Chapter 21
IF CASSIE’S SPONTANEOUS PLAN TO RUN STRAIGHT INTO THE storm proceeded better than she predicted, it was worse than Annabel feared.
Imagine her mortification when Warnaby rushed dramatically into the drawing room with Cassie draped like a ragdoll across his arms, both of them dripping from hair and hems, making puddles on the Turkish carpet.
He laid her on a sofa, her sheer gown soaked through.
A fire had been lit in the great hearth and was taking to flame.
Cassie pretended she was “coming to” with a sultry moan, as Warnaby leaned over her.
“Everything’s all right, Miss Blake. You’re here, at Ellesmere, among friends.”
“Oh my. I don’t know what came over me.” Her drawl was breathy and faint.
“You were confused, that’s all.”
“How can I thank you, Mr. Warnaby. For saving me.”
“Never mind that.”
She put her wrist to her forehead. “Oh, I fear I am feverish already.”
Warnaby stood aside when Annabel came to her sister’s “aid,” feeling her forehead and cheeks. She was furious. Cassie managed a wink only Annabel could see.
“Perhaps you should take my temperature, dear sister.”
“I just did.”
Warnaby looked at D’Evercy. “We’ve got to get her out of these wet clothes.”
D’Evercy had already taken charge and summoned a servant. “You, too, Warnaby. I’m having some things brought down, and a bedroom readied.”
“A bedroom?” said Annabel. Her eyes darted to the Lackingtons, huddled by the fire like a pair of drowned ferrets shooting daggers at her. “Is that really necessary?”
“For you as well, Miss Blake. You’ll be right next to your sister. And your cousin, of course, nearby.”
Annabel looked at Billy, who shrugged, no help at all. Things were spinning out of control.
Fanny laid a blanket over Cassie. “Cassandra. You poor dear.”
The rain pounded the windows; thunder roared overhead.
“Truly, we should get back to Kidlington,” said Annabel.
Lady Gidding-Wedmore looked aghast. “In this weather? Why, don’t be silly, Miss Blake. We shall make a party of it! At least until the weather clears. Don’t you think, Henry?”
“Of course.”
“Well, then, we ought to stay as well, I should think,” said Mrs. Lackington.
“If it’s no inconvenience to you, Mr. D’Evercy,” said Harriet.
“Everyone’s welcome.”
The other guests had run for their carriages. These were the ones that remained. D’Evercy looked to Annabel, the only apparent holdout. His eyes were an invitation entire.
“What do you say, Miss Blake?”
Annabel took in their surroundings, kneading her hands.
The handsome drawing room was an invitation in itself, rich and storied, with more appeal to comfort than luxury, the way old money is at ease in its skin, the way D’Evercy was in his.
On any other day she would think the room wonderful and welcoming, but now she felt captive against her will.
She had no faith in Cassie’s scheme; on the contrary, in such dangerous proximity to the Lackingtons, she worried it might bring them all crashing down.
“Oh, do let’s stay, dear sister,” said Cassie weakly, milking it. “I’m sure I’ll be well by tomorrow.”
“You see, Miss Blake,” D’Evercy said. “It appears you have no choice.”
Annabel caught Harriet’s menacing smile. How much like her mother she was. But there was nothing to be done for it now.
“Thank you, Mr. D’Evercy. How kind of you to have us.”
***
Cassie’s guest room was airy and tall, with a sleigh bed and a canopy of chintz that cascaded from a crown hung from the high ceiling. She sat propped against a pile of sumptuous pillows, wearing an exquisite lace negligee and finishing, with a robust appetite, her fancy dinner on a tray.
“I could get used to this. It’s like room service. In the best hotel ever.” She ran a finger along the plate and licked the sauce off. “It’s like Mary’s cooking, but on steroids.”
Annabel stood, fretting the elbows of her picnic gown. “It was a joke, Cassie. I was joking.”
“It wasn’t just you. Mary mentioned it too.
She even offered to wet my dress before the picnic.
She said everyone does it.” Cassie tore off a piece of bread.
“And she reminded me about the part we talked about—where the mother sends the sister by horse, knowing it’ll rain so the sister will have to spend the night.
But the sister really gets sick. It’s brilliant!
” Cassie took a bite of the chewy bread. “Worked like a charm, I daresay.”
“Yes, but you’re not sick.”
“Have you met me? I can do fake-sick-acting.”
“But the Lackingtons, they’re staying too.”
“I am not afraid of the Lackingtons.” She handed Annabel her tray and turned her hands upward.
“I mean, who’s the one in the canopy bed with room service and a sexy negligee?
