Chapter 41
Supper was excellent, and with her mind more at ease, Lucy resolved to approach Captain Dashwood directly, but this time found herself waylaid by her sister. She was about to assure her that she was well when she realised it was Margaret who seemed more anxious.
‘Lucy, it is an unusual request, but would you dance with Oliver St Martin in the next dance?’
‘I am quite sure I can. But I am curious as to why.’
‘He has danced twice tonight, both times with me. It is something expected in the district given our statures, but a third time shall tend itself towards gossip.’
Gossip indeed, Lucy considered. To be so forward with a single gentleman within one evening would definitely lead to Talk.
Margaret continued. ‘He is hesitant to ask most ladies as both his proportion and demeanour often causes concern. But, if you were to dance with him, I think it should be seen more as familial closeness and alleviate some of the immodest perception.’
‘Immodest perception it might be, but would it be wholly inaccurate, Meg?’
‘His brother has too recently been embroiled in engagement and scandal. I have no desire to cause him to be reflected in the same light, no matter my feelings.’
Lucy’s thoughts returned once again to the possibility of the match of her sister and Oliver St Martin.
Perhaps here was a chance to move things along that path more swiftly.
Three dances in one evening was practically an engagement, and if the pair were not willing to make such a statement, then she should support them as best she could.
‘I shall have no fear in dancing with Mr St Martin.’ Lucy nodded. ‘If my sister will defend me by manhandling a goat then I am quite sure I can defend her by dancing with a tall man.’
They made their way across the ballroom to where Oliver was waiting and exchanged pleasantries. Shortly after, the music for the next dance began and the two made their way onto the floor, hand in hand.
‘You are most gracious to do this for your sister.’ He bowed as they stepped into the music.
‘You do yourself discredit, Mr St Martin. There is no ill task to be undertaken in dancing with you. The worst I might say is that you are somewhat unpractised.’
‘That is true. The woman who taught us dancing was barely up to your shoulder. My brother took it well enough, but it was not a school in which I excelled.’
‘We each have our strengths and weaknesses. Some are more pronounced than others. For example, I cannot draw portraits,’ she admitted. ‘Margaret exceeds me at drawing.’
‘The two of you do not seem competitive.’
‘Combative perhaps. We bicker. But we are different enough that we have seldom been rivals. I am sure you and your brother are much the same.’
‘Perhaps you mistake all family connections as being as strong as your own. George is moderately fond of me and seldom does me any more wrong than a slight jibe, but we are not close. He is our father’s son and I am our mother’s.
I am heir neither to his fortunes nor his attentions.
’ He paused as they turned, Lucy passing under his arm with little effort.
‘Forgive me.’ He smiled. ‘It is not that I lament my station. I am merely pointing out to you my respect for the connection you and your sister possess. Find family where you may, Miss Elliot, and treasure it dearly.’
She nodded and smiled. Though she did not say it aloud, she felt that to call Oliver St Martin part of her family one day was something both possible and desirable.
Lucy entered the Boulanger eagerly, knowing that, by the nature of the dance, she should have at least a brief chance to speak with Captain Dashwood as they passed each other, cycling through partners.
And yet even this seemingly obvious plan was thwarted as they got underway, for she could catch sight of him neither in the orbiting dancers nor the assembled observers.
Where she might otherwise have lost herself in the pleasant patterns and repetitions, she instead found herself frustrated by the persistent obstacles that the evening had placed against her.
She wondered how she might remedy this. The most obvious solution was to take a diversion tomorrow to Elsworth if she happened to pass that way.
This was quite at odds with the very perception she had been trying to avoid of there being a strong connection between them, but the truth was that her family now assumed as much and her vexation propelled her to risk such speculation.
If she could confer with him directly then she might have a chance to pin down the truth and so better explain it to others.
This course of action decided upon, and no further opportunity for dancing presenting itself, she resolved instead to focus her attention entirely on enjoying the evening for her own sake.
She savoured an excellent dessert, made sweeter by observing the third and final dance between Margaret and Oliver.
The dancing completed and the gentlemen heading to the smoking room, she dismissed any other chance of discussion with Dashwood, focusing her attention on the rather ruthless defeat of three other ladies in a game of cards.
So absorbed was she in calculating the odds of the necessary card appearing that she only faintly detected a snippet of the conversation of her table mates.
‘Pardon me.’ She broke her silence so sharply that one of the other ladies almost dropped her hand. ‘But did you say a horseman?’
‘Yes.’ Elizabeth Overton nodded. She was a married woman with a predisposition for gossip and for the exaggeration of her children’s virtues, but otherwise quite sensible in Lucy’s perception.
