The Slightest Provocation

Chapter Twenty

It was settled, then; their forest trysts were over. It had been fun, Kit told himself, or even more than fun. His eyes softened here, perhaps at some memory, caught in his mind like a silvery fish in a net. But he had his duties to uphold-to nation, family, public order, and the man he’d been struggling to become.

And anyway, she’d be learning the truth soon enough. Too late for regrets or apologies-the crisis would be averted, everyone (including her and Morrice) would understand the danger the nation’s magistrates had faced down.

(And if he had any doubts about the rebellion-if he’d once wondered about those London Committees, or questioned the Home Office’s certainties-well, he didn’t any longer; he hadn’t the time or energy for it. One couldn’t know everything. The truth would unfold as it would.)

After which he’d return to London. His family didn’t need him anymore: yesterday Wat had taken a few unsteady steps with a cane in each hand. The dowager marchioness would be back when the spirit moved her. Even that rapscallion Gerry ought to be showing his face eventually.

A tedious Sunday, for according to the schedule he’d worked out, it was her turn to make an appearance at church. Too bad. There were those parish records he’d been wanting to have a look at. Tomorrow, then; he could ride over to church in the morning and satisfy his curiosity.

He’d go over the plans for drilling the militia with Colonel Halsey tomorrow night, at the Cauthorn assembly, after dancing a turn or two with Susanna.

“Do you suppose the girls have had a falling-out?” Jessica spoke in a whisper, though she and Mary were quite private in her sitting room.

Mary shrugged. “Perhaps they’re simply too busy primping and preparing for the assembly tomorrow night. Or they’ve confided everything they possibly can confide to one another and need a bit of a respite. I know I should, if I’d been chattering so incessantly.”

“I expect so,” Jessie said. “Well, I hope they enjoy the dancing. We’ll have just enough time to ask them about it and they’ll be off to spend a few days at the Halseys’. So good of Colonel Halsey’s daughter to think of them, and to invite Fred and Lord Ayres as well.”

“It’ll be nice to get some quiet,” Mary murmured rather absently.

“Well, you’ve had a lot of quiet already, I should think, walking about as you have in the forest.” Jessica’s eyes shone with unasked questions.

But Mary had armed herself for such a moment. “Miss Halsey seems a pleasant girl,” she observed. “Do you suppose she’s setting her cap for Fred?”

The tactic worked as well as it needed to. For Fred, in Jessie’s estimation, was in no position to tie himself down with any young lady until he got his degree, and if he imagined that he was, well, then he was in dire need of some maternal counsel; she’d be sure to speak to him before the lot of them set out tomorrow for Cauthorn.

Forgive me, Fred, Mary thought. And forgive me, Jessie, for keeping the truth from you. Not that it mattered very much, when so many things had come around to their natural conclusions.

“We have enough ham and game in the meat larder,” she said now. “I think it’s time to be planning for the pies and puddings, the syllabubs and trifles. Mrs. Ottinger has suggested a few variations. And I believe we may finally breathe easy about the plumbing.

“Oh, and by the way,” she added, “have you checked on the local young people we’ve engaged to help? I mean, are they working out as they should? No problems there, I trust.”

Jessica hadn’t been apprised of any.

Elizabeth’s reflection returned a sweetly wistful smile, floating as though out of darkness between the tall tapers on either side of her dressing room mirror. The little coronet of braids her maid had done up looked quite well, she thought, with the rest of her hair sweeping back over her shoulders. Better for when she went riding anyway.

And Lord Ayres really wasn’t so bad either. Rather gallant, and a bit melancholy looking, which was agreeable in its way. She hadn’t really noticed his good qualities before Fannie had pointed them out. Or perhaps she’d simply been a bit abashed to have a young gentleman flirting with her. It seemed one could get used to it, though, and (she scanned her silvery reflection thoughtfully) could it really be that she’d become as pretty as people seemed to think?

How strange that she hadn’t noticed the changes. Hadn’t noticed much of anything, it seemed to her, during these last months spent riding, escaping the house to chatter with the young marchioness, mourning her papa and feeling so furious at her mama-for such a long list of transgressions that sometimes Elizabeth wasn’t sure what she was actually so furious about.

