Midnight Star, Page 3

  “Indeed it is, miss. Mind you, I believe in Christian charity, and how it should begin at home, but in this house? Oh, I’m not blind by any means, and I’ve seen well enough how they’ve treated you these last six months. They must want something. Aye, that’s it. They want something. Sit down, miss, and I’ll fix your hair before you put the gown on.”

  Chauncey sat on the brocade-covered stool in front of her dressing table. “Mary,” she said after a moment, meeting her maid’s eyes in the mirror, “what could I possibly have that they would want? It makes no sense.” What I really want is to believe them, to believe that they want me. “A cat remains a cat,” Hannah, her old nurse, used to say. “They’re unaccountable creatures, and pet them as much as you like, and listen to them purr, they still never change. No, never.”

  Mary brushed a heavy tress of hair, curled it deftly about her hand, then pinned it on top of Chauncey’s head. “Lovely hair you have, miss. Every time I think I know the color, you stand in a different light and I’ll see some red or copper or some brown. And so thick it is! Madam Prune Face must hate to see you next to her pudding-faced daughters! As I said, miss, I don’t understand it, but I fancy you’ll discover their motives soon enough.”

  “You don’t believe then that they have perhaps . . . changed?” Please, Mary, say that it is possible!

  “Do oranges grow in London? I doubt it, miss. Now, stand up and let’s see how you look in this gown. It’s from Madam’s own modiste too. I heard her dresser, Broome, say that it was fetched early this afternoon. Some other lady had ordered it and not paid for it. Lucky it fits you, miss.”

  The soft lavender silk caressed her shoulders, and a torrent of finely stitched lace spilled over her bosom. The gown fit her well enough. For a moment she felt like the Chauncey of a year ago, twirling about her father’s library in a new gown, laughing when he assured her that she would break all the masculine hearts in Surrey.

  “ ’Tis lovely you are,” Mary said, twitching an errant fold into place. “You watch out for that Master Owen, miss. So smooth and handsome he is, but he’s a terror, that one! Cook told me last year that he’d tried to ravish one of the young housemaids, and in the water closet, of all places! Madam turned her off, of course.” Mary shrugged philosophically. “It’s the way of the world, I guess.”

  Mary sees things more clearly than I. I must stop being blind and seeing what it is I wish to see. I must grow up and stop being a gullible fool. “Do you know, Mary,” Chauncey said, only a touch of bitterness in her voice as she slipped on the new pair of white gloves, “I think there must be something to that saying that you win more bees with honey. I think I shall be drippingly sweet tonight!”

  Mary snorted. “Just see to it, miss, that you aren’t the honeypot, and the bee stings you good and proper!”

  Owen, Chauncey decided after but a fifteen-minute carriage ride, was definitely the bee. His new, very proper behavior stunned her, and it was all she could do to keep the niggling fear deep within her. He complimented her profusely, and listened to everything she uttered, which wasn’t very much, with flattering attention. Evidently it was no longer his intention to trap her on the stairs. Her smile never faded. By the time the carriage arrived at the Russell on Albion Street, her jaw muscles ached.

  “Ah, my dear,” Uncle Alfred said, once they were seated around a charming white-lace-covered table, “you are the loveliest young lady present this evening. I see gentlemen already looking at Owen with envy. We will order champagne, of course, for your birthday, won’t we, love? Ah yes, it is indeed a day to celebrate. Twenty-one. A marvelous age. One has all of one’s life ahead of him . . . or her. You are most lucky, Elizabeth. You live with a loving family—”

  “I believe I shall order the roast beef,” Aunt Augusta announced, cutting off the effusions of her perspiring spouse. “You, Elizabeth, though you are as lovely as your uncle says, are a bit thin. You must order whatever you wish, my dear.”

  Why cannot I trust you? Why cannot I believe what you say?

  “Thank you, Aunt Augusta,” Chancey said aloud.

  “I have been thinking, Elizabeth,” her aunt continued, “that you should begin meeting with Cook. You were in charge of your poor father’s household for several years, and I do not want your skills to grow rusty with disuse. You will, of course, tell Cook to prepare whatever meals appeal to you. I am certain your taste is excellent.”

