The Affectionate Adversary (20 page)
“Upon my word, you must do nothing of the sort!” Sarah exclaimed. “Everyone would know the letter was about me.”
“I shall disguise all the particulars,” Prudence said, scribbling furiously. “But the essence of the situation will be clear. I am convinced that Miss Pickworth will tell us exactly what to do.”
“There is nothing to be done,” Mary said, “for Sarah cannot continue her friendship with Mr. Locke. He is beneath her.”
“Prudence, do come away from that desk,” Sarah urged as she returned to her painting. “Mary is right. Mr. Locke is in the past.”
“He would not be in the past if only he had agreed to come to Bamberfield with us. Honestly, I cannot think why he—”
“Mr. Locke?” Sarah looked up from her box of watercolor paints. “Surely he was not invited here.”
The glances exchanged between Prudence and Mary told their sister that Charles Locke had indeed been invited to join the party at Bamberfield House. Prudence quickly turned back to the desk. “Anyway, he is not to come,” she said as she continued writing. “There is nothing more to say on that.”
“There most certainly is,” Sarah retorted. “Who invited him?”
“First, Delacroix called on Mr. Locke,” Mary informed her. “And then Pru sent a letter most particularly requesting his presence for this weekend.”
“Two attempts to secure him? And twice rejected? Upon my honor, I am all astonishment at your audacity! Pru, you and Delacroix both know how I feel about Mr. Locke. What were you thinking?”
Prudence glanced over her shoulder at her sister. “Only that we should be more lively with a charming gentleman in our party. Oh, come, Sarah. You know you would enjoy his company, too. You are very dull these days.”
“That is true, sister,” Mary said. “The only time you have smiled since returning to London was just after Mr. Locke called on you at Trenton House. You informed us you meant to stay in England after all, and at dinner that night you were positively aglow. But as the days went by, you sank back into your black humor. Now you might as well be Marianne mourning that dastardly Mr. Willoughby in
Sense and Sensibility
. Why do you not make yourself happy again?”
“Because Sarah cannot go outside to walk in the fresh air,” Prudence lamented. “And because Mr. Locke is not to come. And because all we can do is play at charades with Mary’s somber husband and Delacroix!”
“Why did Delacroix invite Mr. Locke?” Sarah demanded. “It was wrong of him, and I shall speak to him on that account directly.”
“Excuse me, madam,” the lady’s maid spoke up, laying a hand on Sarah’s arm. “I see a carriage outside. It comes down the drive even now.”
“Who can it be?” Sarah asked. “Anne, go to the window and tell us if you recognize the livery.”
“Is it a fine carriage?” Mary inquired of the maid. “Perhaps one of my friends calls upon us.”
“No, it is plain,” Anne reported. “Two horses, a single footman, no livery at all.”
“It must be him! Mr. Locke!” Prudence exclaimed, rising from the desk and racing to the window. “It
is
him! He has decided to come after all! Oh, Mary, now you will see his blue eyes. Sarah, do not look so cross. You know you are as glad as any of us to have him here, for I told him how glum you were and how we all feared you would change your mind again and go off to China.”
“Prudence!”
“At any rate, he is only come for the weekend, for he wrote that he must return to London by Monday to attend lectures at Lincoln’s Inn. He is to become a barrister, you know.”
Revelation upon revelation. Sarah hardly knew what to think or how to feel. But there could be no time for reflection—in moments, he would be among them. Mary took up her needlework. Prudence snatched a book from the nearest table and pretended to read. As her maid returned to her side, Sarah dipped her brush into the blue paint. All were silent, gracefully seated, and properly occupied as a footman opened the drawing-room door to make the announcement.
“Mr. Charles Locke,” he called out, and they rose in unison.
The man himself entered, bowed, and scanned the room. As the three sisters curtsied in return, his focus centered upon Sarah. “Lady Delacroix,” he said. “How do you do?”
“I am well, Mr. Locke. And you, sir?”
“Very well.” He turned to the other women. “Miss Watson. Good afternoon.”
“Do allow me to present our sister, Mary,” Sarah said. “Mrs. John Heathhill.”
“Mrs. Heathhill,” Charles replied with another bow. “I am pleased to meet you.”
“Oh, Mr. Locke, we are all so happy you have come!” Prudence exclaimed, skipping toward him. “Bamberfield is dreadfully dank and dreary in the rain, and nothing but your presence could enliven our spirits.” She took his arm. “Do sit down, sir. The gentlemen will come to us directly.”
“I shall call for tea,” Sarah said.
Laying down her brush, she summoned the footman, who hurried away to fetch Delacroix and Mr. Heathhill. At Sarah’s direction, Anne slipped out of the room to speak to the housekeeper. An additional guest would necessitate more tea, an extra place at dinner, and another bedroom opened and aired in the men’s wing of the house. Sarah completed her orders and picked up her brush.
How could this have happened? Delacroix and her sisters must be conspiring to make her miserable! Or happy? She ventured a glance at Charles, who was answering a question put to him by Prudence but gazing all the while at Sarah. Disconcerted, she dabbed a large blue blob on the red apple she had so carefully painted only minutes before.