” She touched the intricate lace sleeves.
“Plus, look at the detail? Get out. Do you think D’Evercy just keeps a closet of girl clothes for whoever stays over? ”
“No! I don’t think that.”
“Wake up, Annabel. The guy practically leapt at the idea of a sleepover.”
Annabel set the tray down and walked to the tall, sashed window. The sky was turning a deep purple dusk at the edges, but the threat of the storm hadn’t passed.
“I am afraid of them, Harriet and her mother.”
“Do not be afraid of anyone,” said Cassie firmly. “And definitely don’t show it.”
“Hmm.” Annabel’s fury at her sister had burned quickly down to its embers, which was mostly a feeling of dread. She’d never been able to stay mad at Cassie. She didn’t know why.
Cassie brushed a crumb from her bedcovers. “So, if Warnaby and I don’t have sex, what do we have exactly?”
Annabel shrugged, distracted.
“No, I mean it. Like the bases. First, second . . . third?”
“Baseball hasn’t even been invented yet.”
“C’mon, Annabel.”
“I don’t know. A fervent pressing of the hand? Or maybe left lingering on the waist? A barely supervised walk . . . the brush of a forearm . . .” She looked out, remembering. “With the skirt of your dress rustling against the leg of his breeches.”
“I’m getting hot here.”
Annabel turned to her sister. “I have a really bad feeling, Cassie. Couldn’t we just go back to Kidlington?”
“Not without a marriage proposal, I’m not.”
***
When Annabel finally retired to her room, she found a vase by her bedside, spilling over with new-cut roses of every possible color, still kissed with raindrops.
“Henry . . .”
She sat on the edge of the bed. Beside her, a beautiful lace nightgown had been laid out, much like Cassie’s, but she felt sure there was an explanation—maybe he had a sister, maybe two.
There was so much she didn’t know about him.
But here, at Ellesmere, he was inescapable, in everything around her.
She walked to the writing desk under the window, sat, and lit a candle.
There was paper, of course, a fine sharp quill, but the mahogany inkstand caught her eye.
It was inlaid with mother-of-pearl and had two inkwells whose brass tops were both engraved: H.L.D.
She traced her fingers along the letters of his name, then the mother-of-pearl, thinking what a careful hand it would take to lay the delicate floral pieces into the solid dark wood.
She marveled at the exquisite detail, the contrast of one to the other to great effect.
Maybe things didn’t have to be the same to be beautiful together. Maybe there was hope.
But more pressing than hope was the new chapter she would owe Bickles in short order. Though no one here could know it, she was a working writer now. She had an obligation, yes, but like Mary, could hardly wait to find out what would happen next, which she’d only know by writing it.
Maybe a picnic was the place to begin.
***
Annabel woke with a start the next morning to the sound of voices outside.
She was lying across the bottom of the bed, still in her picnic dress, her head on her arm.
The voices seemed so close; she remembered cracking the window when the rain had stopped.
She pushed herself up and tiptoed to peer outside.
The morning sky was a cloudless blue. Below, D’Evercy and Warnaby stood just beyond the portico at the front of the house.
Warnaby was preparing to mount his horse.
She could just make out what they were saying.
“You mustn’t worry, Warnaby. Without a position, Doofus may win Fanny’s heart, but never her hand. I shall speak to him and discover his true intentions.”
“Thank you, Henry. For everything.”
She watched D’Evercy head back inside, heard the front door open and close, then turned away, muttering to herself. “Oh god. Billy.”
She could only find one of her shoes, her hair was falling down, her dress was wrinkled—she was altogether askew—but she had to warn him somehow.
She peeked out the door to make sure no one was there, then padded down the long hallway with no idea which room might be his.
When she got to the top of the grand staircase, there were voices somewhere down below, a faint echo in the cavernous house.
She tiptoed down the stairs into the entrance hall.
There were wings in every direction, but she followed the sound past a library, a smaller library, the drawing room she recognized from last evening, a lesser drawing room, a music room, a smoking room, a pink room with no discernible purpose, and finally to the source: Fanny, Billy, and D’Evercy, enjoying breakfast, judging from the smell of fresh coffee.
Annabel froze with her back against the wall, trying to make out what they were saying.
Suddenly, a small terrier trotted toward her with her missing shoe in his mouth.
“Psst!” she whispered to the dog as softly as she could. The dog stopped and cocked his head. She clicked her tongue and reached out her hand. He cocked his head in the other direction, but didn’t move.
Annabel knelt down. “C’mon, sweet pup, please?”