A Rogue's Downfall, page 17
Most of them could not be blamed for not knowing that he had spent his nights with Mrs. Delaney at the start and was now spending them with Lady Myron and was also exchanging interested and assessing glances with Mrs. Hunter and had tumbled Flossie on at least one occasion.
Why should they know or suspect when a very obvious courtship was developing before their eyes and when Mrs. Peabody and Nancy were so very openly in expectation of an event to be celebrated before they sent their guests on their way?
Patricia was usually excluded from the social events that took place beyond the confines of the house. But she was informed that she was to accompany Mrs. Peabody on the picnic out to the hill one afternoon. She could make herself useful for a change, she was told, instead of being idle and indolent. She was going to have to revise her lazy ways after the guests had gone home. There was going to be dear Nancy’s wedding to prepare for, after all. And perhaps she did not realize that her keep was costing Mr. Peabody a pretty penny. It was time she did something to earn it.
And so Patricia found herself on a warm and only slightly breezy summer afternoon seated in the open barouche beside Mrs. Peabody, Nancy and Nancy’s young friend, Susan Ware, opposite them, Mr. Bancroft, riding like the other gentlemen, close to the other side of the conveyance, heaping gallantries on the ladies—on the three ladies, that was. Patricia was merely the shadow of one of them.
That morning at the lily pond had had results. Talking about her past and putting into words her dreams—as she had done to no one before, or not since Patrick’s departure for Spain, anyway—had set her to thinking. And realizing what an abject creature she had become. What a victim. Could she really be quite this helpless? Was it possible that her aunt really owned her for the rest of her life, just as if she were a slave? Was it so impossible to try to shape a life of her own?
The new parson at home, the one who had taken over from Papa, had been a friend of his. Patricia had met him once or twice before her father’s death. She had heard since in the letters she sometimes received from the Misses Jones that he did not like teaching at the village school, that he considered it to be outside the limits of his responsibilities. He did it only because there was no alternative.
What if she presented him with an alternative? Patricia had been thinking it over during the past week. What if she offered to teach at the school? She did not know how she would be paid and she did not know where she would live, unless it was in that rundown cottage that no one had wanted to live in for the past ten years or so because the former owner had hanged himself inside and his ghost was said to linger there. But what if something could be worked out?
She had written to the parson, and she was waiting hopefully and anxiously for an answer. If only ... Oh, if only something could be worked out. She would not need a fortune, only enough with which to clothe herself and feed herself and keep herself warm.
“Girl!” She could tell from Mrs. Peabody’s sharp tone that it was not the first time she had spoken. “My parasol.”
Mrs. Peabody’s parasol was at her side, at the side farthest from her niece. Patricia had to lean across her to reach it. She handed it to her aunt.
“And it is to shade my complexion as it is?” Mrs. Peabody said. “Lazy girl.”
Patricia raised the parasol and handed it to her aunt.
“Really, Patricia,” Nancy said, “you can be remarkably dense. Oh, Susan, do look at the darling bonnet Lady Myron is wearing. I am positively green with envy.”
“My dear Miss Peabody,” Mr. Bancroft said, leaning down from his horse’s back and setting one hand on the door of the barouche, “the bonnet would be wasted on you. The beholder would look into your face and not notice the beauty of the hat at all. You see, it is only now that I deliberately look that I realize how exquisitely lovely is the one you are wearing.”
“Oh, such things you say, Mr. Bancroft,” Mrs. Peabody said and laughed heartily.
Miss Peabody blushed and twirled her parasol and looked triumphantly about her to see who had heard the compliment.
Patricia would have held her nose if she could have done so without being observed. She did not look up at the gentleman, though she had the feeling sometimes that he indulged in such extravagant flattery partly for her amusement. She wondered if he would continue to say such things to Nancy once he was married to her.
Blankets had been spread on the grass at the foot of the hill. Mrs. Peabody had seated herself in the middle of one of them, Patricia slightly behind her, while most of the guests amused themselves in slightly more energetic ways until tea was served.
Most of them climbed the hill in order to gaze admiringly at the prospect Mrs. Peabody had promised them from the top, though she did not go up herself to display it to them. Mr. Bancroft led the way, Nancy on one arm, Susan on the other. A great deal of trilling laughter wafted down the hill after them. And then some of them strolled about the base of the hill while others walked the half mile to the east to look at the Greek folly that Mr. Peabody’s father had had built years ago in the form of a temple. Still others wandered to the west to lose themselves among the trees that hid from view the river winding its way down in the direction of the crescent-shaped lake.
Mr. Bancroft went with the last group, though Nancy, who had elected herself leader of the expedition to the folly, appeared somewhat chagrined. He walked with Lady Myron and two other couples.
Patricia sat on the blanket the whole while, opening and closing her aunt’s fan in concert with the passing clouds, fanning her aunt’s face when the sun shone for too long, arranging a shawl about her shoulders when a cloud took forever to pass over, carrying messages to the footmen who brought the food, first to wait awhile and then to hurry along instead of standing idle for all to see.
