Winter Wedding (2 page)

After her heart settled down, Clara asked with a casual air, “Who is this B. Allingcote, ma’am?”

“That is my sister Peg’s boy. Lord Allingcote of Braemore. Do you know him?” Lady Lucker showed no surprise. She had already discovered that in spite of Clara’s poverty, she was acquainted with everyone and had visited with the half of Scotland and England.

No tide of scarlet washed over Clara’s face. Her voice did not tremble as she replied, “I met him once, I believe, at a house party some time ago at the Bellinghams’.”

“Very likely. He visits about a good deal. We hoped he would settle down after his papa died and he became the earl, but he persists in his runabout ways. I doubt he will come to the wedding, however. His mama mentioned something about his going to Scotland. He will send a gift, of course. He is fond of Prissie.”

“Shall I make him a card, just in case?” Clara asked blandly. Her fluttering heart settled down. In that half a minute, she had envisaged a remeeting, a whirlwind courtship, and a proposal of marriage, but nothing of all this speedy romance showed in either her face or voice.

“No point in wasting a card. Just don’t cross out his name on the list.”

As they continued their work, Clara’s eyes were drawn again and again to that name, that stood out because of the lack of a line through it. Lord Allingcote . . . Dormant memories stirred to life at the back of her mind.

Chapter Two

It had been two years ago that Clara met Allingcote at the Bellinghams’ house party, where an amateur production of
The Tempest
was being put on. Allingcote would have met several hundred ladies since then and enjoyed a flirtation with a few dozen of them, as he had with herself at the Bellinghams’. He had particularly complimented her on her new rose taffeta gown, the same one she meant to wear to the wedding, only embellished now with a length of lace around the bodice and sleeves.

Skirt ruffles were not for her. Yards and yards of lace they took and were reduced to dusty ribbons in a fortnight. Wouldn’t it be horrid if he came and recognized the gown! Wouldn’t it be worse if he didn’t even recognize
her!
But he was probably not coming at all.

Clara had never once seen Allingcote since the house party at the Bellinghams’, but strangely, she kept hearing about him. They seemed to go to many of the same places, unfortunately at different times. Even Scotland, so out-of-the-way and where she had twice visited her aunt, had been on his route. He seemed to be as rootless as herself—worse. He was willfully rootless, for he had a home of his own and traveled apparently from mere caprice.

It seemed she often received a reply to a letter from a recent hostess to hear that Allingcote had been there shortly after she left. These frequent references to him kept him alive in her mind, but she didn’t think she would have quite forgotten him in any case. She even suspected that she had been a little in love with him. Much good it would do her! A well-landed earl was not likely to consider an impoverished tumbleweed a suitable bride.

Lady Lucker rattled on to say that Allingcote had developed quite an interest in Scotland lately. He had paternal relatives there. The name of Lady Gwendolyn occurred more than once.

In the same calm voice as before, Clara asked, “Is there to be a match in that quarter? Such a long trip repeated frequently seems to suggest it. What is Lady Gwendolyn’s last name?”

“Dunbar, old Lord Heather’s daughter. No, it has not been quite settled I believe, but likely he will offer. His mama, I know, is anxious to see him settle down, and
not
with his local flirt.”

Clara was not surprised to hear that the dashing Allingcote had a string of girls. It was exactly what she expected of him, and she asked with waning interest which lady was assumed to have the upper hand.

“He always says he will not marry Lady Gwendolyn, but then he keeps going back to Scotland, so what is to be made of it? A man does not go to a well unless he plans to drink; that is what
I
say. Gwendolyn is squat, poor thing. They so often are, the Scottish girls. I believe the cold climate stunts them, but Gwendolyn is especially compact. About four feet, eleven inches. Quite a little pygmy.”

“Allingcote is tall himself. He must be six feet, I should think.”

“Yes, he takes after his papa. Peg’s husband was tall, but then so is Peg. The whole family are tall as trees. He and Gwen will look a horse and a dog walking together.”

“How about his local flirt? What is she like?” Clara asked, selecting another card and speaking desultorily, as though just making conversation.

“Oh, she is the beauty of the region, the top heiress, and all the rest of it.”

“I am surprised his mother dislikes the connection then,” Clara said, surprised.

