Hope Deferred Maketh The Heart Sick
“Lydia! Stop chasing that tom!” A smash of china. “You shameless girl! It will all end badly, you know!”
At such a hullabaloo from the hall, Verity paused in packing her satchel on the bed with a vinaigrette, comb, shawl and plenty of shillings and tuppences for the Michaelmas Fair. “Is all well?” she called out.
Aunt popped a harried face around the door.
“No need to fret, darling. Just the new cat… I mean one of the in-residence cats who is proving rather headstrong. She came home last night smelling of cologne.” Aunt raised her eyes to the ceiling.
“And that was just her clattering into the Gillows side table. With the Spode porcelain spill vase atop.”
“Any damage?”
“No. She’s fine.”
“I meant the vase?”
Aunt chewed her lip. “Nothing that a few staples wouldn’t fix.”
Verity placed hands to hips. “How many cats is that now, Aunt?”
“Six…ish. But I’ve found new homes for three this week. Fanny is now with Mrs Harlow’s theatre on Princess Street and Elizabeth has done so well for herself with a gentleman who’s taking her back to Derbyshire – she had such fine eyes, you see.”
Yes, Verity did indeed see. “Let’s try to keep them to single numbers shall we. I adore them also, Aunt, but that’s the third vase this month. Not to mention all my missing hair ribbons.”
“Of course, Verity darling. The hair ribbons would be Lydia again, I’m afraid.” Aunt slipped into the room and closed the door behind her. “And I… I’d never wish to outstay my welcome here.”
Verity stilled, let the shawl slide from her fingers to the bed, and crossed the room.
“This is your home, Aunt Theo,” she said softly. “Forever. You are family and do not merely stay here.” She set hands upon Aunt’s shoulders. “You saved me. If not for you…” Her voice wavered. “I… I do not know what would have happened.”
Aunt Theo hugged her close. “It was never in doubt, my darling. I could never have stood by and done nothing. And thank you.”
They stayed in silence for a moment, the past rushing in and out like the tide, leaving behind long-adrift debris but also a certain peace.
Back then, Aunt Theo had always been the penniless relation, barely a sou to her name, and had worked as governess to a variety of families. But penniless or not, it had been Aunt who’d been the one to save her. Wealth of purse she lacked, but in compassion and love, she was immeasurably rich.
“Now…” Aunt cleared her throat and bussed Verity’s cheek.
“Go enjoy the Michaelmas Fair. But stay away from those ferocious swingboats. As a young girl, some beaux persuaded me into one at Lambeth Fair and I was nigh flung to the clouds.” Aunt clasped Verity’s hands but at a cat’s yowl from the hall, she rolled her eyes, turned and headed for the door.
Smiling, Verity returned to the bed and her shawl, added it to the satchel, secured the buckles and then paused to admire the morning sun. It speared into her bedchamber with golden warmth, its beams reflecting in the mirrors above the mantelpiece, dressing table, wash basin and writing desk.
Verity caught her own reflection in one – her cheeks were flush and her eyes bright with…anticipation?
In the past, she would have tendered her excuses for such an excursion without a second thought, but for the first time in quite some while, she could admit to looking forward to it. The thrill of the fair. The fresh air and sunshine. Visiting the stalls with Sephi, Mrs Tait, Juliet and….
She’d be fooling herself if she did not include Miles in the list.
Had the two of them really been on the verge of a kiss?
Verity blinked. Of course not, you totty-headed goosecap!
Aunt’s Gothic novel must have fevered her mind, causing her to imagine an unholy desire in Miles’ eyes that solely belonged in the pages of fiction.
Naturally, after that dinner at the Taits, he would escort Juliet to the fair. His perfect bride. He would buy her ribbons from a tinker, shield her from the fire-eaters with a strong arm or laugh and gasp with her at the many entertainments. Whilst Verity herself would contentedly smile on.
With a frown, she pried her nails from her palm, scowled at the indents and picked up the satchel.
Departing her bedchamber, she nigh bumped into Sephi who wore an exquisite hat the size of a breadbasket and was hefting a valise down the hall.
“We’re only going to Kingston-upon-Thames for the fair, Sephi, not the Himalayas for winter.”
With a sigh, her cousin dumped the valise on the rug; it crunched on a shard of vase. “But it’s also September. In England. It could rain or shine, be cold, hot, muddy, dry. I’ve packed three bonnets, more gloves, a spare pair of boots, a shawl, second pelisse, parasol and a book.”
“A book?”
“In case I need to occupy myself.”
Verity tilted her head. “Have you been to a fair before?”
“Lud, no. Father never allowed it. He said they were despicable events for fizgigs and the ignoramus. I’ve always wanted to go.”
“Ah. You won’t need the book.”
