Danse de la Folie (3 page)

“Might we share that rug more evenly?” Clarissa asked her
aunt. “Becky here is quite chilled.”

“And leave me to die of the cold?” Aunt Sophia pulled the closer
to her chin.

Clarissa stretched out the second rug between the rest of
them, each taking a corner. She suppressed the desire to take more than her
share when icy water trickled inside her sleeve, and dripped from her hair down
the back of her neck.

Clarissa said, “Rosina? Becky? Are you injured?”

Even in her distress, Aunt Sophia made a soft noise of
disgust. She had stated so many times that it was inappropriate to use
Christian names with maids, that they would take advantage, and that it would
give them airs above their station. But Clarissa had known both all her life,
and refused to change now.

Rosina said, “We did not come away with the vinaigrette, but
I did find your trinket box.” There was a wet slap as she struck her bosom.

Clarissa smiled in the darkness. “Thank you, Rosina. Such
loyalty can only be repaid in kind. You may take your pick of anything in that
box, when next we are in comfort.”

Rosina’s shivering words of thanks were cut short by a sniff
of disgust from Mrs. Latchmore, who pulled the rug over her head. Silence
settled over the coach’s occupants, each of whom was endeavoring unsuccessfully
to stay warm.

The horses were splashing along at a good pace in spite of
the wind, when they slowed, then stopped, the coach rocking. Clarissa leaned
forward, listening to men’s voices shouting. She could not hear the words; the
door was violently pulled open, and the boy named Kit stood, clutching his
lantern with one hand, the other raised to his mouth. His eyes were round with
terror.

“What —” began Clarissa.

“’Tis the horrid Riding Officer,” Kit said, his voice high
and very near tears.

“Riding Officer?” Clarissa repeated, wondering if she ought
to revise her estimation of Kit’s age lower.

Kit glanced over a hunched shoulder, his under lip caught
between small white teeth then he turned large, sooty-lashed eyes Clarissa’s
way.

“It — he knows me,” he whispered, tears barely held in
check, and with a sense of shock, Clarissa saw past the old coat and the breeches:
Kit was a female.

A female dressed in male attire? Clarissa had never heard of
such a thing, outside of the sort of plays of a hundred years previous that her
governess would not permit her to read. Riding Officers, females dressed as... were
they fallen in amongst thieves? Riding Officers were employed to investigate
practitioners of the smuggling trade, or worse.

A single glance at Kit’s terrified face, and Clarissa
instinctively felt that she could dismiss the ‘worse.’

Just as Clarissa had no notion of herself as heroine, she
had no idea that she had just met her fellow heroine. The dance had not begun;
the prelude still played. For my just-met heroines, the dark, wintry night was
fraught with new dangers.

The instincts of a kind heart prompted Clarissa. She
stretched out a hand, and grasped Kit’s wet sleeve. “You must come in with us.
Put off that hat,” she whispered, glancing at her aunt, who still had the rug
pulled rug about her head.

“Where should I…” Kit looked about wildly.

“Sit upon it.”

Kit did as told, while Clarissa tore at the clasp of her
sodden, woefully inadequate cloak.

She flung the cloak around Kit. “Tug it close,” she
whispered, and motioned for Becky to take Bardle’s place on the bench opposite.
Kit sank into Becky’s place next to Rosina, casting Clarissa a grateful look
before Clarissa snatched the lantern and blew out the light. She set the
lantern at her feet, and pulled a fold of Rosina’s cloak across her lap and over
the lantern.

No one spoke. Not many minutes later, tramping feet
approached, and the carriage door was opened again. A big lantern was held up,
casting its light over the occupants of the carriage. A weathered man glanced
inside, his eyes narrowing when he recognized Kit.

“Ho, Lady Catherine,” he exclaimed.

Clarissa did not like his tone. “And who might you be?”

“My name is Talkerton, and I am on Official King’s Business.
And who might you be, Miss?”

“I am Miss Harlowe, daughter of Viscount Chadwick. My aunt,
Mrs. Latchmore, as you see, is quite ill. Our yacht foundered. These people
were kind enough to rescue us.”

“That’s what
he
says,
or much the same, and there ain’t nobbut in t’other rattler, neither.”

