Chapter 4
If Caroline could have, at that moment, burst into a puff of smoke and floated away to the safety of the moon and trees, she gladly would have.
Aunt Olivia looked as if she was ready to burst herself—but more likely into flame than mere vapor.
Her face trembled as she panted, hand on her hip, trying to catch her breath.
The other ladies continued their whispers.
“Quite dreadful, the whole story.”
“It’s the scarred lady—”
“Cursed, surely.”
Caroline felt herself turning colors like dye in a vat—pink with vexation, red with embarrassment, and dead pale with alarm.
She had only wanted a little bit of peace—a bit of silence and an escape from the merciless stares.
The garden had looked so cool, still, and inviting before she had been set upon by those three ladies. How hot and agitated she felt now!
One of the mumblers—a tall, narrow woman like the crack in a door—peered at her through a misty eyepiece then whispered loudly to her neighbor.
“They had an appointment, she told me, a secret rendezvous.”
The neighbor shook her head, wagging her double chin and her diamond necklace in the same movement.
“An understanding must surely exist between them.”
Caroline’s eyes widened. Aunt Olivia’s eyes popped out of her head like seeds on a ripe strawberry. The nostrils of the elegant lady next to her flared. With a shock, she realized the situation had escalated far beyond the events of her tragic past and the mark of her tremulous present.
She ran through the night’s events in her mind. It had seemed so short a time—just a moment away from the whirl of society. How long had they been alone? And—her horror deepened—complete strangers!
His behavior, of course, had been in every degree aligned with the comportment of a gentleman—considerate, thoughtful, and kind.
They might, under different circumstances, have even become friends.
But what had hers been? A speck of relief settled on her ruffled feelings; she had, at least, comported herself with appropriate decorum, considering the circumstances. Oh, how she wished to hide!
One of the ladies near the front hid her face behind her fan, obscuring her open-mouthed incredulity as her companion whispered something in her ear.
Caroline put a hand to her forehead, trying to steady herself. She wished they would stop. The half-heard phrases were bad enough, but the shift of their eyes as they chipped away pieces of her character cut her to the core.
The gentleman stepped between her and the crowd, shielding her from their confabulations. A warm, familiar glow passed through her as she gazed at him. Her eyes thanked him gratefully, had he been turned towards them enough to receive their effusions.
She just wanted to go home. How far away was the carriage?
Wasn’t there a way she could hurry thence to it without causing any more scandal?
She glanced into the shrubbery, seeking a path to flee.
She had never wanted more to disappear, to fade into the shadows and the welcome solace from pointed speculation.
“Silence,” the Duchess of Blackmore demanded crisply. She had, at last, regained some of her composure. The bustle gradually settled, like a flock of starlings setting to perch.
She turned to the gentleman. “It would seem, Your Grace, that your walk in the garden extended past what you intended.”
Several ladies in the back giggled nervously. Esther paid them a pointed glance. The giggles stifled. The gentleman adjusted his gloves.
“Somewhat,” he answered. He looked over the group. “I did pass an excellent topiary before I met with—”
His gaze fell on three ladies peeking out near the back. Caroline thought she caught the flash of a florid orange spencer. It quickly disappeared into the throng. The gentleman’s eyes tightened.
“I was taking the air when I came across this lady. We paused for a moment’s tete-a-tete.”
Caroline trembled. Please, she hoped. Please don’t mention the heckling or the curse—not before this many people! Of course, the words were already laced through their thoughts and stitched into their lips—but if only, this moment, she wouldn’t need to bear them spoken out loud.
Already she felt as if she was sitting uncomfortably close to a roaring fire in midsummer. She closed her eyes, trying to picture holding Oscar, safe and comfortable in her bed at home. It seemed so very far away.
The duchess’ eyes flashed like a candle struck from a match. Her unspoken questions and remonstrations pushed on Caroline like overstuffed pillows.
“I see,” she said slowly. Her imperious gaze shifted from the gentleman to her, and she trembled as the duchess’ eyes traced over her face, over her scar. “And this lady is?”
The gentleman turned to Caroline.
“I don’t believe we’ve met, actually.”
Several ladies behind Aunt Olivia gasped. The bustle, contained before now, erupted in new waves. Their dismay broke like glass over Caroline’s ears. She closed her eyes, trying unsuccessfully to check the blush steaming through the back of her neck.
“They hadn’t even been introduced?”
“How shocking!”
“The gross impropriety—in public of all places—”
“What a dreadful scandal!”
Caroline trembled, searching for the fleck of relief she had felt but moments ago. She knew—she had felt when her nervousness had pricked at her that morning at breakfast—that some disaster would befall them; she had brushed it away as the echo of a nervous complaint.
Aunt Olivia.
She opened her eyes. What would Aunt Olivia say? What would she do? Aunt Olivia’s eyes were tight shut, but her lips were moving—either in prayer or profanity, Caroline couldn’t tell.
The gentleman, at least, appeared not in the least discomfited. His face remained placid as he addressed her with the same tone as he would any other lady at any other time.
“What was your name, my lady?”
The duchess’ face tightened until it looked as though it might turn to stone.
Caroline shook under her displeasure. She ought to have sought an introduction through the master of ceremonies, ought to have fled the garden as soon as she was able.
