The Parson's Pleasure Page 15

  Claire dressed her hair with dainty red roses, the colour standing out dramatically against her black curls. She chose a locket of mosaic in favour of gold and pulled on a pair of long white kid gloves. Finally she put on her navy blue silk taffeta mantle with the wide collar, fastened with only a ribbon tie at the waist. Its wool interlining was concealed by a lining of navy blue silk, and its edges were trimmed with navy blue velvet.

  Surveying herself in the mirror, she could find fault only with her colouring, which was unusually wan, so she pinched her cheeks until tears sprang to her eyes. It took all her strength to halt them, for they were caused by something far more painful than pinches to the skin.

  * * * *

  Nearby, in the Willoughby household, Lydia had got to that stage of dress which found her face down on the floor, her mother's foot placed firmly on her back to get the proper purchase on the laces of her corset. It was a precaution that Sophia would never have foregone, and Lydia was unaware that not every young lady had to suffer the same. When at last she was thoroughly laced, tucked, and padded, her mother dressed her hair high upon her head, leaving long curls at the temples and shorter ones at the forehead.

  Lydia dressed with much more excitement than Claire. Not only were such amusements as the upcoming ball rarer in her restricted life, but she had reason to feel that something wonderful was about to happen. Lord Babcock had taken on the persona of a demigod for her. He had been so kind to her, so protective and respectful, all of the things an ideal gentleman should be. She knew that he was intended for Claire, but the prospect of having just one dance with him was so exciting that she could hardly wait for the ball to begin. And he had hinted quite broadly that he would ask her to dance.

  Sophia carefully raised the ball gown over Lydia's head, the gown for which she had saved all her extra housekeeping money for a year. She saw the delight in her daughter's face and answered it with a loving smile, but she was anxious nonetheless. She could not bear to have her daughter hurt, and, regarding marriage as a worldly matter rather than a decision of the heart, she saw little hope for her Lydia. Under normal circumstances, she would not have been able to refrain from a lecture on prudence and modesty, but she could not bear to erase the happy anticipation in Lydia's expression and so said nothing.

  Sophia draped her own gold bracelets around her daughter's wrists and clasped a locket around her neck. Then she stepped back to observe the overall effect. Lydia's gown was of gold-coloured satin with bronze lace at the bosom and small bronze puffs for sleeves. The gold tones complemented Lydia's colouring perfectly, and a two-inch belt attracted the eye to her nipped-in waist. Over the dress, she was to wear a Spanish brown silk taffeta mantle, edged in black velvet pile and lined with matching brown glazed cotton.

  Rarely at a loss for words, Sophia was speechless with pride. She wrapped Lydia's mantle gently about her shoulders and held her daughter's cheek briefly against her own. They then smiled at each other and went to await the Olivers’ carriage, which was to take them to the ball.

  When their party arrived at Sitchville Park, it was to find the great hall transformed into a lavish ballroom. An orchestra was set up on the dais where the table had stood before, chairs were placed around the room's perimeter, and the rest of the vast space was reserved for the dancers. The Olivers and the Willoughbys were greeted by Lady Sitchville, who once again had taken a position near the door to the vestibule.

  Theresa Sitchville was entertaining some of her guests with the latest bit of news from London, and Lady Sally stopped with Claire to listen. Claire vaguely remembered hearing a shot from the mail coach that afternoon, but she had been too preoccupied to give it much thought. Apparently the news had been exciting.

  “It was about the Duchess of Kent's new baby—I believe I already told you that it was a girl,” she repeated for the Oliver ladies. “Well, it seems that the Regent attended her christening, much to Kent's dismay. And of course, then he had to be asked for a name. Kent, you know—quite callously I think—suggested the name Charlotte, which angered the prince dreadfully. Then, apparently he took so long to think of a name for her that everyone became quite embarrassed—the archbishop was left holding the child for the longest time, and the duchess was ready to dissolve in tears! So the Regent finally said, ‘Let her be called for her mother.’ Just like that. And so they named the baby Victoria. Isn't that diverting?"