“So am I, for his papa was known to favor it, and usually old Lord Allingcote’s wish is law, even if he is dead. So unnecessary,” she added, looking at her bleak walls. “But Peg has taken the girl in dislike for some reason. I don’t know just what it is.”

Clara was interested to hear more, but disliked to enter into a pointed quizzing with her shrewd companion. She said, “Has your sister any other children?”

“Oh my yes! Three girls, all giants, and a younger son, Nickie. But Allingcote is the eldest. We call him Benjie, or Ben. He was named after Benjamin Franklin, who was a friend of his papa.”

Clara had not gotten on a first-name basis with Lord Allingcote. He had asked her to drop the “Lord,” she remembered. “Lord me no lords, Miss Christopher,” he had said, in his strangely imperative way. “I always feel I have escaped from the
Book of Common Prayer.”

“Do you see much of your sister’s family?” Clara asked.

“We usually exchange a visit once a year. We all go to Braemore in autumn, and Peg brings the children here in the spring.” Bad timing again, Clara thought. “Benjie comes, too, though he does not usually stay the whole two weeks. He was here last July by himself, but went darting off to Brighton halfway through the visit. He is strangely restless.”

Clara bit back a howl of dismay. She had been in Brighton in June! Why could he not have gone in June? Her pen had proceeded to another name on the list, and this interesting subject was dropped.

It rose again a week later when Lady Allingcote, Lady Lucker’s sister Peg, sent in an acceptance to the wedding invitation. She was to come with Marguerite, her eldest daughter, to arrive on the twenty-sixth of December. A few exceptions to the rule of a three-day visit were tolerated within the close family. A sister would be a useful creature to have around the house to share last-minute wedding preparations.

The two ladies were once again in the library, working on a list. On this occasion they were endeavoring to juggle a list of rooms and expected guests, the latter far exceeding the former. “I didn’t realize Oglethorpe had so blasted many relatives,” Lady Lucker said. Clara, being one of those relatives, said nothing. “I am glad Peg is not bringing all her brood with her,” Lady Lucker continued. “Children are an infernal nuisance.”

“Just the two Allingcotes then, your sister and Marguerite?” Clara asked. The name Ben had not crossed her lips since its first mention a week before, but it had often been in her mind. “They could share a room, could they not?”

“I always give Peg the green suite. Maggie will take the dressing room, but I have no positive word on Ben. He was off visiting again. Peg forwarded his card somewhere or other. If he does not get it, she says he will be home for Christmas, and she will give him the message. She thinks he will come. He has had an invitation from Scotland, and is eager for an excuse to decline it.”

Clara kept her head lowered, for she had a strong notion that her eyes were sparkling with pleasure.

“See what she says: ‘Ben is looking for an excuse to evade the Scottish squab.’ That is Lady Gwen, poor thing. And she’s pigeon-chested, too. Really a regular little squab. But rich, of course. Very well to grass. So if Ben comes, that will take up the gold suite, and where do we put Oglethorpe’s Uncle Maximilian?”

“Put him well away from the ladies, ma’am. Uncle Max is a pincher,” Clara warned her.

“Is he indeed! And he a magistrate. If he is that sort of reprobate, I shall make him share a suite. He can share with Ben, and the two of them can help each other find out all the pretty girls. Much luck they’ll have. As I glance over this list, it strikes me there isn’t a single beauty coming.
You
may well find yourself the belle of the ball, Clara.”

“If that is a compliment, ma’am, I thank you,” Clara said, laughing.

“There is nothing amiss with your looks, Clara. So Max the pincher goes in with Ben. Ben must take the dressing room and sleep on a truckle bed. He will cut up stiff over that. He is a great cutup, but very fond of Prissie. I wonder what he will give her. Peg says she will wait till they get here to buy a present after she sees what Prissie wants. I wonder if we may expect two gifts, or if they’ll go snacks. Two, I shouldn’t doubt. They are both awfully fond of Prissie.”

The talk turned to other guests, and no definite word was received of Allingcote’s coming. Clara was fully occupied during the ensuing days, overseeing the arrangement of cots and beds for the guests, getting mats ironed to cover scratched dresser tops in seldom-used rooms, and seeing to the airing of the beds.

