The Last Waltz Page 5

  “My husband and I thought alike,” she said stiffly, but she would not look him in the eye and say it, he noticed.

  “Frivolous?” he said. “Expensive? Ungodly? Ungodly, my lady? Gilbert was never much of a one for God when I knew him. He developed stomachaches and headaches with great regularity on Sunday mornings, as I recall.”

  “People can change, my lord,” she said.

  Good God! He gazed at her with distaste. Did this, then, explain the stark black garments, the stiff spine, the lack of smiles, the cold discipline? Was this what she had come to? Willingly? He really had never known her at all, had he?

  “And so,” he said, “there were no balls here during your marriage, no parties, no laughter, no merriment.”

  “And no vice either,” she said tartly.

  “Poor Margaret,” he said quietly. “Was she at least taught to dance?”

  “Country dances, yes,” she said. “They are a part of any young lady’s education.”

  “But not often performed in company, at a guess,” he said. “I suppose even a mention of the waltz would send you into a fit of the vapors?”

  “I have never seen it danced, my lord,” she said stiffly. “I have heard about it and have no wish to see it.”

  “You will do so nevertheless,” he said, “in the ballroom here the evening after Christmas.” He was feeling more than ever irritated with her.

  “I wish you would reconsider, my lord,” she said, “and arrange for only country dances. I will not dance at all, of course. I am in mourning, as you may have observed. But—”

  “Did you love him so much, then?” he asked. It was none of his business whether she had loved Gilbert or not. It seemed to him that they had deserved each other.

  “He was my husband,” she said.

  “Christina.” He sat down at last on the chair opposite hers and sighed. This was not how he had planned for this meeting to proceed. He had meant it to be all business. “I will have house guests arriving next week. They are coming to celebrate Christmas. I am prepared to work hard preparing for their arrival and entertaining them once they are here. Though, as you observed last evening, the servants will bear the brunt of the work. I daresay that between us they and I will be able to do a good enough job. But it would be better if I had a hostess. My aunt would assume the role, but if she is as I remember her, she is a well-meaning ditherer. Margaret is too young. And if I chose one of them, it would appear to be a slight to you, something I would not have happen publicly, no matter what my private feelings may be. Will you do it? Be my hostess, that is, not just a dark wraith hovering in the background, grieving widow of the former earl?”

  “I will do whatever you command me to do, my lord,” she said.

  He found her answer intensely irritating. He had invited some sort of truce, and all he had got for his pains was coldness. “I would advise you, my lady,” he said, his eyes narrowing on her, “not to try impertinence on me.”

  Her mouth opened and shut again. Her eyes widened, and in them for the merest moment he read—what? Fear? Fear? She said nothing. She did not remove her eyes from his. Had he been mistaken? Surely he must have been.

  He sighed again. “This would all be so much easier if we had never met before last evening, would it not?” he said. “Well, we did meet and fancied ourselves in love. You married Gilbert and I went off to Canada. Now our fates are linked once more—forever, I suppose, though after the holiday we may both forget the fact once more. I will return to Canada; you will remain here. There, it has been set in the open. Can we accept reality now and move on? I think we must both be agreed that young love is a foolish and impermanent thing and that we were fortunate indeed that Gilbert came to town when he did. Will you help me make this a pleasant Christmas for all who will be here?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “And will you,” he asked, his eyes sweeping over her with distaste, “leave off your blacks?”

  She licked her lips. He wondered if he understood her hesitation—and if it was something else she had been determined not to ask for. But he refused to give vent to irritation again.

  “Is there a dressmaker in the village?” he asked. When she nodded, he swept on. “Make use of her services. I shall instruct Monck to settle the bill.”

  Her cheeks flushed for the first time. “I am becoming too much of a charge upon you,” she said.

  But he ignored the remark. “What do you know,” he asked her, “about organizing house parties?”

  “Very little,” she admitted.

