CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
As she dressed for their excursion to Vauxhall pleasure gardens, Laura reflected that the past two days had had an unreal quality about them, as if she were living in a kind of limbo. And that was true on three fronts, moreover.
Her mother floated about in a cloud of quiet happiness these days, but she had not confided her status or future plans to her daughter.
Somehow it seemed a gross indelicacy to breach this protective bubble with questions or comments.
Oddly, she might have done just that, had not Lord Exton admitted the other evening that he had not yet proposed.
She could only speculate on whether her hearty endorsement had led him to try his fortune then or since.
Cousin Bess’ elaborate scheme to give Annabelle relief from her duties as chaperone suggested possible collusion with Lord Exton to make tonight his Rubicon.
Her own situation was unsettling to her mental comfort these days also.
Last night they had attended Almack’s and enjoyed a pleasant evening.
Jack Hastings had escorted his mother, who proceeded to distinguish the Marsh ladies with flattering attentions in the midst of society’s concerted efforts to welcome her back from her self-imposed exile.
Jack had hovered nearby, obviously gratified by the warm reception for his mother.
He had twice partnered Laura and taken her into the refreshment room once he’d seen his parent settled happily among old friends.
In short, he’d treated Laura like the good friend she had declared herself content to remain.
Laura stared into the looking glass assessing the effect of her pendant cameo with her newest gown, a crisp white lawn with a triple flounce banded in blue ribbon, then rejected the cameo in favour of pearls.
She assessed her mental state too, and rejected the term “contented” with uncharacteristic vehemence.
Honesty demanded that she admit to an irritation of the nerves that bordered on testiness if she failed to monitor her every utterance.
She was quite frankly disgusted with herself.
Stubborn and wilful she might be, according to her mother who knew her best, but she would have described herself as having an even disposition, not given to odd humours, had she ever given the subject more than a passing consideration.
The trouble was too much idleness, or perhaps too much busyness, that was unproductive.
She pondered this explanation for a moment, then rejected it also.
Unproductive busyness had been the order of this visit from their very first day in London, but it had not led to uneven spirits until recently.
The quarrel with Jack Hastings had marked the start of this strange period of unfamiliarity with her own character.
By that token, her apology and Jack’s forgiveness should have restored her equilibrium, but this was patently not the case.
What was the matter with her? What did she want?
Jack. A second chance to accept the devotion she had spurned.
Suddenly the answer was as obvious as if written in lights behind her eyelids.
She’d regretted her cruel and hasty words almost before she’d finished uttering them, well before meeting his mother.
And then she had listened to Lady Hastings describe her husband, and every attribute and virtue assigned to Jack’s father had described Jack as far as she knew him.
And this without taking into consideration any of the uncomfortable, startling and intriguing physical reactions she experienced at his lightest touch.
She grew warm and became aware of prickling sensations beneath her skin at the recollection of the feelings engendered by any waltz with Jack, but this pleasant dreaminess was an ephemeral indulgence soon replaced by uncertainty.
An epiphany was not the same thing as a solution.
Laura plopped down on to a chair, her legs and her insides suddenly unsteady as she tried to assimilate the now-obvious fact that she had been superlatively stupid about her own character and inclinations.
She’d considered herself insulated against the admiration of men and well equipped to resist the wiles by which they pursued their objective, be it seduction or matrimony.
It had never occurred to her that she might be undone by the charm of a man’s smile.
She’d resisted and denied what was happening in her own blundering manner and, though she had not suffered the ultimate misfortune of forfeiting Jack’s friendship, she now wanted much more, and found herself prey to all the misgivings and torments of a girl newly in love who fears that she might have destroyed her suitor’s ardour.
Too agitated to remain still, Laura jumped up and began pacing about a room whose modest dimensions were not designed to contain her nervous energy.
She must conquer this just-discovered tendency to give way to alarums and flights of imagination in the style of those heroines of romantic literature she’d always despised as idiots.