  “I should enjoy eating whatever Elizabeth chooses,” Owen said.

  “Yes, well, it is decided then. Now, Alfred, where is our waiter?”

  Chauncey started to tell her uncle to order for her, but stopped herself. No, she thought, stiffening her back, it is time that I am responsible for myself. She ordered what she thought to be the most expensive items on the Russell menu. At least she hoped, somewhat maliciously, that they were the dearest.

  Owen’s rather pale complexion grew florid as he downed his fourth glass of champagne. Chauncey swallowed a giggle, for Aunt Augusta was shooting him dagger glances.

  Over a delicious dessert of blancmange and cream, Aunt Augusta leaned over and patted Chauncey’s gloved hand. “My dear,” she said sincerely, “I think it just as well that you did not wed Sir Guy Danforth. He likely would not have made you happy. You would likely prefer a more . . . gentle, yet sophisticated gentleman, one who is not so many years your senior. I believe, Owen, that you have consumed enough champagne.” Aunt Augusta gave a snorting laugh. “It is not, after all, your birthday, my dear boy.”

  Owen bestowed a lavish smile upon Chauncey. “Quite right, Mother. I fear I got carried away.”

  Why do I want to burst into laughter? Chauncey wondered. Even Owen, the toad, is amusing. Her thoughts turned again, unwittingly, to her father and to the villain who had murdered him as surely as if he had laced her father’s wine with laudanum. She shuddered with reaction. If I hate him, she thought with sudden insight, I will destroy myself. But how, she wondered, her jaw tightening, could she simply forget? And now this . . . mystery.

  Uncle Alfred yawned delicately behind his hand. “Do you know, my dear,” he said to his wife, “I believe I grow too old for all this jollity. Why don’t you and I return to Heath House and let the young people go to the play by themselves?”

  “My, what an excellent suggestion, Alfred.”

  In a pig’s eye!

  “What do you say, Elizabeth?” Owen said, dropping his voice to what he must have thought to be an intimate caress. “I will take good care of you. We will see Romeo and Juliet.” He gave her a grin fraught with meaning. “Of course, we aren’t faced with their problems!”

  We? My Lord, Chauncey thought, it is as I suspected. She saw the benign looks on her aunt’s and uncle’s faces. They want me to go with Owen! But why? It hadn’t been too long ago that Aunt Augusta accused her of trying to trap her dear Owen into marriage. It was too much. Hannah had always accused her charge of tempting fate with her willful curiosity. But what was life without just a bit of risk? She had no doubts that she could handle Owen.

  Chauncey very carefully placed her napkin beside her plate, folding it into a small square. She raised her head and flashed a wide smile to the three people looking at her. “Do you know,” she said in a guilelessly innocent voice, “I should much like to see the play. It is so sweet of you to invite me, Owen. Are you certain that you don’t mind, Aunt Augusta?” I shall be as devious as the three of you!

  “Not at all, my dear. I . . . your uncle and I want you to be happy and enjoy yourself. You may be certain that dear Owen will see to your every comfort.”

  “Oh yes, Elizabeth, I shall, I promise you.”

  The play was dreadful. The actors gesticulated wildly while they declaimed their lines to an increasingly restless crowd, and poor Romeo was at least forty years old. At least she wasn’t bored, Chauncey thought, her lips thinning, for Owen had managed to brush his thigh against her several times. At the intermission, Chauncey allowed Owen to escort her to the large downstairs
foyer for refreshments.

  “May I have a glass of lemonade, please, Owen?” she asked.

  “Your wish, my dear Elizabeth,” he said, and gave her a flourishing bow.

  When he returned with her glass, Elizabeth thanked him softly and began to sip the lemonade. She eyed him speculatively over the rim of her glass and said, “I fear the lemonade is too sour. Would you mind returning it, Owen, and getting me another glass?”