  It had not occurred to him that after ten years at Thornwood as the countess she might not be up to the task of preparing for his guests. But it seemed that she and Gilbert—and necessarily poor Margaret—had lived a quiet, sober, puritanical existence. Well, it had been their right, he supposed, though he would no longer allow his young cousin to suffer for it.

  “Perhaps,” he suggested, “we should move over to the desk, get paper and pens ready, and begin to pool our meager resources.”

  She half smiled at him again, but this time there seemed to be some real amusement in the expression. “At least,” she said, “we know that invitations must be sent out for the ball. Meg is going to write them.”

  It was the first small suggestion of amiability between them. Something to build upon, perhaps? He hoped that at least they could establish some sort of working relationship over the coming days.

  If not, it would be a long and possibly disastrous Christmas.

  Chapter 4

  SHE was going to have an allowance, sufficient for her own needs and the girls’ needs. That was a vague promise, of course. Their combined needs might be judged to be very limited. But even so, she was going to have an allowance, money that would be all her own to spend in any way she pleased. Rachel was to have a governess—of Christina’s own choosing, and she would be able to spend her own time with her daughters simply being a mother to them. She could have a new dress made by Miss Penny, perhaps even two. What an impossible extravagance.

  By the time Christina emerged from the long session at the library desk, her head was spinning with the large number of tasks that lay ahead for the next week—not to mention what would need doing after the arrival of the guests. And yet it was not so much that prospect that lodged in her conscious mind as the fact that she was to have an allowance and a new dress or two. Frivolities.

  Freedom!

  Whenever she or one of her girls had needed anything, she had had to apply to Gilbert for it. Not just any time she could catch his attention. There had been a set time for such applications, between nine and ten in the morning in his office. She had had to stand before his desk like a supplicant. The baby needed new nappies, she might have told him. No, the ones Rachel had worn would no longer do. They were threadbare and absorbed almost no moisture at all. They were fit only for the kitchen ragbag. Should she go up to the nursery and bring one down to show him? Very well, then— she would bring them all down.

  There were many such memories. Gilbert had been a careful man with money. He had had a moral revulsion against waste. There were many thousands of beggars, he had reminded her on a number of occasions, who would be only too happy to wear what her ladyship so carelessly discarded. It had been an unjust accusation, she had always thought—at least after the first year or so. By then she had become a hoarder. Besides, he had never had much compassion for beggars. As a Justice of the Peace he had rigorously prosecuted any vagrants who had happened into the neighborhood.

  She was not sure now if her excitement over the changes outweighed her resentment. She hated to be beholden to him—to the new Earl of Wanstead. She hated his assumption that she had been afraid to ask him for anything—even though it was true!—or that she had been acting the martyr and deliberately hiding her needs from him.

  And she deeply resented him and his hostility and sarcasm—and his very physical presence. She hated his assumption that he knew the whole of it. How simple he made it sou
nd—she had chosen money over love and so had rejected him for Gilbert. Nothing was ever that simple. But she scorned to try to explain to him. Besides, there was no explanation that would satisfy him, for basically that had been it. She had married Gilbert because he was a wealthy man. She had rejected Gerard because he was not. But only basically—there had been a great deal more.

  She hated to remember that one particular day in her life. The memories still had the power to make her feel faint, to bring the ache of impotent tears to the back of her throat.

  She hoped at least after the past hour or so, during which they had discussed business quite sensibly and without any personal overtones, that for the rest of his stay they could treat each other with civility—like a man who had just arrived at his home and met his predecessor’s widow for the first time.

  But her feathers were soon ruffled again.

  The Earl of Wanstead made an announcement when they were all seated at the dining table partaking of luncheon. It began actually with a question.

  “Aunt Hannah,” he asked, “do you play the pianoforte as well as you used to? I heard only Margaret last evening.”