But surely Fannie was wrong about Lord Ayres liking Aunt Mary.

And what was wrong with Fannie anyway, that she’d suddenly become so closemouthed?

Not, Elizabeth hastened to assure herself, that Lord Ayres could compare to Lord Christopher. Still, it was agreeable to be paid compliments. And perhaps tomorrow night at Cauthorn, well, it couldn’t hurt to have him gazing so steadfastly at her as he had at dinner; hadn’t Fannie explained that one gentleman’s attention tended to gather and concentrate a roomful of other gentlemen’s glances? Fannie’s example had been taken from optics or astronomy; Elizabeth had lost the thread of the argument, but the general idea was clear enough.

Just as long as she were asked to dance. Of course she wanted Lord Christopher to ask her, but in truth she was more worried that no one might. She thought she might die if that happened, though she also worried that she wasn’t as graceful a dancer as Fannie, whose mama (unlike Elizabeth’s) had been wise enough to employ the best teacher in London.

“Yes, Miss Kimball, I am aware that my bronze-hued sarcenet was intended for the Midsummer Night ball.” Fannie hadn’t meant to be so sharp with the poor old thing, but it was irksome to have one’s thoughts so consistently interrupted.

“Well, I hope,” she continued, “that I may be permitted occasionally to change my mind. We’ll save the lilac muslin for midsummer-no one here at Beechwood Knolls really cares what one looks like…”

She smiled and shrugged in an effort to share an ironic pleasantry with the tedious millstone of a chaperone her mama had tied around her neck.

“But I’m quite determined to wear the bronze gown tomorrow night.” It was by far the most expensive thing she owned, its brilliant color and simple cut making a vivid contrast to Elizabeth’s sweet but rather girlish and flouncy pale blue lawn.

But she must be fair to Miss Kimball-for whatever her deficiencies, she hadn’t really proven an encumbrance. The pathetic old thing must be horribly poor, to judge by all the pleasure she derived from the meals provided for her; Miss Kimball was so intent on simple comforts that Fannie guessed her life hadn’t included a lot of them.

I should be kinder, she resolved. Half-blind and rather deaf as she is, she’s absolutely the ideal chaperone, and I shan’t want to lose her. Thank heaven Mama had been so distracted by Phila and her awkward season so as not to pay closer attention to the old lady’s limitations. In a newly sweet voice, Fannie called out her thanks.

But Miss Kimball had already stumped off to relay the changed plans to Fannie’s maid, that the bronze gown must be aired and a tiny stain seen to, not to speak of getting up the matching ribbons and slippers and amber necklace, leaving Fannie free to turn her attention back to the great Capability Brown’s sketches for the landscape at Rowen.

What clever designs, she thought, and particularly the quaint arrangement of footpaths that lead in all sorts of unexpected directions. Fascinating, Fannie thought, the contrivances that go into improving an estate. What a splendid vocation, to be a landscape gardener.

Ignoring the lateness of the hour, she continued her perusal, all the while twisting a lock of her hair over her forehead in a pretty, absentminded way that might have led some people to believe she wasn’t extracting every possible atom of information from the pages spread out in front of her.

“Will he ever come?”

The servants’ rooms upstairs were particularly airless tonight, and Peggy had thrown off her coverlet in despair of getting to sleep at all. If only the rain would come and make things fresh again.

She had an extra candle. Perhaps she could pass the time by doing some sewing. It might make her sleepy; the cloak Lady Christopher had told her she could have would need to be shortened, though Peggy was grateful that it was cut so full in the front.

The only problem was that she’d forgotten to bring it upstairs with her. Still, Lady Christopher often stayed up to read or write in her journal. Peggy would be able to tell from the seam of light below the lady’s door. If she were still up, Peggy doubted her employer would mind the interruption. For even in the midst of her own complicated comings and goings these past days, Lady Christopher had been most unusually kind and understanding. Lighting a candle, wrapping a shawl around her shoulders, Peggy padded out the door of her room to the staircase.

