Chapter Twelve
“So, Sylvie, my love, tell me everything,” whispered Vivien excitedly. “I cannot believe you kept such thrilling news from me while I was dressing. I’m positively bursting with curiosity.”
“Mm, you and everyone else,” said Sylvie, forcing a smile.
Vivien tilted her head, her sharp eyes softening. “Are you… do you not wish to marry Westland?”
“Oh, I do. I have wished upon such a thing for so long, it’s just… just not how I had dreamt… not how I wanted it to come about. His hand was forced, Viv, and I…”
“Pff,” Vivien waved off the thought, “I very much doubt Lord Westland can be forced into anything, my love. And from what Humber tells me…” leaning closer, lowering her voice, “…
he left those silly old bats Seymore and Smyth trembling in their silk slippers when he told them ‘to have a mind when speaking of his future wife.”
“Really?” squeaked Sylvie.
“And,” Vivien continued, “Lucien said he was quite distressed when you fled from his study after overhearing their conversation.”
“Is that so?”
“Mm, and he keeps looking over.”
“Hmm, likely in disbelief that he’s been landed with such a nincompoop. Oh, Viv, I so wanted to make a good first impression, after, you know, the garden incident… but… but I got into such a fluster and…”
“And?”
“Well, it just popped out.”
“What just popped out?”
“Pigs arse!”
“Noooo…” giggled Vivien, “you didn’t!”
“Oh, I did. And that’s not the worst of it,” Sylvie groaned and proceeded to fill her cousin’s ears with every mortifying detail from their walk back from the church.
Still giggling, Vivien clasped her cousin’s hands and squeezed them warmly. “How utterly charming.”
“Charming? Are you serious? It’s disastrous!”
“On the contrary, you silly goose. A man such as Westland would have been bored senseless by polite niceties and silly pleasantries.”
“Yet, I dare say bored would have been preferable to horrified and offended,” spluttered Sylvie.
“He is still here, is he not?” said Vivien with a grin. “Playing the dutiful betrothed?” Catching Sylvie’s troubled look, she added more gently. “You were nervous, tis all, and he will understand that.”
“Nervous! Oh, Viv, my insides were wibbling like a jelly and… and when he laughed, my heart fluttered, and my head swam with so many happy possibilities… and, and then I dashed all hope of him ever liking me.”
“Nonsense. I think your handsome Lord Westland is in danger of liking you very much indeed.”
Sensing they were drawing unwanted attention, Vivien lowered her voice, “But you were right. Curious ears surround us. We will talk more tonight. I’ll come to your rooms once the guests are gone.”
The infectious sound of a giggling child floated through the air, drawing both the young woman’s attention.
“Little Matilda seems to have settled well and appears to have found rather an adoring playmate,” said Sylvie.
“Oh, they are inseparable — all three of them,” said Vivien fondly.
“Artie was always a happy child, but now he seems to literally glow with happiness and joy. I worried he might be jealous of the new arrival, but I worried for nothing as he has doted on Matilda from the moment she arrived. He shares all his toys and books and is adorably protective. And chatter, they never stop chatting and giggling from sun-up to sundown.”
“Really?” said Sylvie, surprised. “Tilly, Matilda… does… can she speak now? Has she recovered her voice?”
“No. Artie chatters away for all three of them. Even Cravat has a say in their daily escapades if Artie is to be believed. Though it is quite intriguing, and it may sound a little silly, but it is as if he hasn’t even noticed she does not talk.
Her silence appears to be no barrier, and they intrinsically seem to understand one another. It is quite fascinating to observe.”
“She certainly looks the picture of happiness,” said Sylvie with a fond smile as she glanced around the room. “Oh, no. Mama has cornered Westland, and the way she is wafting that fan around, I fear she might impale him in some rather embarrassing way. Do you mind?”
“No,” laughed Vivien, “you’d better make haste before she claims his family jewels.”
“His jewels?” asked Sylvie blankly, “I had not noticed he was wearing any.”
Vivien shook her head and chuckled, “No, of course, silly me. Go on then, go and rescue the poor fellow before your mama does something unspeakable.”