  “I would not say well, Gerard,” Lady Hannah told him. “I am not sure I ever played well, though it is kind of you to say that I did. But I have kept my hand in since returning to Thornwood. Mr. Milne kept only a spinet, which makes pretty enough music, it is true, but I always favored the smoother tones of the pianoforte.”

  “Good,” his lordship said briskly. “You will look through all the sheet music with me afterward, if you would be so good. I wish to find some tune suited to the waltz.”

  Margaret gaped and returned her attention hurriedly to her plate, as if someone had uttered a profanity that she was pretending not to have heard. Christina’s lips thinned.

  “Oh, I know several suitable pieces by heart, Gerard,” Lady Hannah surprised them all by saying. “I saw it danced once and thought it wonderfully romantic. I never said so to Gilbert, of course. He considered it—well...” She glanced at Christina with a smile.

  “Ungodly?” the earl suggested.

  “Vulgar too,” Christina said. Obscene might have been a more appropriate word, but Gilbert would never have uttered that word aloud—not, at least, in the hearing of ladies. There were to be waltzes at the Christmas ball after all, then? Despite her specific request to the contrary?

  “Splendid,” his lordship said. “We will all meet in the ballroom, then, at four o’clock. Margaret and her ladyship will need to learn the steps before Christmas.”

  No. Oh, no. Absolutely no!

  “You are serious,” Margaret said, her eyes as wide as saucers. “Caroline Ferris told me that partners have to clutch each other when they waltz.”

  “Only,” his lordship told her, “if they do not know the steps and are afraid of falling down—or of treading all over each other’s toes. I plan to teach you not to fear either, Margaret.”

  “Waltzing,” she said. Her voice sounded awed. “In the ballroom.”

  “Precisely,” her cousin agreed. “At four o’clock.”

  Christina ate doggedly on. She would not give him the satisfaction of arguing with him or even commenting, though she could feel his eyes on her for a few moments.

  But the earl had not finished with his announcements. “I sent a note to Miss Penny, the village dressmaker, and she sent an immediate reply with my messenger,” he said, looking at Christina along the length of the table. “She will be here, my lady, as soon as my carriage has had time to go and fetch her and all the paraphernalia she will need to bring with her. I would be obliged if you will spend a couple of hours with her this afternoon, choosing patterns and fabrics and trimmings and being measured. I have composed a list for her of what I consider your basic needs. If I have forgotten anything, and I daresay I have, feel free to add to the list.”

  “Oh,” Margaret said, turning envious eyes on her, “you are going to have new clothes, Christina?”

  But Christina scarcely heard her. She had turned icy cold. He had sent for Miss Penny? He had composed a list? A list? He dared to assume a knowledge of her basic needs? Was she expected to pour out her gratitude?

  “Thank you, my lord,” she said, “but that was quite unnecessary. I might have called upon Miss Penny myself within the next day or two. She already has some patterns of which she knows I approve. And I need only two dresses.”

  “But it is excessively kind—” Lady Hannah began.

  “Not my lady,” his lordship said at the same moment, “if you intend to stay at Thornwood to entertain my guests. You will need a whole new wardrobe, I would wager, and a fashionable one to boot. I warned Miss Penny in my note that she will need some assistants if everything is to be ready in time.”

  “Oh!” Margaret sounded enraptured.

  “How wonderful for you, dear,” Lady Hannah said. “And it is very fitting that you should do so, Gerard, as well as very generous. Christina is still the Countess of Wanstead, after all, and will remain so until you marry. Which perhaps will not be in the too distant future?”

  But Christina was not listening. She knew why he was doing it—and why he was giving her an allowance and the girls a governess. He was demonstrating to her how very wealthy he now was, how very generous he could be even to a woman he disliked, one who had spurned him and his love. He was making very clear to her just how beholden to him she was for everything. He was not trying to make her happy—he was deliberately doing just the opposite.

  “I have no immediate plans to marry, Aunt Hannah,” he said. “But who knows what the future holds?” He kept his eyes on Christina as he spoke. “You have a concern, my lady?”

