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They were among the first arrivals, but this was not an occasion for the fashionably late. Others entered soon enough, all of them friends or acquaintances. Fenella found John a comfortable perch and a plate of cakes and went to talk to her neighbors. Those who evinced an opinion seemed glad to see her. More were concentrated on their own enjoyment. A reminder, Fenella thought, not to exaggerate one’s own importance.
A wry smile still lingered on her lips when Roger entered the spacious drawing room. She was surprised to see him. He had been mingling in society even less over this past year. But the conventional mourning period, for his wife and his father, was over. He certainly had as much right as she to attend. Fenella turned away to speak to Mrs. Cheeve, the vicar’s wife, who had also just arrived with her husband.
The musicians in the corner struck up. Permanent employees of the Prouses, they included, as always, a piper, even though the bagpipe didn’t really fit with many of the usual dances. As well as the fact that the baronet and his wife weren’t the least bit Scottish. Fenella had asked them about this once. Sir Cyril’s gaze had gone distant as he declared, “It’s just such a magnificent sound, is it not?”
Now, accompanied by its eerie strains, Lady Prouse bore down on Fenella, took her arm and turned her around. “There, you two dance,” she said, pushing her toward Roger.
Before either of them could react, she’d moved on, putting other couples together based entirely on proximity, as far as Fenella could judge. She meant nothing particular by these pairings, except to set the dance moving.
Facing Roger, Fenella wondered what she ought to do. They hadn’t danced together since she came back from Scotland. Their past, and then a pile of complicating circumstances, had made it unwise.
The bagpipe shrilled, signaling a highland reel. Fenella’s foot tapped. She wasn’t the awkward girl who’d been thrown at him five years ago. And she felt like dancing. She extended her hands.
Roger took them. They laced their fingers together, standing very close, and then they joined the others in moving forward and back, hopping and turning in the steps of the dance.
His hands were sure and powerful. He swung her around with practiced skill. She’d forgotten that he was a fine, athletic dancer, Fenella thought. Or, she’d just avoided thinking about it.
They hadn’t touched in ages, certainly not since she’d returned from Scotland, and that had been best. She had no doubt about it. But before that, there had been occasions. She suddenly realized that the first of them had been here in this very room. It must be, yes, eight years ago.
Lady Prouse had organized a dancing class to help prepare her daughter Prudence for a London season, and she’d invited all the local young people, even those like Fenella who were not remotely out. Lady Prouse wanted enough couples to make up sets, and there weren’t a great many to choose from in the neighborhood. And so, although she was only fifteen, Fenella had wangled permission to go. She’d argued that the occasion was very informal and strictly chaperoned. Her mother had been ill at the time and had given in to her arguments. And so she’d come here, to this very spot, a pathetically gawky girl with unrealistic expectations. The draperies and furnishings looked just the same.
And then when Lady Prouse had to leave the room to attend to some household crisis, her daughter had cajoled the musicians into playing a waltz. Many of the boys, coerced into attending by their mothers, had been longing for a way to rebel, and they added their voices to hers. The musicians were persuaded, couples quickly came together, and Roger had been somehow left out, with only Fenella unpartnered.
He hadn’t been pleased, Fenella remembered. And he’d made no effort to hide his reluctance. But the others twitted him as a coward, or a bumpkin ignorant of the steps of the waltz. And so he had grabbed her, his arm tight around her waist, and spun her dizzily down the room. Fenella had found the dance intoxicating. She’d yielded to his masterful lead, senses swimming, until Lady Prouse returned and put a stop to their scandalous performance. “I wonder how Prudence is,” said Fenella.
Roger looked startled, as well he might. She’d been silent through much of the reel, and now she’d come out with this. He laughed. “No one ever had a more inapt name. She’s the least prudent creature I can imagine.”
Before he could think of that long-ago waltz, Fenella rushed on. “She married a man from Hertfordshire. The Prouses usually go to visit her down there.”
Roger nodded. “Do you remember those tableaus she organized one Christmas? Weren’t you in one?”
Fenella fought the blush, but it won out. Prudence had given her the part of winged Victory, to her utter delight. Even though she knew it was because she was the slightest girl and willing to perch on a tall plinth. But the diaphanous toga sort of thing she’d been draped in had turned out to be quite transparent when the banks of candles were lit for the tableaus. She’d been virtually naked, four feet above people’s heads. Her father had roared with fury.
“Oh yes,” said Roger. A spark lit his blue eyes.
He’d remembered. Of course he had. How could he not? “That incident gave me an enduring hatred of sarsenet,” Fenella said dryly. “I’ve never worn it since.”
He burst out laughing, which had been her aim. The music ended. Fenella stepped away, more breathless than a bit of dancing could explain. Roger left her with a smiling bow, shifting to another partner for the next dance.
“You and Chatton move well together,” said Lady Prouse at Fenella’s shoulder.
Fenella turned to find a speculative gleam in her hostess’s eye. She resisted pressing her hands to her flushed cheeks. Or saying anything that might encourage matchmaking. “Have you seen my nephew?”
“He asked about our library,” replied Lady Prouse, looking mildly disappointed at this response.
Fenella found John among the books. He was reading one about India, and he looked tired. She gathered him up to take him home to bed, and probably face the wrath of Wrayle, but she cared very little about that.
* * *
The local church service on Sunday held a good deal of interest for the Chatton Castle neighborhood, which seldom welcomed strangers. Additions to society were always welcome in this isolated corner of the country.
The castle party itself included a distinguished older gentleman. Whispers soon identified him as an earl, and he was seen to be quite friendly with Lady Chatton, rousing a buzz of curiosity. There was also an unknown youngster at the far end of the castle pew, homely but amiable looking. His status couldn’t be agreed upon within the limited opportunities for gossip inside the church. He did not appear the least cowed by noble company.
The group from Clough House also brought a new member, a slender boy soon identified as the old gentleman’s grandson. Parishioners murmured that this visit must be pleasant for the old man in his sickness. He hadn’t been seen in church, or anywhere else, since being felled by the apoplexy.
The vicar’s sermon that day added to the excitement of the occasion. Rather than his usual homily on responsibility or compassion, he stated that his subject would be Cuthbert, the area’s patron saint and, he declared, the savior of England. “For after this holy man’s death and the many miracles due to his intercession, Cuthbert came in a dream to Alfred, known as the great, King of Wessex. Alfred was then engaged in a mighty struggle against the Danes, invaders from over the sea.”
The vicar paused and raked the congregation with his gaze. Roger, directly under his eye in the front, was taken aback. Reverend Cheeve was usually the mildest of men, but today his green eyes burned with fervor.