And then when the footmen were busy setting out the food, which had been prepared in such variety and such abundance that it surely would have fed the five thousand with more than a dozen baskets of crumbs to spare, Mrs. Peabody decided that the wine should have been served first. Everybody would be thirsty from the heat and their exertions.
“Go and help, girl,” she said impatiently to Patricia. “Make yourself useful. Go lift the wine basket from the wagon and take it over to Gregory. Instruct him to open the bottles immediately.”
Patricia went to make herself useful. But the wine must match the food in quantity, she thought as she tried to lift the heavy basket down from the wagon. It must weigh a ton. And it was an awkward size. She wormed her hands beneath its outer edges and slid it to the edge of the wagon.
“Here, I’ll take that,” a hearty voice said from behind her. “It is almost as big as you are, little lady, and probably twice as heavy.”
Patricia turned her head gratefully to see Mr. Ware, Susan’s father, hurrying toward her, smiling jovially.
“Thank you,” she said, standing back as his hands replaced hers beneath the basket. But the basket was teetering on the edge, and she withdrew her hands a moment too soon. Mr. Ware roared out a dismayed warning, Patricia’s hands flew to her mouth, and the basket came crashing to earth, bursting open and spilling its contents as it did so.
Perhaps one bottle alone would not have smashed since the wagon board was not particularly high off the ground and the ground itself was carpeted with grass. But bottles and glasses tumbled against each other and smashed with a glorious crashing and flying of glass and spilling of wine.
Everyone’s attention was drawn—it was such a magnificent disaster. Mr. Ware first swore and then apologized—but whether for his language or his clumsiness was not apparent—and then started to look sheepish. Patricia kept her hands pressed to her mouth for a few moments and then started to assure the gentleman that it was not his fault, that she had withdrawn her hands too soon.
And then Mrs. Peabody was there.
If it was really possible for anyone to turn purple in the face, Patricia thought, then her aunt had just done so, and her bosom seemed to have swelled to twice its normal buxom size. If Patricia’s own mind had been working coolly, she would have realized perhaps that her aunt for once in her life had forgotten her surroundings and her audience and the impression she was about to make on them. But it was not a cool moment.
“Imbecile!” Mrs. Peabody shrieked at her niece. “You clumsy oaf! Is this the gratitude I receive for opening my home to you when my brother left you without a farthing to your name, and for clothing you and feeding you and treating you like my own daughter?”
“Oh, I say, ma’am,” Mr. Ware said with an embarrassed cough, “I am afraid the fault was mine.”
Everyone else was still and silent, as if posing for a painted tableau. They had all returned from their various walks.
“I saw it all,” Mrs. Peabody said. “It is good of you to be so much the gentleman, sir, but you need not protect the lazy slut.”
“Aunt!” Patricia’s voice was hushed and shocked. There was a faint buzzing in her head.
“Silence!” Mrs. Peabody’s palm cracked across one of Patricia’s cheeks, and she turned away. “Now, what is to be done about this? Gregory, back to the house immediately for more wine.”
The lady seemed suddenly to remember who she was and where she was. She smiled graciously about her and set about soothing her guests and tempting them with all the edible delights spread out before them and assuring them that the wine would be brought and served in no time at all.
“Oh, I say,” Mr. Ware said ineffectually to Mrs. Peabody’s regal back. “Oh, I say.” He looked helplessly and apologetically at Patricia.
But Patricia was stunned, hardly even aware yet of the stinging of her cheek. She had been called a slut and she had had her face slapped—in public. Everyone had been watching and listening. Everyone!
She turned suddenly and began to run. She did not know where she was going or what she was going to do when she arrived there. She knew only that she had to get away, that she had to hide. Instinct took her in the direction of the trees. But even when she was among them, panic did not leave her. She turned north, away from the house, and ran recklessly among closely packed trees and hanging branches, heedless of slashing twigs and threatening roots. She could hear someone sobbing and did not even realize that it was herself.
And then she remembered the other folly, the little ruined tower down by the river, with the circular stone seat inside. She could collapse onto that. She could hide there for a while. For longer than a while. Forever. She could never go back to the house.
She had stopped running. She approached the folly from behind with quiet, weary steps and rounded the circular wall to the opening and the seat.
Mr. Bancroft was sitting on it, a lady with him. Patricia could not even see who she was until he raised his head, startled, from kissing her. Mrs. Hunter. Her dress was off her shoulder on the left side and down to her waist. He had his hand cupped about her naked breast.
Panic hit again. Patricia went fleeing away with a moan, crashing through trees once more until her breath gave out and a stitch in her side had her clutching it. Her cheek was hot and throbbing. She set her forehead against the trunk of a tree and closed her eyes. When the pain in her side had dulled, she wrapped her arms about the tree and sagged against it.
He was getting bored. Three weeks was too long a time to spend at one country home in company with the same twenty or so people. He would be thoroughly glad when the remaining week was at an end and he could get back to normal life.
And what was normal life? He would follow the fashionable crowd to Brighton for a month or two, he supposed. There was always plenty happening there, plenty of congenial male company and wild wagers with which to fill his days, plenty of bored and beddable females to add excitement to his nights.