Only a week to wait.

The stairs Peggy had taken were particularly squeaky ones. But Nick Merton, a flight up in the attic, had hardly taken any notice of the noise. Nor was he bothered by the stale, still air he and the other local temporary boys had to breathe, cooped up as they were at the very top of the house. The straw pallet he lay on was quite comfortable-newer and rather larger, if truth be told, than the one Nick shared with his youngest brother at home. In any case, Nick’s own thoughts were far too interesting to admit distraction from stray late-night household rumbles, creaks, and clatterings.

A week and a day, to be more precise.

Nice to have such a full belly. The food was good here too, besides being plentiful. He stretched out his long legs and arms and grinned in the darkness, imagining himself on a raft, buoyed on waves of the breathing (some quiet, some raspier) of the boys asleep on every side of him, floating out somewhere in the middle of the ocean he’d never seen.

A week and a day had a nice round sound to it-oratorical, almost a scriptural ring to it. Nick no longer read the Bible-there were so many other stirring things to read-but when he thought about something really important, he liked to put a ringing cadence to it. Like that excellent speech Mr. Oliver had delivered.

Good man, and there’d be others like him in London, who knew how to act, to call out large numbers of men in a noble cause. Nor was a week and a day really so long to wait-for the moment when everything would change. When the last should finally be first and Albion’s real rulers rise up to claim what was theirs, and when Nick’s dad wouldn’t have to sneak about like a criminal for having spoke his mind, and his mum might get a rest now and then from weaving and the hungry babies still at home.

Not a long wait at all, even if it seemed that way. Because sixteen-year-old Nicholas Merton felt he’d been waiting all his young life for the New World the London delegate had promised him.

My Dear Matthew,

It is with the deepest regret and not a little chagrin that I write to inform you of my changed intentions…

She’d made a fair copy from the original she’d written the night before. Same words, though-which was rather a wonder, given the difference in her state of mind today.

All or nothing; post or burn it. More prudent to burn it, forget whatever fancy had caused her to write it in the first place. Matthew would be a good husband; they’d have exactly the sort of serene, satisfying life she wanted.

Burn it instead of blotting and folding it, as she seemed to be doing, and now sealing and addressing it. She corked the ink bottle and stared up at nothing in particular from over the writing desk resting on the coverlet atop her bent knees. And then, as though searching within herself for anything left unsaid, she closed her eyes and leaned back for a moment against the pillows heaped behind her on the bed.

She opened them again. Nothing to add or emend. She’d post it tomorrow.

Would Matthew be surprised? In truth, he’d probably always suspected how hard it would be for her to break her connection with the husband she couldn’t agree with on anything. He’d probably be less surprised than angry, or perhaps disappointed that she’d known herself so little. No doubt upon reflection he’d decide himself pleased to be well out of it.

A pity. It had been such an agreeable notion to throw her lot in with a man who offered so many solutions to so many of her problems. It simply wasn’t the right notion-especially when you respected the man so heartily. Respected him enough to believe he deserved a wife who wanted him in her bed quite as wildly and passionately as Mary had recently rediscovered it was possible to want someone.

Would Kit be very angry that he wouldn’t be able to look for a new wife as soon as he’d hoped to? Ah, well, at thirty-two, a man’s time was still cheap. While for a woman of thirty-one? (For in retrospect she didn’t know whether to feel regretful or wildly amused at the horrified look on Lord Ayres’s face while she’d sniffled, wiped her eyes, and tried to keep from guffawing at his importunities.)

Still, she had a few more good years in her.

Sorry, Kit. You’ll simply have to wait a little longer to be free of me. Not that long. There’d be another lover sooner or later, an affair of her more typically pleasant, practical, well-managed sort.

She turned her head in the direction of her door. Now that she thought of it, the soft rapping had probably been going on for some time while her distracted mind rejected it as one might slap away a gnat. She called out her apologies and bade her visitor come in.