Sephi muttered and kneeled to open the valise. Gloves bolted for freedom and bonnets likewise but she drew out a slender volume and then slammed it shut again.
“Ready?”
They both breathed deep.
“Ready.”
Miles paced outside Hyde Park’s Cumberland Gate where all were due to convene.
Peered up the connecting thoroughfares of Edgeware and Oxford, then scrutinised Park Lane.
Pondered if he’d mistaken the date.
But no, today was September the 29th, when the folk of England evoked the warrior angel St Micheal for protection against the encroaching winter gloom.
One of the quarter days of the year, it also signified the end of harvest and hence the end of many a farm labourer’s contract, causing them to mill the fairs in search of the next season’s employment.
Saint Michaelmas Day.
So everyone else was just late.
How he abhorred lateness, an offence to his sense of order.
An impatient Lupin was tied to a lamppost so with little else to do Miles checked once more his personal paraphernalia required for a day’s excursion to the fair: a Queen Anne box-lock pistol with folding bayonet, a dirk of some fifteen inches, double-edged blade with ribbed wooden grip and brass ferrule – in scabbard, of course – and a J. Rogers & Sons dagger knife in his boot.
In fact, he’d carried less when in the army but he was taking no–
“Coo-ee, my lord!”
He twisted to Mrs Tait waving from a two-horse-drawn yellow barouche, her daughter Juliet sitting beside her in a matching daffodil-hued pelisse. She made a beautiful portrait of young feminine decorum and future wifely elegance.
Doffing his hat, he returned a greeting before the driver of their barouche was forced to move along as a queue of the other invitees had formed behind the Taits.
Had they all decided together to be a quarter hour late? And not informed him.
“Ho, Miles! You’re early.”
With a shake of head, he turned to Dair mounted on a grey gelding, having ridden up from the direction of Park Lane.
“I was on time,” he groused.
“Not in London. Quarter of an hour after the given time is on time. Half an hour is fashionably late and an hour is admirably reckless.”
Miles crossed his arms. “‘I owe all my success in life to having been always a quarter of an hour before my time.’”
“Well, if you have nothing better to do.”
“For hell’s sake, Cousin, I’m repeating Nelson. In service of the Crown, punctuality is essential. The merest hint of slackness could bring death to others relying on you.”
“But you’re in London now, Miles.” Dair sighed. “Moreover, being recklessly late and missing the fair might have been prudent.”
“What? How so?”
“Well, at a concert the other day, Mrs Tait happened upon–”
“Driver!” came a shriek. “Have you lanterns? And blankets? We’ve no wish to be forced to an inn for the night…”
Miles briefly closed his eyes. “Aunt Mildred and Jeremy.”
“… Damp sheets, bed bugs, slamming doors, dirty slippers, insolent porters, unwashed sailors, bucolic peasants and…”
“A Mozart concert, it was, and if it’s any consolation, Mrs Tait seems to regret tendering the invitation also, but she assumed that, it being your aunt and my own mother, we would welcome her inclusion.
” Dair dismounted and clapped him on the back.
“And speaking of invitations, I have one for you, Miles.”
“Not Mrs Harlow and her nymphs.”
“No, no, a little less highbrow, I’m afraid. An art exhibition. I’ve an invitation and am permitted one guest. Bound to be adequate nibbles but I won’t know anyone other than the friend who invited me so I thought you could repay my attendance at Mrs Tait’s dinner.”
Miles’ brow creased. “Not an exhibition of war paintings, is it?”
“No. The four-legged fraternity: horses and furry felines. Hosted by the Duke of Rothwell.”
Miles’ brow uncreased. “I need to speak with that duke as he’s patron of this Witness fellow.”
“Lud, Miles, you can’t harangue a duke at his own exhibition. Bad form.”
“Well give me one good reason to attend, then?”
“Other than repaying me, you mean…” But his cousin cast a sly grin. “It’s to be held at Chesterfield Gardens.”
Ah.
Dair had him there as the Gardens were said to be the finest in London and Miles had longed to view them for some while. “I suppose I could…mill along.”
“Excellent. Now then…” Dair straightened his cravat. “‘Desperate affairs require desperate measures.’ Nelson, don’t you know, so let us recap your admirable plan for today. We attach ourselves, nay cling, to the Misses Seymour and Nash like burrs on a petticoat until–”
Another shriek rent the air… “Thank heavens I’ve a Will made, for you cannot tell me, Mrs Tait, that fewer souls perish on the King’s Highway than do mid-sip of tea in a drawing room!”
With a deep breath, Miles turned, wondering why Aunt had come at all.
Poor Mrs Tait was agape as the two ladies’ barouches nigh scraped one another like racehorses jostling for position. Aunt Mildred with her nose in front.