  “A most amusing story, Theresa,” said Lady Sally, “and so like the Regent.” They passed on into the hall before she commented to Claire, “Isn't it just like Prinny to ruin a child's christening! He must have been struggling to find a name that was not very regal, just to punish Kent. Well, it's still a lovely name and I don't suppose it much matters."

  Claire had been looking around the room, hoping to see the rector, but he was not in evidence. She noticed Babcock in a distant corner speaking to some of his guests and was relieved at least to have some peace before she should be obliged to converse with him. It was not until the music began that Lord Babcock crossed to Claire and claimed her for the opening dance, as was his custom.

  At all the previous balls and assemblies that they had both attended, Babcock had taken care to reserve specific dances with Claire in advance—always the first dance of the evening and the first waltz. This had become so expected that other young gentlemen had stopped asking Claire for those dances. This time, however, Babcock had not spoken to her in advance, and, taken up with her own thoughts, Claire had not noted the omission until the moment he took her hand to lead her to the floor.

  How like him, she thought, annoyed, to assume that the dance would not be spoken for. But she was too troubled, too down at heart, to dwell on Babcock's lack of courtesy.

  Her dance with him was soon over, and Claire was relieved that he did not remain at her side, but left to play host to other guests. She was quickly engaged for the second and third dances and tried to be cheerful for the sake of her partners, all gentlemen she had known for some years. It was during the third of these dances that Christopher Bennett entered the room.

  His eyes found her as quickly and as surely as a magnet finds metal. They looked at each other directly for only a moment before the dance led her away, but Claire was certain that he had been searching for her when he entered. By the time she came round again, he was making his way towards a group of acquaintances.

  She noticed again how he appeared to advantage in knee breeches, with his finely muscled calves. His tailcoat and waistcoat were single-breasted and dark, his breeches, silk stockings, shirt and cravat a contrasting white. Claire, peeping surreptitiously at him from time to time, could not help but admire his powerful yet graceful carriage.

  Christopher Bennett, too, had considered not coming to the ball, despite the displeasure his absence would incur. He had no other purpose in attending than to see Claire, but he wondered immediately if his coming had been wise. She was so lovely in her gown that the sight of her tore at his heart. It was a deliberate punishment he had dealt himself, he admitted, a delicious kind of torture to see her but not to have her. He engaged a young lady for the following dance, but planned to leave the ball as soon as decency permitted.

  The fifth dance played was the first waltz and Claire waited without caring or thinking for Lord Babcock to approach her. They were usually the first couple on the floor, because Babcock had always made his approach to her with such ceremony that others would step aside to watch. Automatically, the crowd waited for him to begin the dance.

  Babcock, however, had been waiting for this moment. Without caring of the consequences to Claire, he had planned what he considered a crucial move to show publicly that his affections had transferred from her to Miss Willoughby. With his heart on his sleeve and in anticipation of a magical moment, he walked more humbly than was his wont over to Lydia and bowed. She blushed with happiness and surprise, and curtsied before accepting his hand. Then he led her proudly onto the floor.

  It would be an exaggeration to
say that a gasp went round the room, but it was noticed almost immediately that Claire had been left standing at the side of the hall. The ladies began to whisper in shocked tones and it was only a matter of moments before Mr. Bennett understood what had transpired. He gritted his teeth angrily. He did not know why Claire had committed herself to Babcock, but he was not going to let that insufferable fool humiliate her in public.

  Claire, who had barely registered that Babcock had left her in an awkward position, was just beginning to realize that people were staring at her and whispering. Her sorrow was such that Lord Babcock's display mattered little to her, although she was beginning to wish that the others would not stare. Then, Mr. Bennett appeared at her side.

  “I believe that you promised me this dance, Miss Oliver,” he said as he smiled and bowed.