And now, to be here, stared at like an animal in a cage!
Aunt Olivia opened her eyes and stepped forward.
“Here, perhaps, I can be of assistance in providing an introduction.”
Her curls shook with suppressed fervor, but her tone, at least, was level.
“Your Grace,” she said with a self-control that Caroline, even in the midst of her horror, admired. “I don’t believe you’ve met my niece.”
Caroline curtsied weakly, praying as fervently as she ever had that she wouldn’t fall over.
Her head felt light, as if she were floating over a cliff.
What could the duchess think of her, a scarred lady wandering the garden alone with this gentleman?
But then, she hadn’t felt so alone when she was with him.
It had been pleasant, just for a moment, to find a sympathetic voice, someone who at least spoke past her scars instead of straight to them.
He stood before her now, tall and silent, his face to the crowd. How could he face them with so much composure? She felt ready to fly into pieces or melt into ignominy, whichever element happened first to grasp hold of her quivering frame.
The duchess let out a slow breath. She looked as if she was trying to breathe through a thick, cherry cordial with determined endeavor, however scathing the application.
“Your niece?” His eyes met Caroline’s, and her face softened. “Indeed, I had not yet had the pleasure.”
She inclined her head—slowly, tightly—as if it cost her an effort. The bustle behind her quieted somewhat.
“Lady Caroline,” Aunt Olivia explained, “resides with me. We attend balls infrequently but hoped to make this event one of the few occasions.”
The gentleman who had come to her rescue started and turned to look at her more closely. Caroline lowered her eyes. Perhaps he had not fully realized who she was. That certainly explained his kindness.
“A pleasure, I’m sure, Lady Caroline.” He raised his gaze to the crowd. “Would you do me the honor of accompanying me inside? Certainly none of you fancy a gavotte here in the garden.”
Some of the gentlemen smiled weakly. The duchess stepped forward, slipping her hand through the gentleman’s arm. She gestured him inside. The majority of the whispering ladies followed them, raising their voices as soon as they erroneously assumed Caroline was out of earshot.
“… didn’t have much of a reputation to lose, I dare say…”
“Still, it’s a pity. Such a young lady.”
Aunt Olivia stepped to her, taking her hand. Her curls had wilted, drooping like rowan branches in a drizzle. The lines around her eyes had deepened as if a plow had scoured them into furrows.
“Are you all right, dear?”
Caroline shivered. The tears, starved into hiding by the occasion’s first alarm, welled up in her eyes like fissured diamonds.
“Yes,” she half-whispered, half-gasped. “I’m—”
She couldn’t finish. Emotions rushed through her like rain through a roof spout. Fear, gratitude, reserve, remorse—and above all, a penetrating self-consciousness made raw by the piercing glances of whispering peers.
A few ladies lingered still with their backs turned to her, glancing, on occasion, back to where she stood. Why didn’t they abandon her to her fate? It was only a matter of time before the gossip spread, and she was outcast—even more so than she had been—from any decent society.
The horror of her situation threatened to swamp and overwhelm her, a dark wave of shame and regret.
Aunt Olivia patted her arm.
“Don’t cry, dear—”
She stopped and put a hand to her own eyes. Caroline wiped her tears away, brushing the scar on her face and hiding her scarred hand.
“My lady!”
Winifred streaked through the garden like a cannonball. The tassels of her scarf whipped about her like a flail.
“Mistress!” She panted, and noticing the lingering ladies behind them, lowered her voice. “There’s talk in the servants’ quarters—I had to come to you. How—?”
She caught sight of Olivia and Caroline’s ashen faces.
“Is it true?”
Olivia scoffed, but her heart wasn’t in it.
“When is gossip ever fully true?” She shot what would have been a withering glance, had it contained anything but tired ire, in the direction of the vestiges of the ball crowd. Winifred paled. She looked at Caroline with growing alarm, put out her hand to touch her, and withdrew it.
“I think we’ve had enough socializing for one night, Winifred,” Aunt Olivia continued. Her voice drooped like a weary horse. “I, for one, would like to depart.”
Caroline sniffed, choking back more tears. Her skin prickled and shivered, more with horror than with cold. Winifred took her hand, lacing it through her arm.
“Shall we make our goodbyes, then? I—” She cleared her throat. “I for one don’t mind an early bedtime. It’ll make breakfast all the more pleasant.”
Her enthusiasm fell between them like an apple from a cart. Caroline leaned on her, grateful, at least, for some support. Her eyes swam, blurring hedge, headdresses, and stars.
What a terrible, horrible… Her eyes swirled like a leaf caught in a whirlpool. She covered them with her hand.
Wounded, her heart moaned. Her conscience cringed with chagrin.
And her body, woefully overwhelmed by their cries, crumpled and broke.
She tried to take a step forward but stumbled against Winifred, who steadied her.
Her lady’s maid looked pale and wan, as if the spark of her energy had drained into the cold, indifferent earth.
Aunt Olivia looked back at the house like an orphan through a Christmas window.
“It won’t—”
She closed her eyes and turned away.
“It won’t do to go back to the main house,” she said. “Not when we—we are so weary.”
Caroline lowered her head. Winifred, for once, made no comment and led Caroline, silently and sadly, back to the carriage.