Danse de la Folie (10 page)

Clarissa was thinking,
What
a handsome set of ancestors
. But she was curiously loath to say so. “The
Harlowes do have a few black sheep,” she said slowly, “but until recent
generations our picture gallery is a most unprepossessing display. In fact,”
she said with a glance at Edward’s expectant face, “my brother said once he has
never seen such a set of hum-drums and lobcocks in his life.”

At that they laughed, and as the room was icy cold, they
descended in search of refreshment.

Kitty ran off to speak to Mrs. Finn—and also to check on
Alice’s progress on the enchanting prospective wardrobe—and Edward dashed away on
some errand of his own, leaving St. Tarval to open the door to the drawing room
for Clarissa.

For the first time, they were alone together. He had not
meant for this to happen. He’d intended to be the first away, but his heedless
siblings had decamped, and good manners required him to stay. Besides, he knew
he ought to put some questions to Miss Harlowe.

Clarissa took a chair and occupied herself with stretching
her hands to the fire. It had been a very long time since she had felt so
self-conscious. It was unsettling, like being a girl of eighteen again.

She was attempting to scold her thoughts into order when he
spoke.

“Miss Harlowe, I hardly know how to begin, or really what to
say. But for my sister’s sake, I feel duty-bound to make the attempt. You have
been living in the first circles, I know, and I believe you are aware that my
sister has never been introduced into society outside the occasional parish
gathering. She has, in fact, only once gone into company outside our parish. It
was not successful for reasons I still do not precisely understand, for I was
not present.”

He walked toward the fire, standing a little apart, his
profile lit as he stared down into the flames. Clarissa waited, for he seemed
to be choosing his words. “My grandmother had her in charge, but she refused in
later years to come downstairs. We had just left off mourning after her death
when my father died.” He made a quick gesture, his fingers open, almost in
appeal. “I trust you will forgive me for boring on so about our affairs,” he
began.

It was that gesture more than the words which prompted
Clarissa to say, “If I may be permitted a guess, your brother and sister have
largely fallen to your charge. And while you may introduce a brother into parish
society, it is difficult to do so for a sister.”

His brows lifted. “That is it exactly. And so, I entreat
your understanding when I ask, will it really do, for Kitty to go with you to
London?”

“Do?”

“Yes. Clothes, fans, you know the things one must have.
Manners. Despite all her talk of writing novels, in spite of her reading —
perhaps because of it — she is not at all conversant with how to go on, and I
hardly know the right way of bringing her to it. In the last years, the reason
our grandmother kept Kit upstairs was because my father sometimes brought...”
St. Tarval turned away and shook his head. “I beg your pardon. Perhaps this is
not a topic for the drawing room.”

“If you will forgive me, I must disagree,” Clarissa said
earnestly. “Your sister has been nothing but kindness and generosity. I could
not begin to repay her, except in this small way.”

“But it is not small,” he returned gently. “Were a season in
London small, I should have contrived it somehow, four years ago, when Kitty
turned eighteen.”

He took a turn around the room. Clarissa could see that he
was disturbed; she sensed his inward struggle, but was helpless to identify the
cause. She only knew she wanted to help if she could.

He stopped by the fireplace and spoke while looking down
into the flames. “I had thought that under Lady Bouldeston’s eye, and for only
two weeks, I could feel confident that she might see something of the city, but
not make the sort of unhappy mistake that occurred on her single venture into
company unknown outside our parish. As for what she needs, circumstances are
such that I can only put the sum of fifty pounds into her hands. I do know that
that will not cover a portion of what she will need.”

Clarissa said, “We are already far along in solving that
difficulty, for all your mother’s fine things are well preserved. I believe we
shall contrive very well. And I will promise you this. If she is at all unhappy
I will see to it that she arrives safely at her home. It is the least I can do
in trade for the preservation of our lives.”

“So you have said,” he rejoined, “but we both know the
truth. If my cutter had not been there on illegal pursuits, you would be in
Holland now.”