  She wanted to laugh aloud at the brief look of anger that narrowed his eyes. It was gone quickly, to be replaced by what Owen must have believed to be a seductive, loving look, but Chauncey knew she hadn’t imagined it. So, my dear toad, she thought as she watched him wend his way through the crowd back toward the refreshment tables, your mother is making you dance attendance on me.

  When Owen handed her a new glass of lemonade, Chauncey took a small sip and handed the glass back to him. “Do you know, Owen, I fear I have developed a headache. Would you please see me home now?”

  Such a pity, she thought, that the play wasn’t a marvelous production, one that Owen would have liked to see to the end. As it was, her limpid request did not elicit more than a loving nod and a look of concern from him.

  “Are you feeling better, Elizabeth?” he asked once they were ensconced in the hired carriage.

  “Oh yes, Owen,” she said sweetly, glad he couldn’t see the gleam of purpose in her eyes in the dim light. “It has been such an exciting day, you know. I am in such a . . . whirl of pleasure!”

  “Dear Elizabeth,” Owen murmured, and gently squeezed her gloved hand. I mustn’t forget to scrub his touch off my hand. “I am so pleased that you are happy,” he continued after a moment, making Chauncey wonder if he were trying to recall a prepared speech. “It is my fondest desire to give you everything you wish, my dear.” Again he paused. Are you screwing up your courage for something, Owen? she wanted to ask him. She waited patiently, a small smile playing about her mouth.

  “Is it really, Owen?” she asked as the silence grew long.

  “Indeed, Elizabeth. I realize it is perhaps too soon, your father being dead for but six months, but my heart compels me to speak. I have admired you for years, my dear, years.”

  My God, he really is going to ask me to marry him!

  She couldn’t allow it, for if she did, she would surely laugh in his face, and perhaps burst into tears at the betrayal. And Owen would never tell her why he was asking her. He would but prattle about his utter admiration of her. She realized with a start that she was afraid. I would rather be a shop girl than marry him!

  “My . . . headache, Owen, it has returned,” she said abruptly. “If you don’t mind, I would like to rest until we reach Heath House.”

  “Of course, my dear.”

  Did he sound the least bit relieved?

  Chauncey thought furiously the remainder of the carriage ride to Heath House. There was no answer forthcoming. It appears, she decided, raising her chin in determination, that I am going to have to be an eavesdropper again.

  She allowed Owen to kiss her hand, then quickly walked to her room. She sent Mary off to bed, then waited for a few more minutes. Slowly she eased her bedroom door open and peered up and down the corridor. No one was about. Stealthily she crept toward her aunt’s suite of rooms. There was a light showing from beneath the door. She didn’t even have to press her ear against the door, for her aunt’s voice sounded through as clear as the proverbial bell.

  “I am pleased you did not . . . rush things, my dear boy,” Aunt Augusta said. “It is possible that Elizabeth would not think it likely that you could fall in love with her so quickly.” She gave a deep relieved sigh. “I do believe that Elizabeth will forgive us for our lack of attention to her these past months. I had not believed her so malleable, but perhaps it is so.”

  Uncle Alfred said, “I really do not like this, my love. It is not that we are—”

  Aunt Augusta interrupted him curtly. “Enough, Alfred. We haven’t much time. Owen must be as attentive as possible to his cousin.”

  Why haven’t they much time? Chauncey heard Owen say in a sulky voice, “I don’t think Chauncey—”

  “What an outrageous nickname! I pray you won’t use it again, Owen!”

  “Yes, Mother. As I was saying, I don’t think Ch . . . Elizabeth particularly cares for me.”

  There was a stretch of utter silence. Aunt Augusta said grimly, “It was stupid of you to treat her like a housemaid, Owen! Quite stupid! You must gain her trust. Yes, that’s it. The girl is lonely, but now we are her family. Her loving family.”

  Owen asked very softly, forcing Chauncey to strain to hear his words, “And if she doesn’t come around, Mother? And in time?”

  There were several minutes of utter silence. “It is something I would dislike above all things,” Aunt Augusta said finally. “To compromise a young lady is most disturbing and quite ill-bred . . .”