“It’s only me, your ladyship.” Peggy dipped into a brief curtsy. “Come to see if I might take the russet cloak you promised, for to… to turn up the hem, you know. Beg pardon for the lateness of the hour, but I can’t sleep, you see, ma’am.”

“Nor can I. Of course, when one is waiting… for a rainstorm, sometimes…”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Well, the cloak’s in the press. Of course you may take it.”

But instead, at the sound of the explosion outside, Peggy had thrown herself into Mary’s arms, the two of them huddled together for what had felt like a very long and noisy moment.

Thank heaven she’d corked the ink bottle.

Which of us screamed? Shamefaced, Mary rather suspected it had been herself.

Was that sudden loud popping and cracking noise a fusillade of pistols or muskets?

It wouldn’t be a cannon. No, of course they wouldn’t have a cannon. But what was that flash?

Her stomach clenched with the sudden suspicion that she’d been terribly wrong not to tell Kit about what Nick Merton had said about weapons.

The local revolutionists… she’d been a fool… and if anyone got hurt, it would be her fault…

“What did you say, Peggy?”

“I asked if you supposed it might be fireworks, Lady Christopher. It give me a start at first, but then I remembered what we seen in Rome-do you remember?-and the sound was very like.”

The girl had drawn herself away from Mary and was smoothing out the papers. “Here, my lady, lucky nothing you been writing got too wrinkled. But what’s odd is that there was just a few sounds here, and fireworks, you know, they go on forever-it’s the fun of ’em. Could such a thing be, ma’am?”

Of course it could. In clear fact, it was nothing else.

She’d been too abstracted to attend to Fred’s dinner-table chatter, but she could recall now that he’d wondered whether it would be worth doing fireworks on a night like this one. For they’d had so few clear nights lately… What if Midsummer Night were cloudy and overcast? “Well, then we’ll simply have to go without,” Elizabeth had answered, and the other young people had agreed with her. But Fred, always the optimist, had thought it might be worth a try, just to see what would happen…

For all Mary had been attending, he and Lord Ayres might well have agreed to try it tonight. It might be only she, among the household, who’d been taken by surprise.

Which was apt, she supposed, since it was only she, among the family and their guests, who knew about the danger of insurrection.

And only she who’d overheard Nick Merton. And who was, in truth, more concerned about the dangers Kit had warned her about than she’d liked to admit to herself until now.

“Lady Christopher?” Peggy’s timid voice seemed to be coming from a long way off. “Lady Christopher, are you quite all right?”

“I beg your pardon, Peggy. I’m fine. And yes, you’re absolutely correct. It’s fireworks. Mr. Fred Grandin and Lord Ayres performing a late-night experiment. I… I completely forgot about their project. You don’t suppose I woke the household, with my silly screaming?”

Peggy peeked outside the door to the hallway where the family had their bedchambers. No one seemed to have been disturbed, and Peggy hastened to assure her mistress that she hadn’t screamed so awfully loudly-more like a squeak, you know, or perhaps a yelp, as though she’d had a bad dream.

“Would you like a glass of water, my lady, or me to go down to the kitchen and make you some tea? Or, um, something else, to help you sleep?”

“Water, thanks. Don’t bother with the tea. And no…” She laughed, rather dryly at first and then with a bit of pleasure. “Just water; I won’t be dosing myself tonight. Because listen, Peggy, the wind’s blowing in the trees, and I think those are raindrops.”

The girl laughed too as she poured water into a glass. She handed it to Mary, straightened the coverlet and-at Mary’s nod-took away the writing desk, implements, and papers, putting them neatly in their places.

“Yes, well. The russet cloak is in the press-please take it. And take this letter, to post tomorrow, and those coins to pay for it. But perhaps you needn’t begin turning up the hem tonight.” Mary waved her hand at the windowpane, where fat raindrops were beginning to make their quick paths down the surface of the glass. “Perhaps you’ll be able to get a good sleep now, and even to have some happy dreams.

“Yes, leave the window open-I shall want air, even if it makes a bit of a puddle. Yes, thank you, I think I shall also sleep well.”

And with a clearer conscience, at least about Matthew. Even if happy dreams might be a bit too much to ask for.