“All the more reason for gratitude,” Clarissa retorted,
thinking of Aunt Sophia’s lachrymose hatred of travel. Then she blushed. “Ah,
pray overlook that, if you please.” She transferred her gaze to an ornamental
grouping of flirting shepherds and merry shepherdesses on the mantelpiece. “The
truth is, I am a selfish being. Your sister’s presence in town will be
diverting in what would otherwise be another sadly boring year.”

There was no answer to be made to that. He suspected her
claim of selfishness masked a kind heart, but he recognized that his wish to
believe the best of her was putting them both in danger. And so he must surrender
to the demands of good manners. “Thank you. You have relieved my mind greatly.”
He bowed, and left the room.

She watched the door close, aware of an almost overwhelming
desire to go after, to call out some new subject so that he might linger. She
scolded herself for that, waited until she knew he would be safely away, then
went upstairs to her bedchamber.

o0o

To spare the family the expense in firewood, Clarissa had
given a considerably surprised Rosina orders not to light her fire.

Waking up and dressing in a frigid room gave Clarissa a new
understanding of what Kitty’s life must be like. But understanding only goes so
far. She went down early to the little drawing room outside the breakfast
chamber to wait for the others. Rather than dwell on their imminent departure,
Clarissa let herself enjoy the absolute quiet of a country-house parlor on a
winter’s day. The room really was handsome, even if the furnishings had been
new around the time of the first George. Though the things were thus worn, they
were not neglected. Careful hands had done they could to preserve threadbare
cushions and carpets.

She entertained herself with imagining the room fitted up
with new hangings and new furnishings in an elegant classical style. She had
finished the room, and was busy replanting the garden outside the window when
the door opened, and St. Tarval entered.

She felt a momentary confusion, but his quiet and pleasant “Good
morning, Miss Harlowe,” set her at ease. He was dressed in riding clothes, his
worn boots shining from a good polishing, and his outdated blue coat setting
off his shoulders admirably.

She looked away quickly when
that
thought formed. “I am come with what I fear might be
disappointing news,” he said. “I have just met with Mr. Bede, who agrees that
it might be safer to delay your departure one day, as we cannot trust the main
roads.”

She was surprised by the bright leap of warmth—of
hope—inside her. “I quite understand.” And because she could not hide the
warmth in her cheeks, she picked up the book lying on the table next to her
chair, and opened it, noting with relief noted that he had several letters in
hand.

She pretended to read, though her eyes did not see the
printed text on the page. The marquess did not demand her attention, or intrude
upon her notice. He quietly read his letters.

And so, in spite of the previous evening’s conversation,
which had troubled her for half the night, this morning, it seemed, all they
needed was the thin light of winter—and the respectable intrusion of letters of
business—to establish a congenial atmosphere. Clarissa kept to her book (it was
a book of hymns), aware of every rustle of his papers, the shift of cloth as he
moved, and she felt curiously suspended in time.

She recognized the cause, for hers was a reflective nature.
It was so simple to pretend that this was her own parlor, and that wintry
garden outside was hers to order when spring’s thaw began. And this man sitting
so close by, with the substantial table between them, what would it be like to
have his company each day? And at day’s end, as the servants brought the bed
candles, to walk on his arm up the stairs to...

She must stop herself there. This gentleman was not hers to
imagine such things about. He seemed to have formed an understanding with
another, so delicacy forbade trespass even within the safety of her own mind.
That could not lead to any happy conclusion.

The maid brought in the tea, and because Kitty was not yet
downstairs, Clarissa bestirred herself. The tea must be poured, which in turn
required a little bustle, and a little talking, but that, too, was accomplished
with a minimum of words.

The marquess had only meant to see that their guest was well
occupied, since Kit was so late in coming down. But he found himself enjoying
the quiet fireside with Clarissa. Hers was such a calm presence, and as she was
safely absorbed in her reading, he could permit himself a glance or two—she
would be gone on the morrow—and observe the curve of her throat, the
unconscious grace with which she sat. The softness of her lips, as she gazed
fixedly at that old book of hymns. Did she really read such? No, her eyes did
not move across the page. What could she be thinking about? Or did she merely
wish to avoid speech with him?