  Claire was thrilled by the gallantry of his action. She blushed with lowered eyes, but then forced herself to look up at him, and all of her feelings for him were visible in her answering smile. The beauty of her lovely expression caused a wrenching tug at his heart, but he kept his face impassive as he took her hand. Claire in her turn managed to fight back the sudden tears that sprang to her eyes.

  They waltzed as neither of them had ever waltzed before. Claire was accustomed to the impersonal feel of a man's stiff hand upon her back, but the rector's hand was not stiff. It was warm and strong, like an embrace around her waist. She had never been this physically close to him, and she felt for the first time the desire to melt into a man's arms. She felt a warm pulse start inside her. Her heart beat rapidly and disturbingly. She had to focus on the pearl pin in his cravat to avoid losing her attention to the steps of the dance.

  For his part, Christopher Bennett was sadly savouring every moment of the dance. Though she would not look up at him, he kept his eyes on the top of her hair to take with him the memory of her black locks entwined with red roses. When he allowed his gaze to drop to her gleaming white shoulders, he wanted nothing more than to cover them with kisses. The longing was almost more than he could bear and it made him clasp her waist more tightly. She felt him pull her towards him and she gasped and looked up.

  For that split second, their eyes met, and they exchanged unguarded looks. For both of them it was a gripping moment, their passion for each other revealed. Claire hastily looked away the instant the dance ended. Her eyes fixed on Christopher's proffered arm, she placed her fingers upon it and walked back with him to the edge of the floor. Hesitating for only a second, he bowed and walked away. Only then did she dare to look up again.

  Her gaze followed him to the other end of the hall. His figure dominated the room. She could still imagine his arm around her and feel its strength, and she tried to stay in this dream state so that the memory would not fade. But her next partner came up, intruding on her reverie and forcing her to give half her mind to the present.

  Claire longed to go home, so that she would have time alone to think about Christopher, what he had just done to spare her embarrassment, the look he had given her. Her heart leaped as she recalled it. It was a memory she wished to cherish throughout the coming months and years. But she could not leave yet, and the evening stretched long before her.

  Christopher felt no such social obligation. He had done the one thing he had come to do and now saw no reason to stay. The waltz with Claire had had an unsettling effect on him, which he was at pains to conceal. He had held her in his arms, and losing her now was going to be even harder to bear. The look they had exchanged had proven that her feelings were as intense as his own, and it had only made him want her more. But it could not change the circumstances.

  As the rector approached the rear of the hall, he saw Robert Willoughby slip out the glass doors, unnoticed by the other guests. It gave him the idea of taking a turn in the garden to collect himself before calling for his horse, and so he followed. But when he got outside, planning to avoid Robert, he saw that the other man was rapidly walking towards the stables, peering guiltily over his shoulder.

  Normally Christopher would not have thought it his business to follow him, but he had not liked Tucker the one time he had seen him, and he was concerned about the influence the trainer obviously had on Robert. He also felt the need for something to take his mind off his problems. He realized that Robert had not seen him exit the hall because of the shadows cast by the enormous turrets, so he waited for a few moments until Robert was out of sight, then walked slowly down to the stables.

  By the time he arrived and entered the building, it seemed Robert was concluding his discussion with Tucker and was almost ready to return to the ball. But the conversation the rector overheard immediately upon entering was such that he decided to conceal his presence and try to learn more.

  Robert Willoughby was handing a small bundle over to Tucker.

  “All right, here it is, man,” he was saying testily. “I told you I would get it to you by tonight, did I not?"

  Mr. Bennett could see the gleam in Tucker's eye from where he was concealed. “Coo, guv'nor, don't get yerself in a quirk. How was I to know you wouldn't come crab over me? I'm not used to dealing with no swell cove like yerself."

  “If you mean by that that you couldn't trust me—and I'll never understand why you lackeys don't just speak English—how am I supposed to know that you won't squeak on me? Can you tell me that?” Robert asked.

  “Now don't go suspicioning me, guv'nor,” Tucker said, in an offended voice. “It won't be me as'll whiddle the scrap."

