart ceased to beat. Such elusiveness is sublime agony for me."

Her mischief faded and she murmured softly, "Yet there is freedom in the loss." She turned to Moora, who sat tensely on' her gilt chair. "What do you think, Moora? Would you like to try?" The girl's eyes, already unaccountably strained, grew desperate and she looked past them at the door. Silently lounging against it with a faint, sardonic smile was Sean Culhane. Slowly, he straightened, turned, and strolled out of the room.

When Catherine, out of breath and disheveled, entered the Rose Salon, the Irishman regarded her with the same mildly amused, slightly nasty look he had worn in the ballroom.

"I'm sorry to be late. I lost track of the time," she babbled, hastily dropping into her chair like an errant schoolgirl. She gave her hair, stuck damply to her face, a quick wipe with her sleeve. She looked nothing like the exquisite dancer of moments before.

"I'm sorry too. I'm hungry. Moora will be sorry too. She'll be up until all hours finishing her work. And Liam . . ." His smile grew a shade nastier. "Liam will be sorry too."

Instantly, her hackles rose. "It wasn't his fault, or hers! I slipped in to play the pianoforte."

"And here I thought Liam had radically improved. Tonight was the first time his Mozart didn't sound lead- fingered."

"You heard him play, and very well, too. He adores music!"
       

"And you think it would be nice if he were to adore you. I'm sorry, my pet, but you're already sufficiently appreciated by your current lover. You don't have to prance about in pantalettes to attract another."

"You . . . hypocrite!" she stormed, stuttering in rage. "You pompous, uncultivated oaf!"

"You conniving, derriere-waving little show-off!" he roared, his brows meeting in a black scowl.

"What!" she choked, backing up in her seat.

"Don't give me that innocent look!" he snarled. "What better way to wrap Liam about your finger than to play the ethereal nymph. He's slavering after you like a hound after a hart!"

"My dancing was neither lewd nor unseemly! I was not trying to entice him!" Half sobbing, she began to fear he was right in judging his brother's reaction. "Why must you drag everything into the dirt!" As tears seeped from her eyes, Sean saw she had been genuinely unaware of Liam's infatuation. He sighed as she dissolved in tears and dropped her head on her arms.

Finally he dunked his napkin into his water glass and went to her. Dropping on one knee beside her, he firmly clamped the wet, cold cloth on the back of her neck. She yelped and tried to wrench away. "Stay still. You've made enough of a mess." His voice was gruff, yet oddly gentle. Catherine stilled obediently, shoulders still shaking. Frowning at the hasty snarl of ribbon that missed several loops, Sean began to relace her dress.

She became silent as he did her up, and when he finished, she said in a muffled voice, not looking up, "You think I behaved like a trollop, don't you?"