Chapter 20
WHEN ANNABEL WRITES OF THIS DAY, SHE WILL DESCRIBE IT AS AN idyllic tableau of an early nineteenth-century picnic at a grand country estate—an ancestral home sporting nature’s finest offerings, wild and tamed.
Even clouds have assumed their roles, she’ll say, puffed up their shoulders, and trimmed themselves in a confident white willing to give blue center stage.
A light breeze ruffles hems and hair, the smell of trimmed grass and roses infuses everything.
At the center of the lush, sprawling green at the back of the house, two large wicker baskets lie open on a blanket, teeming with continental delicacies and simple sandwiches.
Servants, of course, abound, passing out drinks on silver trays.
She will say that over here, cherished friends and welcome guests sip cold lemonade in crystal. Over there, Reverend Tudor downs a cordial from a dram glass, then recounts a scene from his younger days to his son, who claps bugs in the sunlight.
Lady Gidding-Wedmore and Lieutenant Revell drink French champagne from pillar-cut flutes, the former flirting with the latter, who laughs when necessary, but trains his gaze on his prey.
Mrs. Lackington stands with Harriet, the daughter a fairer copy but with the same cutthroat instinct.
The mother’s violet parasol spins a corpse-like hue onto her face, which she thinks suits her.
Harriet’s hot-pink parasol matches her Parisian picnic gown, chosen for just such an occasion.
Together, they watch a friendly game of pall-mall on a long alley of hard sand and crushed cockleshells.
It does not go unnoticed that, in the near distance, William has wandered off with Fanny on his arm into the rose garden, lush with summer blooms.
Annabel notes it all, the pairings, the players, the plotting.
She will assign different names to the day’s partakers, but our three travelers will know precisely who is who.
Cassie will recognize her bold play for Warnaby’s attention and admire her own devotion to manifesting her singular goal.
Billy will see himself in the awkward young man with the fake but convincing British accent, who knows he should be working the crowd in want of a job but instead sneaks off with a girl who is out of his league.
Annabel will recollect her own determination to be sensible, above all.
Over the course of the carriage ride, she’d convinced herself that a modest living as a writer was her only hope.
Cassie was right. There was no chance of her competing with Harriet, not in status or riches.
She had nothing to offer D’Evercy, less than nothing.
Even worse, she’d deceived him about Bloomingdale’s, letting him believe they were a family with money.
It was a wrong she must correct as soon as she could find the right moment to get the words out of her mouth, just to clear the air between them.
No, her goal for the day was to feel less, keep her head down, not be drawn into a challenge she could never win, correct the record with the man whose opinion mattered most, and leave with her integrity intact.
She would look away if D’Evercy happened to smile, causing the dimple on his right cheek to sickle into a crescent moon.
Narrative distance was her only hope.
***
When a game of pall-mall with teams was proposed, and it looked close enough to croquet to suit her, Cassie pounced on poor Warnaby to join her side.
Annabel acquiesced when D’Evercy invited her to his side and then regretted her proximity to his strong shoulders and narrow waist, the curl that often landed in the middle of his forehead until he swept it away, and yes, the dimple that was on frequent display.
Her heart changed pace, and peculiar pulses gripped her throat whenever he came close.
She looked away, but it didn’t help.
Warnaby stood with her as D’Evercy had his turn. He was pretending not to be tracking Fanny and Billy in the rose garden, walking at a lovers’ pace.
“Mr. Doofus seems quite content here,” Warnaby said, squinting into the sun to watch them.
“I’m sure the novelty will wear off,” Annabel assured him.
“As it will for you, too, Miss Blake, I quite expect.” Harriet had appeared as if from nowhere, with Lieutenant Revell at her side.
“But, Miss Lackington, our small country village has never seemed less dull,” said D’Evercy, hitting his ball through an iron hoop with ease.
“I quite agree, D’Evercy,” said Revell. “And well shot, I might add.”
D’Evercy offered a low thank you and turned to Cassie. “I believe the turn goes to you, Miss Blake.”
Cassie had been spinning her mallet, leaning on it, picking off grass, but here was her chance. She’d been a natural athlete all her life, including a stint as a teenage trophy-winning travel golfer, but that wouldn’t serve the moment, so she took a different tack.