And then where? A duty visit to his mother and his uncle? Yes, he supposed so. He loved his mother dearly. It was just that her reproachful glances and accusing silences made him uncomfortable at times. She always gave the impression that she was waiting patiently for the day when he would have finally sowed the last of his wild oats and that she was perhaps giving up hope that he would ever be finished with them.
And then where? Bath? London?
He was getting bored, he thought in some alarm. Bored not just with the present reality but with the general condition of his life.
He had been conducting a heated affair with Lady Myron for more than a week. She was everything he could possibly ask for. She had a body that could arouse him at a glance, and she made that body and all the sexual skills she had acquired over the years fully available for his pleasure all night and every night. She had an energy to match his own and was eager to learn new skills from him and to teach him those few he had never before encountered. She made no demands beyond the moment.
But he was bored. And puzzled. After a week he was tired of such a desirable lover? Why? He could not think of anything wrong with her beyond the fact that they had nothing in common except a zestful enjoyment of a good tumble between the sheets. Her conversation—on the few occasions when they talked—was all of horses and hounds and hunting. He had no particular interest in such country pursuits. But that could not matter, surely. A woman’s body and her sexual prowess were all that mattered—and Lady Myron passed muster on both counts.
But he found himself eyeing Mrs. Hunter appreciatively during the days and wondering how she compensated herself for the fact that Mr. Hunter, not present at the Holly House gathering, was a septuagenarian, and by all accounts a frail one at that. He began to suspect that somehow she did it and that she would be only too willing to do so with him before the party broke up.
And so she maneuvered it and he maneuvered it that they spend some time alone together on the afternoon of the picnic, both Lady Myron and Mr. Crawford, Mrs. Hunter’s escort, having been shed somewhere along the way. And they discovered the convenience of the little folly by the river and sat inside it by mutual but unspoken consent.
The lady did not waste time on conversation or other preliminaries, he was delighted to find. She turned her face to his and kissed him. And when he had fully accepted the invitation and got his arms about her, she reached up a hand and drew down her dress to expose one breast many minutes before he would have got around to doing it for himself.
He was, he realized with pleased certainty, about to feast upon the full delights of the woman in the middle of the afternoon on a hard stone bench. And he was being given the distinct impression that she was ravenous.
Interesting!
It was at that moment and just as he had got his hand on the woman’s breast and was listening to her throaty murmur of appreciation that he knew someone else was there. Lady Myron, he thought as he lifted his head, and he had a momentary vision of the two woman going for each other’s hair with clawed fingernails—or else both going for his hair.
But it was Patricia Mangan. She stood there only for a moment before she moaned and disappeared, but he had the instant impression of a torn dress and a bonnetless head with hair pulled loose from its confining pins, and of a wild, unhappy face, one side of it red and swollen.
“Good Lord!” he said, relinquishing his hold on Mrs. Hunter’s breast and jumping to his feet. He could hear the loud crashings of a panicked retreat.
“It is just that strange drab little creature who hangs about Mrs. Peabody,” Mrs. Hunter said crossly. “She must be playing truant. It would have served her right if she had seen more. She will not dare return. Come!”
When he turned his head to look down at her, she was smiling invitingly up at him from beneath lowered eyelids and pushing down the other side of her dress.
Strangely, he thought afterward, he did not hesitate, even though the feast was being laid out before his eyes and was ready for instant devouring.
“Something has happened to her,” he said. “I had better go and find her. Can you make your own way back to the picnic site?”
“What?” The lady sounded incredulous and looked magnificent bared to the waist.
“I shall see you back there,” he said and strode away. And another strange thing, he thought later, was that his mind did not linger on the abandoned feast for even a single moment.
He could think only of the fact that his little bird seemed to have broken a wing and that he had to find her. Fortunately, she was doing nothing to hide the sounds of her progress through the dense forest of trees.
Gray was a drab color, but it was a light gray and a light fabric. It was just as visible against the trunk of a tree as it had been up in the branches of the old oak tree at the lily pond. He paused for a moment, looking at her. And then he moved up behind her and set his hands lightly on her shoulders.
She did not react for a moment. She must have heard him coming, he decided. He had been a little afraid of startling her. And then she turned, her head down, and burrowed it against the folds of his neckcloth while her arms came about his waist and clung as if only by doing so could she save herself from falling.
“Little bird?” he murmured and was answered with a storm of weeping.
Weeping women had always embarrassed him. He never knew quite what to do with them. He closed his arms tightly about her, lowered his mouth into her hair, and murmured mindless nonsense to her. He might have been holding a child, he thought, except that she was not a child. She was warm, slender, soft woman.
“What happened?” he asked her when she had fallen silent at last.
“Nothing,” she said, her voice muffled against his chest.
“Ah,” he said. “My neckcloth has been ruined for nothing. My valet will be thrilled.”
“Give him my apologies,” she mumbled. Her teeth were chattering, he could hear.
He leaned back from her a little and lifted her chin with one hand, though she tried ineffectually to push it away. Her eyes and cheeks—and nose—were wet. Her face was red and blotched all over from crying and a uniform red on one side. Most of her hair was down and hanging in tangles about her face and over her shoulders. She looked wretchedly unpretty. And inexplicably and startlingly beautiful to his searching eyes.