  Chauncey drew in her breath. Then she heard Owen laugh, covering the remainder of Aunt Augusta’s words. She felt herself pale with rage. Oh yes, Owen would like to catch her unawares again! She would scratch his eyes out! She would tear . . .

  “I don’t like it,” Uncle Alfred said. “Any of it.”

  “Forget Isobel,” Aunt Augusta said harshly. “It must be done.”

  “Well, I am ready for bed,” Owen announced.

  Chauncey dashed down the corridor, managing to close her door just in time. She didn’t fall asleep for a long time.

  “Well, miss, here is your chocolate! It’s a lovely day today and I want to know what you discovered.”

  Chauncey snapped awake. “Good morning, Mary,” she said on a yawn. “I have quite a bit to tell you, and also a plan.”

  When she finished recounting the overheard conversation, Mary was gazing at her in consternation. “It is villainous! Suggesting that Master Owen compromise you! It is—”

  “Yes, it is all that, Mary,” Chauncey said, cutting her off. She stared thoughtfully for a moment into the dark glob of chocolate at the bottom of her cup. During the long, wakeful hours of the night, she had managed to repress her sorrow, her fury, and her unhappiness. All she had left was determination. “Will you help me, Mary? I have an idea. It is probably quite foolish, but I can’t think of anything else for the moment.”

  “Oh yes, miss, anything!”

  “I want you to find out if there have been any visitors in the past couple of days. Not any of Aunt Augusta’s acquaintances, but a stranger. Can you do it?”

  Mary screwed her eyes thoughtfully toward the ceiling. “That old sot Cranke might be difficult. But I’ve got ears, miss, and I can ask the staff, very subtle-like, of course.”

  “If there has been a visitor . . .” Chauncey shrugged. “Well, then we shall see. I can only believe that someone wants to remove me from here, and that for whatever reason, my aunt doesn’t wish me to go. If there hasn’t been anyone, then I would imagine that I am going to have to tread very carefully until I can leave this house and its loving occupants. Please bring me the paper, Mary—I think I should begin looking for a position.”

  What in heaven’s name was going on? She saw them all objectively now, just as she had finally seen Guy. She had been nothing short of a fool to believe them, even for a moment. Chauncey sighed. She was likely a fool for thinking that someone, a stranger, had anything to do with Aunt Augusta’s newfound devotion to her niece. She rose from her bed and began to bathe, wondering if Owen would be waiting for her in the corridor.

  3

  Two days passed in what Chauncey described to Mary as a state of siege, with herself being the fortress under attack. There had been a visitor, Mary had discovered, a “dried-up little man with the smell of the city on him,” so Cranke told one of the footmen. But who the dried-up little man had been was still a mystery.

  “Greed,” Chauncey said. “There can be no other motive. Can you really believe, Mary, that Aunt Augusta would spend all this money for any other reason?” She waved her ha
nd toward the two new gowns that lay on her bed in a froth of silk and satin. “She must view it as an investment of sorts.”

  “Then you think, miss, that this man is perhaps a business associate of your father’s? That he is here to tell you that your father didn’t lose everything after all?”

  “I know it sounds farfetched,” Chauncey said on a tired sigh, “but for the life of me, I can think of nothing else.”

  “Don’t chew your thumbnail, miss.”

  “Oh!” Chauncey regarded the ragged nail. “They are driving me distracted! And here I am hiding in my bedroom.” She rose from the uncomfortable wing chair from beside the small fireplace and began to pace about the room. “I am being a coward, Mary, a miserable coward! I shall demand to know why they are treating me like a piece of prime horseflesh. I shall look Aunt Augusta straight in the eye—”

  “I should suggest Master Owen instead,” Mary said mildly.

  “Well, yes, perhaps you are right. After all, they are certain to insist the minute dinner is over that Owen read me some poetry or that I play love songs to him, or some such nonsense. Then, of course, Aunt Augusta will yawn and nod and haul Uncle Alfred from the salon, leaving the ‘two dear young people alone.’ ”