This was appalling! She did not want to see Charles. She had put him firmly out of her thoughts and centered all her attention on continuing her mission. While sorting through applications for funds from various places in England, Sarah also had received letters from her acquaintances in Burma, China, and India.
Gradually—and with much care—she was parceling out her fortune. The work had become a full-time occupation for her, and she enjoyed it immensely. Truly, she did, Sarah reminded herself. Mary and Prudence might accuse their sister of glumness, but they were wrong. Sarah knew she was laboring for God, and how could anything produce greater happiness?
“We understand you mean to become a barrister, Mr. Locke,” Prudence was saying. “How very good. I am sure you will be wonderful at making laws.”
Sarah gave an inward groan as Charles chuckled. “I shall do my best, Miss Watson.”
“You ought to prohibit rain on weekends,” Prudence suggested. “In such dreadful weather, no one can go outside, picnics are impossible, and everything is gray—most especially our humors.”
“I fear not even the English Parliament has enough power to exercise control over the weather, madam. We must learn to be content with whatever God provides us. His will is perfect, after all; is it not, Lady Delacroix?”
At that, Sarah ran a blue streak right across the two pears that had so recently been a perfect shade of yellow. “Indeed,” she managed. “Quite perfect.”
“May I be so bold as to ask how you are getting on with your charitable occupations, madam? I have heard that you mean to stay here in England and carry on with your work.”
Steadying herself, Sarah looked into his eyes. “Yes, sir. I do continue what I began on my journey to the Orient. I have had a letter from Miss Aldersey in China. Her school for blind girls at Ningpo continues to grow, and the Delacroix estate is assisting in the construction of new housing. Ink and paper are even now being shipped to India to assist in the printing of gospel pamphlets by Dr. William Carey. And three new missionaries travel to Burma soon with funds to assure their ministries for three years.”
The blue in his eyes softened as she talked, and Sarah felt she could hardly keep speaking to him in so stiff and formal a manner. Mary and Prudence were clearly intent on every word that passed between them, and Sarah knew she must make every effort to show her sisters that she had no attachment to this gentleman.
“I am happy to hear this,” Charles told her. “Surely you must be delighted as well.”
“I am,” Sarah agreed. “It pleases me greatly to—”
“You could never tell she is delighted by the sour expression she brings to the breakfast table each morning,” Prudence observed. “Mr. Locke, was my sister this dreary aboard the
Queen Elinor
? If so, I am at a loss to imagine what you found to like in her.”
“Prudence, please!” Sarah said.
“No, it is a good question, Lady Delacroix, for more than one source has provided me with alarming reports of your glum demeanor. Miss Watson, I assure you that aboard ship, your sister was the most delightful, charming, kind, and endearing young woman I have ever met in my life. I eagerly awaited her arrival each morning, and the sweet sound of her singing put me into peaceful slumber each night.”
“But Sarah cannot sing!” Prudence blurted out. “None of us has any talent whatever in that regard.”
“I beg your pardon, Miss Watson, but your sister sings like an angel.” He smiled at Sarah, whose stomach turned an entire flip-flop at once. “Dear lady, have you deprived your sisters of the songs and hymns that so encouraged those of us who endured the attack upon the
Tintagel
?”
“I truly do not sing well, sir,” Sarah said. “You were ill, and I am sure you welcomed anything to distract you from your pain.”
He laughed at this. “You are far too modest, Mrs.—” Catching himself, he shook his head briefly. “Lady Delacroix, only one thing could persuade me to come to Bamberfield House this weekend.”
At this, Prudence brightened. “My letter! Why, Mr. Locke, how sweet of you to suppose that I should enjoy riding—”
“I came out of concern that a spirit of melancholy may have overtaken you, Lady Delacroix. Your sister’s letter persuaded me to offer my assistance in doing anything that might cheer you.”
“We are all overtaken by melancholy!” Prudence heaved an enormous sigh. “And you may do a great deal to cheer us. Tell me, Mr. Locke, how do you do at playing whist?”
“Tolerable, Miss Watson, but I have not come for card games. I bring a question for your sister.” Again, he turned to Sarah. “Dear lady, what is your success at finding worthy charities here in England?”
For a brief moment, Sarah thought he must have come to beg money for himself. His tea company might be called a charity, after all, for Charles must be as poor as a church mouse. But the sincerity in his eyes told her that he continued to be honorable and forthright with her.
“In the hope of securing funds, charities apply to every well-established English family,” she informed him. “The Delacroix estate supports two orphanages and an almshouse.”
“I see,” he said. “In view of that, Lady Delacroix, may I ask you to accompany me this afternoon on a short excursion?”
“I want to go too!” Prudence trilled.
“Sit down, sister,” Mary hissed. “You are not invited on the excursion, and the men will soon be here for tea.”
“If you wish, you may all come.” Charles stood and extended a hand toward Sarah. “Lady Delacroix?”
She rose tentatively. “Well, I—”
“Let us go together, the whole party,” Prudence chirped, skipping forward and linking an arm through Sarah’s.
“Come, Mary.”
“I intend to take tea and stitch my screen until dinner is called, thank you very much,” Mary responded. “I am not one for impetuous excursions. You will excuse me, Mr. Locke.”
“Of course.” He took Sarah’s other arm. “Shall we?”
Without quite knowing why, Sarah stepped forward.