Through all this busy time, Prissie was treated like a duchess. She sat in state in the gold saloon, serving tea to callers, shopping endlessly, and thumbing through fashion magazines and home-furnishing catalogs.

She never stirred a finger to help her mama and Clara prepare her party. She sighed wearily to be put to the bother of delivering an opinion on anything. Clara had to wonder at this blind spot in Lady Lucker’s makeup. She would squeeze some use out of any chance caller. Every resident within miles had some little function to fill, but Prissie just sat there, the cause of all the furor, looking pained at having to say “please” or “thank you,” and often neglecting even that.

The days left little time to think of Lord Allingcote, but Clara thought of him at night in her bed—a different bed now in a different room. Her former suite had been turned over to Oglethorpe’s parents. She wondered if Allingcote would come. It would be placing too much significance on a brief flirtation to say that Allingcote had been in love with her. Yes, really it would be presumptuous to think anything of the sort. He had seemed to like her—had more than once sought out her company in a rather marked way at the Bellinghams’.

There, at a large house party including several attractive heiresses, the most eligible, most handsome, most absolutely desirable gentleman at the whole party had selected her as a special friend for all of three days. He had walked, talked, danced, and flirted with her. And then before the production of
The Tempest
had been staged, he had left very abruptly. His father had taken ill, she heard, and died a month later. She had not seen Allingcote since.

The memory of his well-shaped, dark head was sharply etched in her mind. She could remember it as seen from any angle. She knew to a degree at what slant his eyebrows rose up from his smoky gray eyes, knew precisely the lineaments of his nose, strong jaw, and chin. She recalled how he walked with a careless lounge and inclined his head toward anyone  to whom he was speaking, because he was taller than most.

She knew too that if he came, she would be hard-pressed to keep up any show of disinterest. With not a real beauty at the party, it seemed possible he might again favor her for his flirt. She knew she was a ninny to feel such pleasure at the possibility. He had been dashing around the countryside making up to every girl he met. Traveling all the way to Scotland to see the Scottish squab, whom he had no intention of marrying. And there was his local flirt, whoever she might be.

But there was no point worrying; by the twenty-fourth of December, it was still not clear whether he was coming at all. On Christmas Eve day, a card arrived saying he would stop in on the twenty-sixth, with Miss Muldoon.

That he was bringing an uninvited guest put Lady Lucker sadly out of frame. “Who the devil is Miss Muldoon?” she demanded. She sat with Prissie and Clara, trying to discover from Prissie whether she could tolerate having a new mauve mohair shawl packed in her trunk. The Highlands, where the honeymoon was to take place, would be cold, especially in winter.

“She’s that girl he’s been running around with for two years,” Prissie said.

Miss Priscilla was elegant but she was not amiable. Her smooth blond curls, her pale blue eyes, and her clear complexion were all marred by the sullen expression she wore. Her lips thinned and her nose drew down, ruining what might otherwise have been a passably pretty face.

“The one Aunt Peggie hates so much, and they think Ben’s going to marry. You remember I told you, Mama, she was with me at Miss Simpson’s Seminary.”

“Ah, I knew I had heard the name before. So that’s who she is. Peg usually calls her Nel; it was the Muldoon that threw me off. Old Anglin’s ward—a niece, I believe. He was visiting Braemore recently. It seems it has come to a match, if Ben is bringing her here. A fine time he has chosen for it! Why could he not have married her at least, so they would only take up one room?”

Clara remembered hearing the girl spoken of as a beauty, and her hopes of being the belle of the party and enjoying a flirtation with Allingcote withered to dust. Determined to know the worst, she said to Prissie, “What does she look like?”

“Blond hair like spun silk and big blue eyes,” Prissie said sullenly.

“Why, she sounds like you!” Lady Lucker exclaimed, smiling fondly at her daughter. Clara began reconsidering. If Nel Muldoon proved to be no prettier than Prissie...

“She is a horrid flirt,” Prissie said, offended.

“Just what Benjie would like,” Lady Lucker decided. “He always favored blondes, like you, Prissie. Poor Gwendolyn has that ugly brindled hair. They call her a redhead, but it is brindled like a cat. Well, Peggie may not like Nel Muldoon, but the girl is well dowered and pretty. What else can she want?”