  “No, my lord.” She would look at this list of his. Perhaps she would even add to it. If he was determined to give, then she would take. Heaven knew she needed new clothes and more fashionable ones than the few she possessed. She would put her head together with Miss Penny’s and enjoy herself planning a new and colorful wardrobe. But she would not fawn upon him or show him anything like obsequious gratitude. “None at all.”

  “I shall ask Miss Penny to see you tomorrow, Margaret,” he said. “She will be busy with her ladyship’s order, but she must make you one garment at least. I daresay you do not own a ballgown?”

  Margaret gaped again. “A ballgown?” She clasped her hands to her bosom and gazed adoringly at her cousin. “Oh, Cousin Gerard. Oh, thank you. Aunt Hannah, I am to have a ballgown!”

  Which would give him a marvelous glimpse, Christina thought bitterly, into what life had been like with Gilbert. If he had not already suspected. She resented his knowing or his discovering. She felt intruded upon. Almost violated.

  Ah, Gerard, Gerard, she found herself thinking. Why could you not have remained simply the golden boy of my memories? But she would not allow her thoughts to show on her face. She kept her lips tightly pressed together and her expression impassive.

  If he had been a stranger, she wondered, and had behaved today just as he had, would she be looking upon him as a generous and kind man? Would she have liked him?

  But he was not a stranger.

  “No,” the Earl of Wanstead said. “Romantic, ma’am. It is how you yourself described the dance, if you remember.”

  His aunt lifted her hands from the keyboard. She had been playing with a spirited rhythm more suited to a gallop than a waltz. “Oh, dear, I am so sorry,” she said. “Yes, you are quite right, Gerard.”

  “But it is a lovely tune,” he said, lest she think him over-critical, “and you play it well.”

  She played it again.

  “Perfect,” he said, interrupting her after a few bars. “Play it just that way, if you please. I am about to discover how good a teacher I am.” He grinned at her. He had learned the waltz himself only since his return to England. But it was all the rage in London. His guests would be disappointed if it were not included in the Christmas ball. Or perhaps his determination to have it danced had become firm only when the cou
ntess had objected to it.

  She had become a Puritan, had she? Well, she would not drag him into her gloom. Or be allowed to continue her stem rule at Thornwood as she had for the past ten years.

  “I am sure you will be a splendid teacher,” his aunt assured him. “Certainly you will have an eager pupil. Meg has spoken of nothing else since luncheon.”

  Margaret, he had realized during the past twenty-four hours—not even so long—was an eager, pretty young lady who had no town bronze at all despite her twenty years. She had not even had a Season. She was almost pathetically eager for the house party, for the ball. Life, he was determined, was certainly going to change for his cousin.

  He had come to Thornwood half willing to consider her as a bride. Even this morning he had held open the possibility. But he had already put the thought out of his mind. She was still too much the child. But he was her guardian. He would see to it that over Christmas she met and mingled with some young ladies who were her peers and some gentlemen who would help her to see herself as an attractive, eligible young lady.

  She had come into the ballroom with the countess, he noticed. She was wearing last evening’s light muslin gown again, just as if this were some grand occasion. Her eyes were wide with the anticipation of some treat. He remembered suddenly teaching her as a child to swim and to ride. Well, now he would teach her to waltz and doubtless cause Gilbert to turn over in his grave. He strode across the ballroom toward her.

  “You are ready, Margaret?” he asked. “It is really not a difficult dance, you know. It is easier than the simplest of country dances.”

  She giggled, a sound that grated on him somewhat. But he recognized that she was nervous. He reached out a hand for hers.

  “I must ask you, my lord—” the countess said, though she stopped speaking the moment he looked at her.

  “Yes?” he prompted.

  “Nothing,” she said. “There would be no point, would there?”

  “None whatsoever,” he assured her and led Margaret in the direction of the pianoforte.