Next thing she knew, she’d be having vapours like the veriest ninny.
All was not yet lost. Time was on her side.
Jack liked her very well and he had persisted in the face of her early discouragement of his courtship.
She would find a way to reanimate his earlier feelings of devotion.
Surely she could muster up some semblance of feminine allure.
Perhaps if she studied to be more like her cousin Sophia —
The thought of Sophia instantly deflected Laura’s preoccupation with her own romantic problems, and a little worry line appeared between her brows.
She believed the imminent offer from Sir Cyril had not yet occurred, but she’d heard nothing on that subject from her cousin or her uncle.
Sophia had kept to her room the morning after her ball, pleading a headache and fatigue, and had not joined Annabelle and Laura when they had paid a call on the Cahills that afternoon.
She seemed her normal self at dinner, but with Sir Oswald present there was no likelihood of the subject being raised.
Her cousin had retired immediately on their return from Almack’s last night.
Acting on a strong suspicion that the girl was deliberately avoiding her, Laura had waylaid her in her bedchamber before breakfast this morning, knowing that Sophia planned to spend the day with the Chandlers before going on to Vauxhall.
She might as well have saved her breath, she acknowledged, recalling the unsatisfactory encounter.
To her blunt questions about what she intended to do with respect to Sir Cyril, Sophia had returned evasive answers.
Laura had been prepared for this, and proceeded to advise her cousin to seek her aunt’s assistance in dealing with her father if she feared coercion.
Sophia had listened to every argument with the air of one determined to follow her own counsel, insisting repeatedly that she only needed a little more time.
At last Laura had retorted in frustration, “To do what? The problem isn’t going to go away because you choose to ignore it, Sophie. ”
The line deepened in Laura’s forehead as memory replayed the scene.
Sophia’s lips had parted as if to answer, then she had clamped them shut, turning away.
She had been pale and distressed but had kept resolutely silent, and Laura, feeling as though she were bullying a defenceless child, had retired in defeat, merely reminding her cousin to have her bandbox packed before she left for the Chandlers’ so it would be ready for the Cahill servants to remove during the afternoon.
The scene in her cousin’s room had returned to disturb her at intervals during the day.
She was decidedly uneasy, but could not state her concern in intelligible fashion.
Sophia’s pallid, suffering countenance had belied her assurances that all that was required was time to resolve her problem.
In a way it was too bad that they were to spend the night with the Cahills, Laura mused, gathering up her reticule and the Clarence blue shawl that matched the rows of decorative bands on the flounces of her skirt.
There would be little chance of private conversation with Sophia until tomorrow.
For the moment she must accept that she had done her best and await events.
Entering the small parlour before dinner, Laura noticed her mother’s eau-de-nil stole draped over the back of a chair. “Mama, this is the first time you’ve worn your stole this spring, is it not?”
“Why … yes, dearest. Tonight is really the first evening that promises to be warm enough to eschew a cloak.” Annabelle achieved a casual tone, but Laura’s sharp eye detected added colour in her cheeks.
“It will be a stunning compliment to your gown. That pearly colour — nakara, is it called? — is quite gorgeous on you,” she assured her mother sweetly, not attempting to repress a knowing smile.
The Cahill carriage collected Laura before Lord Exton arrived, and she found herself for the first time heading off for a social evening with neither of her usual companions.
Lucy’s and Laura’s eyes were shining with excitement by the time the party arrived at the pleasure gardens at dusk.
Mr. Cahill, accurately judging his daughter’s romantic fancies, had arranged for water transportation instead of tamely driving across the bridge, even going so far as to engage musicians to serenade them from an accompanying boat as they were rowed across the gleaming water under fading skies with a shadow moon poised on the horizon.
Laura, who had never been on the water before in her life, was awash in sensations, her ears seeking out the tiny lapping sounds of the water against the boat amongst the simultaneous symphony of creaks, musical notes and human voices.