* * *
“Lord Westland, Mama,” Sylvie said as she dipped a polite curtsey, her voice steadier than she felt.
“Ah.” Westland inclined his head. “Miss Mason. Now you are returned, I shall take my leave, with your permission, of course. Pressing correspondence to attend.”
“Oh, of course, my lord. I was about to retire myself. It has been a long day.”
“Indeed.” He gave a short nod. “Lady Mason. Miss Mason.” Without hesitation, he bowed over Sylvie’s hand, brushed it with a formal kiss, then strode purposefully from the room.
Sylvie stood quietly by her mother’s side, wistfully watching his retreating form. As he vanished from view, a little ache settled in her chest.
“Come, dear child,” Lady Mason whispered hurriedly, already bustling them through the thinning crowd, pausing only long enough to exchange departing pleasantries and bestow one or two distracted smiles.
Astonished by her mother’s apparent hurry to leave the party, as she had never known her to forfeit the chance of eating cakes and exchanging gossip before, she whispered, “Mama?”
“Come, come, we have much to prepare.”
“Prepare? Prepare for what?”
“For our departure tomorrow morning, of course.”
“But we are not due to depart for another three days.”
“Yes, indeed, but things have changed, my sweet, and I feel it only prudent we get back to your father as soon as possible. Now, hurry along and inform Betsy we need to be packed and ready by first light.”
“But… but, what of Lord Westland?”
“Never mind Westland,” whispered Lady Mason with a mysterious air as she quickened her steps. “All will be well. Now, hurry along, child, and tell Betsy everything ready by sun-up.”
* * *
The dead of night had long since settled, but sleep had not been its accompanying companion.
After tossing and turning for what seemed an eternity, Sylvie flung the bedclothes back in frustration.
Her bare feet thudded against the cold floorboards as she began to pace — back and forth, back and forth — until even that proved useless.
Her head was brimming, a maelstrom of emotions.
Delight, trepidation, embarrassment, joy, regret, anticipation.
It was such a hopeless muddle. And to top it off, Mama’s peculiar behaviour had only added to the confusion.
Lighting another candle, she slumped into the chair by the writing desk and, with a heavy sigh, picked up her quill and dipped it into the ink bottle.
Oh, Lord Westland, she wrote,
What a confounding pickle we find ourselves in, and what a silly goose I must seem to you.
Truly, what poised, elegant young lady bounds about a garden like a demented gazelle — with no stockings!
— and wreaks such havoc! And if that weren’t humiliation enough, proceeds to splutter ‘gossipy old buzzards’ and ‘pig’s arse’ in your company?
I’m normally of good manners and polite conversation in company, but I’ll be dashed to know where they disappeared to — they fled faster than a startled hare.
And… oh, the horror! To declare, quite brazenly, that I find you immensely handsome…
to your very face! It was beyond the pale.
Even if it remains perfectly true, I should never have uttered such an unladylike admission.
And were I a sensible creature, I would have bitten my tongue clean through before repeating any of that wretched gossip!
Heaven only knows what nonsense might spring forth from my silly lips tomorrow unless I can quell my nerves in your presence.
Though, in hindsight, mayhap the Pirate Captain and his ‘Pigs arse’ was a blessing, for had Henry the Highwayman been at the forefront of my mind then, ‘festering pustules,’ may have popped out instead.
Yet through all my mortifying antics and shameful behaviour, your conduct was that of a perfect gentleman.
Though I cannot help fear ours might be the shortest engagement in history, and would not blame you if you wished to be rid of such a potty-mouthed, ninneyhead.
Still, I hope — oh, how I hope — you will not.
Even though you will never read this letter, for it is destined to remain locked away in my ‘box of private thoughts’, I feel lighter for having had this conversation with you.
Good night, my handsome lord. I pray that your impression of me improves when next we meet. Could I even dare to hope for poised and elegant?
She signed it with a flourish, folded the soft parchment and tied it neatly with a pale green ribbon. Carefully denoting it with a meticulously scribed, “Lord Westland, Blackmoor Hall,” she set it beside her candle. At last, spent and soothed, she climbed back into bed and drifted off to sleep.