“Mr. Warnaby, it’s been so long since I played. Would you be kind enough to review the rules of the game?”
They all watched with amusement as Warnaby went politely to her aid.
“Well, of course, the aim, Miss Blake, is to shoot the ball through the far hoop with as few strokes as possible.”
“What sort of strokes do you think best?”
Annabel reddened three shades. Revell lifted his left eyebrow, Harriet her right.
Warnaby didn’t miss a beat. “Ah! You see, knowing when to opt for a powerful stroke, as opposed to a gentler, more tactical stroke, can make all the difference to one’s game. That, of course, and ball positioning.”
“Oh, strokes and balls,” said Cassie. “So very much to think about!”
“It is better not to think, just do.”
“‘Just do.’ I like that very much, Mr. Warnaby.” Cassie was doing her best impression of demure, but held her mallet in a suggestive way, with a side wink to Annabel. “And would you be so kind as to remind me of the proper way . . . to hold the pole?”
Annabel’s mortification was complete. D’Evercy stood beside her, fighting a smile, as they watched Cassie’s devoted attention to Warnaby’s gentle guidance.
“My sister’s quite competent, actually.”
“I can see that.”
“‘All feel, no fear.’”
“So it would seem,” he said.
“Frankly, I admire her commitment to the cause,” said Revell.
“What cause is that?” said Harriet.
“Cassandra can be quite . . . singular in purpose,” said Annabel, torn between defending her sister and piling on.
D’Evercy leaned in. “Warnaby can take care of himself. His kindness should never be mistaken for weakness.”
Annabel turned her face to his. There were moments it was impossible not to admire him, against all her best efforts.
Harriet, meanwhile, sizzled and schemed.
***
As Cassie progressed down the alley, Warnaby offered advice and encouragement. When they were out of earshot, she readied her last stroke, unaware that he was gazing out at Fanny and Billy with a look of concern.
“May I ask, Mr. Warnaby, if you don’t consider me too forward, are you at all . . . gay? Because my cousin swears you are, but I said I was sure you are not.”
He looked at her, impressed by her keen observation. “Indeed, I am far from gay.”
“I knew it!”
“I don’t mean to wear my heart on my sleeve,” he said apologetically.
“Gay or not gay, I say wear it proudly.”
He smiled, amused. “I think I understand what Fanny likes about you Blake sisters, a certain forthrightness.”
“I like that about me too.” Cassie made her shot handily and gave him a bright, toothy smile back.
“I must say, I’ve never seen anything quite like it. Your teeth are . . . preternaturally white.”
“Why, thank you!” said Cassie. “And yours are . . . preternaturally off-white.”
Warnaby laughed. “I’ve often said we English would benefit from more intercourse with you Americans.”
“I couldn’t agree more. When shall we?”
“Are we not already?”
“Only if you call this foreplay!” said Cassie, biting her pillowy bottom lip.
Behind them, Mrs. Lackington had joined the viewing party. She and Lieutenant Revell watched the scene play out.
“A curious family, don’t you think, Lieutenant?” said Mrs. Lackington, leaning in.
“If curious enough to hold D’Evercy’s interest, certainly enough to hold mine.” He popped a ripe strawberry into his mouth followed by a gulp of good champagne.
“Still,” said Mrs. Lackington, “one wants to be sure, does one not?”
***
For his part, Billy could hardly remember how he and Fanny had gotten to the hillock.
He’d had trouble shaking off his nerves when they first arrived.
The size and scope of Ellesmere, the swirl of guests, did nothing to tame his anxiety.
But when Fanny’s pretty face appeared on the garden lawn under her parasol, his spirits lifted.
He asked her if she felt like taking a walk, which seemed to delight and flummox her.
She smiled at her mother, who kept at least one eye trained on her at all times, while explaining to him that they might dare do so without a chaperone as long as they stayed within view.
Billy had never given a thought to chaperones but readily agreed when Fanny threaded her arm through his.
No woman had ever done that; it was such a small thing.
But it made him grow taller and feel more at ease.