Aunt Sophia moaned loudly again, and her head emerged from
the rug. Talkerton gazed at her, and when she moaned in rising shrillness that
he should help her, save her, that she was about to expire from cold, he shut
the coach door rather hastily. Soon the carriage began to roll.

The women sat for a long time in silence. Presently there
was the sound of wet cloth moving, and a cold hand reached across Rosina, found
Clarissa’s equally cold and sodden gloved one, and squeezed it. “Thank you,”
Kit whispered.

Clarissa said nothing, but sat back tiredly to think over
the startling events of a night that seemed destined to go on forever.

The ride was long. Clarissa’s headache returned, and she
could not contain the chills shuddering through her body.

The carriage rolled directly to a huge door in an impressive
old-fashioned columned façade. The house was lit welcomingly, and as soon as
the ladies were assisted out of the carriage, they were bustled indoors and
straight to the state apartments which, they were informed, were “all they had
for visitors,” by a fat, pleasant faced housekeeper.

Clarissa scarcely noticed the others being escorted in
different directions by unfamiliar figures. The throbbing in her head had
increased. She was vaguely aware of a grand hall very much in the old style,
and beyond that an antechamber with a fine vaulted, carved ceiling. She was
escorted to a huge state bedchamber complete with thirty foot canopy above the
bed, and a railing around. On the other side of the room stood a massive marble
fireplace with a copper tub set up before it. A kitchen maid poured steaming
water into the tub.

The housekeeper led her beyond to a smaller
cabinet-bedchamber, with the fireplace also lit, and a more accessible bed.

“I am obliged to say, ma’am, that we are somewhat
shorthanded here, and I am to convey the marquess’s apologies.”

“I understand. Please see to my aunt, and I shall be fine
lying next to this fire,” Clarissa said, for she had been trained to respect
her elders, and she was also disinclined to move.

She gazed into the fire, finding it helped calm some of the
pounding in her head. She was vaguely aware of voices somewhere in the vast
room behind her, but did not turn; Kit, shivering in her wet shirt, waistcoat,
and breeches, grasped the housekeeper’s plump, warm wrist. “Mrs. Finn, see to the
young lady Miss Harlowe, as soon as you may. She took a nasty knock on the
head, and the old one is just vaporish. Perhaps...” She gave a breathless
laugh. “Perhaps you should give her brandy, and say it is cordial.”

Mrs. Finn glanced into the next room, where the older woman
was moaning and complaining while her sodden, shivering maid was busy chafing
her hands. “You let me handle her, Lady Kitty,” Mrs. Finn said. “Did my lord
get the cargo in?”

“ Yes. That is, I think so. He and Edward went back with Scott
and the men to make certain. Talkerton stopped us...”

“That I know, and you may be sure I am going to speak to
your brother, lord or no lord, about your taking part, dressed in that
heathenish way. No good can come of it, or him either, smuggling, I make no
mind what your Papa did in his day. And so I will tell him before he is much
older. Now get you into some dry clothes. I directed Alice to wait upon you.”

Kit fled upstairs.

Clarissa still gazed into the fire, mildly soothed by the
low voices of the two women. But rouse she must, for there was a rustle and a
step, and a very young housemaid bobbed a curtsy. “Miss, I am to help you, and
will have a hot bath directly. And Lady Kitty, that is, Lady Catherine, she
invites you to have a late supper and tea. Right here, if you wish.
And
Martha is bringing chocolate if you
are wishful for some.”

Clarissa must stir, and must find the words to thank this
girl. It took all her strength, but her reward within the hour was to be warm
and dry, wearing a borrowed gown, and swathed in a robe of softest wool.

“Are you feeling better?”

Clarissa recognized Kit, who was dressed more like a Lady
Catherine—or a Lady Kitty— should be, in an old-fashioned round gown. She
clutched around her shoulders a knitted shawl of wool. Her thick profusion of black
curls was tied back with a ribbon, framing a heart-shaped face of such loveliness
that Clarissa wondered how she ever could have mistaken her for a boy.

Kitty clasped her hands, her head tilted a little to one
side, reminding Clarissa of a kitten hopeful of milk. “Did you say your name is
Clarissa
Harlowe?”

“My mother, unfortunately, was very romantical,” Clarissa
admitted, blushing. “By rights, one of my sisters should have been named for Mr.
Richardson’s interesting heroine.”