‘My husband and I were returning home from a visit to Lord Rathbone, and at some point we heard hooves. When I looked from the side window, I saw a horseman following behind us at some distance.’
‘What manner of horseman?’
‘It was too far off to make it out. My eyes are not what they once were. But it was ghostly white. It was a very dark night and yet I could still see the shape of it. My husband saw it too, but dismissed it as a night rider of some kind. A messenger perhaps.’
‘You were not convinced?’
‘Well, I have heard the legends of the headless horseman. They say if you see him then you’re doomed. So maybe these bad eyes saved me after all.’ She chuckled. ‘I glanced back when we turned into our gate, but no rider passed by on the road. It was a curious affair indeed.’
‘I do hope it was not a sign of misfortune,’ said Sarah Mayhew.
‘Misfortune?’ asked Mrs Overton.
‘Charlotte Wyndham once spoke of a ghostly horseman on the roads. And you can scarcely deny that an ill fortune came for her.’
‘As I said, I have heard the tales. But I am doubtful of such superstitions. What do you think, Miss Elliot?’
Lucy decided to keep what Charlotte had told her in confidence, but knew she had to reply with something in defence of reason.
‘I find it most unlikely that a ghostly spectre on the night roads should be a forewarning of improper stock speculation.’
The women at the table all laughed cheerfully at the reply.
‘Miss Elliot, you have a way of cutting through nonsense that I find refreshing,’ Mrs Overton said, ‘I, for one, find it far more likely that such a figure is some manner of criminal marking out potential victims.’
‘Do you think so?’ Sarah asked excitedly, the idea of highwaymen every bit as captivating as phantasms.
‘Sir Walter St Martin’s wine was stolen from a coach.’
‘Brandy,’ Lucy corrected.
‘Brandy.’ Mrs Overton nodded. ‘And it hasn’t been seen since. What better way to know of potential prey than to observe the regular users of the night roads?’
This made sense to Lucy, though she could not help but feel it was only a part of a more complicated issue.
A night rider might observe coaches, but to what end?
Neither Charlotte Wyndham nor the Overtons had carried anything of value on their trips.
Perhaps that was why they had not been robbed.
But then how was a robber to know what a coach did or did not hold from a distance?
Lucy pondered this in the back of her mind as she discarded, drew, then played a king of diamonds to muted sighs of despair from her fellow players.
As the evening wound down and the various guests and coaches departed, Lucy found herself wearied.
She’d had her limit of socialising and now looked forward to the quiet comfort of her own home and bed once more.
Before she was able to depart, however, there was one more obligation to uphold, that of the earlier offer from Sir Walter as to a remedy for her parents.
While Margaret and Captain Dashwood waited for Jim to bring the coach around, Lucy followed her host down a quiet hallway in search of preserved peppers.
‘You know, I have been most interested of late as to the curative properties of such spices. These are some of the strongest I have been able to cultivate, but I’m led to believe there are some wonderful exotic varieties in the Americas that might even be useful as ointments.
You’re not suffering from any maladies yourself, Miss Elliot? ’
‘My feet are somewhat weary from dancing, but I am otherwise well.’
‘I quite understand. I should not trouble you further with the basement steps. Ah, here should be a perfect spot for you to wait.’ He pointed to a small bench in an alcove and she thanked him for his generosity as he descended into his pickling room.
For the first time in the whole evening there was a still silence, and she allowed the coolness of it to ease over her, every bit as pleasant as being able to rest her feet.
It was amidst this silence that she caught the sound of voices moving down a nearby hall. She remained still as they approached, words and voices becoming clear. One of them was George St Martin, and the other had the bearing of a servant.
‘No trace of the stolen goods has been found?’
‘No sir.’
‘But you suspect that the Earl of Westchester is involved?’
‘That is our best guess, sir.’
‘Well, hopefully the situation will be resolved before long. My father is becoming increasingly anxious about the whole affair.’
The conversation continued, but it did so beyond earshot, as they had both walked on past her; seated on the bench in the alcove as she was, they had not sighted her as they’d conversed.
It was quite extraordinary information. Not only were the St Martins still investigating the theft of the brandy on their own terms, but they believed it to be connected to the Earl of Westchester, a title she was unfamiliar with.
She was quite sure it did not belong to anyone she had encountered in the district, and she had a quite comprehensive knowledge of local society.
It was certainly intelligence that Captain Dashwood should find keenly interesting, if she should ever again have the opportunity to speak to the man in private.
Before she could mull this over further, she heard the sound of more footsteps, and Sir Walter returned, proudly holding a jar of preserves, swirling with crimson and amber. She took it with gratitude and held it with the reverence that reflected the way he had presented it.