  “Well—” Robert sounded mollified “—you shouldn't. It's not every day I turn over four hundred pounds to a man in your position. You're sure about everything, now, are you?” he asked uncertainly.

  “Now, don't I knows that you'll comb my hair with a joint stool if anything goes wrong? It won't be me what catches cold, you can wager a coachwheel on it. I've got something special planned for this bang-up prancer—never you mind what it is,” he said, jerking his head towards Sarravano.

  “It won't really hurt the beast, will it?” Robert asked anxiously, while petting Lord Sitchville's prospective Derby winner on the muzzle.

  “Never you think such, guv'nor! You ought'er know better than that! Think I'd do anything that might put him to bed with a shovel?” Tucker sounded offended. “A cull like me what makes his livin’ off o’ horses? He'll be in prime twig in a brace o’ snaps."

  “All right, then.” Robert sounded reassured. “You'll put the money on Magnifico to win, as we planned."

  “Just leave everything to me and keep your mummer close,” said Tucker. “I know what I'm doin'."

  I'll wager he does, thought Mr. Bennett. At last he understood what Robert's ineffectual soul-searching had been all about. He and Tucker planned to drug Sarravano to ensure that the colt—clearly the favourite—would lose, and lose badly. Then he would bet a large sum of money on Magnifico, Sarravano's only real rival, and with the odds favouring Sarravano to win, Robert would stand to make a good deal of money. Lord Sitchville, and everyone going with the safe bet, would be the losers.

  “In a few more days, you'll be a richer cove,” Tucker was saying now.

  The thought restored Robert to his cheerful self. “Well, it won't be a fortune,” he said, partially to himself, “but it'll be a start. Won't I laugh to see Sitch lose his shirt for once,” he added gleefully. Then, remembering that his absence from the ballroom would be noticed by his wife, he started to leave, reminding Tucker that he would be back in a few days to collect his winnings, and adjuring him not to make any mistakes.

  “They'll never twig my lay. I'm up to slum,” Tucker replied as Robert disappeared through the door, unaware that he passed within a few feet of the rector.

  Mr. Bennett continued to watch Tucker for a few minutes before speaking. He was not surprised to hear Tucker laugh softly to himself the second Robert was out of earshot.

  “Sure, you can count on me,” the man said aloud to himself. “What fools, you flash coves are,” he sneered. “A cool four hun'er
d quid fer meself and nothin’ fer you!’ Then he laughed again.

  “I think not,” Mr. Bennett said coolly, as he stepped out from his place of concealment.

  Tucker whipped around, anger and fear mingled on his face. He grabbed an iron hook which was hanging near his hand and swung it wildly at the rector before looking to see just who had spoken. Christopher dodged the hook easily, grabbed it as it sailed by, and twisted the thing from Tucker's hand to throw it across the stable and out of reach. The anger and frustration he had felt due to the situation with Claire, long suppressed, burst out, now that they had been given a target. He grabbed Tucker's shirt by the neck, lifted him into the air and shoved him against the wall, then subdued the man entirely with a single blow from his clenched right fist.

  Tucker lay on the floor, groaning and clutching his head with both hands. Christopher watched him for a few minutes until he felt his own equanimity return. Then he pulled the trainer to his feet by the front of his shirt.

  “Don't mill me down again, guv'nor!” pleaded Tucker, cowering.

  “You are safe enough now, if you don't try any of your tricks again,” said the rector.

  “There now, your worship, I didn't know it was you,” Tucker begged.

  Christopher's calm had completely returned, and he relaxed his grip on Tucker's shirt. “A simple ‘sir’ will suffice. I am not a bishop, you know. Though I don't suppose it would have stopped you from trying to gouge out my eyes if I had been,” he said dryly.

  “How was I to know you wasn't no hedge-bird with a barking iron come to prig milord's horse here?” said Tucker in his most reasoning tone. “I was mistook, that's all. No need to put yourself in a quirk."