Kitty said, “Mrs. Finn shall soon bring a supper on a tray,
so you need not stir from the fire. She believes we should eat before retiring,
as it will give us strength to resist whatever illnesses are lurking in the
night air.”

“Thank you,” Clarissa said with real gratitude.

“I also wished to thank you for speaking up for me as you
did before Mr. Talkerton. I am persuaded, that is, I know that this is not what
you are used to, and I wish to explain.”

Clarissa looked down at the fire. “My father has had converse
with the ‘Gentleman’ as I believe the free traders style themselves. As for...”
Her gaze flickered toward Kitty’s gown and then away.

Kitty hurried into speech. “I was dressed as I was to aid my
brother. I have only done so at night, when they are short-handed, for I would
not dare in the light of day. It has been my job to drive, but this time, I
needed to go aboard to tend the helm.”

Clarissa thought it ought not to be done at all, but forbore
commenting. Several years of Aunt Sophia’s remonstrations had engendered in her
a profound dislike of expatiations from the moral summit.

Kitty, encouraged by her silence, went on. “My second brother,
Ned, says that it is horrid luck that Carlisle inherited along with an exalted
title equally exalted debts. And I’m sure you must know his betrothed, that is
Carlisle’s, not Edward’s, for Ned is not betrothed, what I mean is, you must
know her in London. And so I wish to beg of you, that no word of my... Of me,
or, or any of us smuggling might reach her ears.” Kitty tipped her head again,
looking anxious.

Clarissa hastened to assure Kitty. The urge to laugh bubbled
inside her at the notion of introducing the topic of smuggling into any London
conversation. But she hid it, afraid to injure Kitty’s sensibilities. “To whom
is your brother betrothed, pray?” she asked.

“Miss Lucretia Bouldeston.” Kitty sat in the chair opposite
Clarissa, observing her face.

“I think we might once have been introduced,” Clarissa said
slowly. “But I was not aware of a betrothal.”

“Nothing has been inserted into the papers.” Kitty’s gaze
shifted around the room. “It is more in the nature of an Understanding.”

Mrs. Finn entered at that moment, leading a train of three
servants.

A massive table with lion claw legs and impressive inlay was
soon hidden by a damask tablecloth, and set with enough food for five men. Clarissa
forced herself to eat, and discovered soon that the effort repaid her with a
considerable lessening of her headache. That and Kitty’s consideration (for
after a reflective, wide-eyed gaze, she kept quiet) contributed to a
diminishment of illness.

o0o

Clarissa woke to the sound of Aunt Sophia’s complaining
voice. The side of her head ached abominably, and she did not want to get up.

But it was impossible to go back to sleep, so she opened her
eyes, and discovered herself lying in a high-ceilinged chamber, with two tall
windows in one wall. On another wall hung a tapestry, green with age, the
figures wearing long pointed shoes and caps. She noted the dull and mossy
curtains over the windows. The brocade must have been beautiful a century
earlier. In fact, everything in the room not made of marble or wood seemed sadly
aged and even shabby in the merciless light of a winter morning, however
splendid these things once had been.

With that light came memory, and she recollected the
occasion of her having heard the name St. Tarval.

It was the year previous, when the family sat at breakfast. “The
old marquess is dead, St. Tarval that is,” her father had said. “Quite run off
his legs. He was a blade, old Theo. Wild as the devil from a boy—sent down from
Eton, packed off to Europe, fought duels all across the continent, returned and
who does his eye fix on, but Carlisle’s black-haired daughter. She was the
toast that year, wouldn’t powder. She nearly started a fashion, but he ran off
with her in the teeth of the Duke of Firth, who was the favorite in the
betting.”

Her father had laughed and wiped his eyes as Clarissa’s
sisters gasped and begged for more details. For them, an abduction was romantical...
if the abductor had the courtesy to be handsome. “Old Carlisle
and
the duke chased ’em, you know. Never
caught up till but knot had been tied two days. No turning back then. What a
husband Theo must have made! But she was as wild as he was. Had the infernal
impudence to name the oldest child Carlisle, after her father, who’d disowned
her. They retired to his place in Kent, you know, and would be there now, for
all we know, if she hadn’t got herself thrown from a horse and broke her neck.
He went to the devil then, so I heard, bringing home his—”