For the first time he began to regret his situation. He had
never permitted himself the luxury of looking for love, not with nothing to
offer a lady but this barrack of a house, lands mortgaged to the hilt, and an
all-but-empty title. Lucretia was the daughter of a neighbor upon whose
goodwill the marquess depended; Sir Henry Bouldeston knew exactly what St.
Tarval was worth, for he held some of those notes of hand.

Lucretia had been pretty and persistent at sixteen—it had
seemed natural to kiss—and Sir Henry had only smiled, said, that youth would be
youth, but sixteen was too young to think of marriage immediately, and so
nothing had been said past Understanding.

Since then, St. Tarval had considered himself bound,
whenever Lucretia wished to speak. As the Bouldestons were not wealthy, his only
thought about the matter had been a modest expectation that she would bring as
dowry a forgiving of some of his father’s debt to the baronet.

But here was Miss Harlowe pouring tea, and there was the
quiet smile again, as she held out a cup and saucer. The marquess reached out
his hand, aware of a tremble in his fingers, and his heartbeat quick in his
ears. The room had never seemed so cozy, and he wished he would see her there tomorrow,
and the next day, too.

He took the saucer, and the brief contact of their fingers was
so sweet, so dangerous, he had to turn away, and sit at a distance where the
fire was not so warm. He forced his mind to the matters at hand. “If you will
forgive my vexatious return to the topic of my sister, Mrs. Finn has told me
the secret of the gowns. I will not trespass further upon your good nature
beyond my wish to thank you yet again.”

Clarissa blushed. “It is nothing. So easily done. Your
sister’s delight already dispels the fatigues of early spring in anticipation
of the move to London.”

“Kitty will never be able to effect a fashionable ennui, I
fear.”

Her hand flew up in protest. “Do I sound jaded? It is not
that. But... The need to be continually in the mode... The round of parties in
spaces too small for the company, frequently stuffy and overheated, and people
saying the same things endlessly repeated... The truth is, I prefer our life in
the country. I am a bit like my mother, in being an enemy to the hurly-burly of
city life.”

St. Tarval laughed. “Will I sound demented if I admit that
sometimes I agree, and other times I wish to revisit the foreign cities I only
caught a glimpse of, when I was an impecunious lieutenant?”

He was interrupted by the appearance of Clemens, who
announced that there was a message from the abbey that required an instant
answer. The marquess found himself annoyed with his butler, an unsettling
reaction that warned him he had already trespassed into dangerous territory.

So he set down his untouched tea and excused himself.

Clarissa watched him go, aware of a sharp sense of
disappointment. They had finally got themselves past the tedium of polite gratitude
and were embarking on a real conversation, so rare in her life! Then he was
gone.

It was better that way—she must depart. She welcomed the
opportunity to be left alone, for she had to restore order to spirits.

Kitty entered the salon at last.

After hearing out the messenger, the marquess had waited
beyond until his sister finally appeared. He followed her in order to say to
them both, “I am the bearer of an invitation. It seems the main road is
entirely snowed under, but the Bouldestons are having River Road cleared at
this moment. You and Miss Harlowe are invited to spend the afternoon with the
ladies.”

Kitty had been looking forward to another day of conversation
about her novel, clothes, and London. Her expression changed from happiness to
dismay.

The marquess looked uncomfortable. “Kit, you know I’m not
cognizant of the ins and outs of female niceties, but it seems to me that after
having turned down their generous offer, it might seem rude give them the go-by
today. Especially as they must have old Tom Garrow and half their men out in
the road now, clearing it.”

“Yes, I agree,” Kitty said quickly. “It is very kind and
generous in them.”

The marquess’s expression eased. “Young Tom is in the
kitchen now, drinking some hot coffee. I’ll give him the message.” He vanished.