I would have to tell him today of my plan to move to Berkshire, and this saddened me. I would miss Philip, though he'd told me that his father would send him back to school sometime this term, so our lessons would have been short-lived in any case.
Philip's father allowed me to ride a gelding from his stables when I gave the lesson, a fine beast with good gaits. When we finished an hour later, and Philip went off home, I asked leave to ride the gelding a bit longer for the exercise. The groom saw no objection, and I trotted away, lost in thought.
On horseback, my injury did not hinder me as much as it did on foot. I could manage to sit a sedate walk, trot, and canter, though I could ride nowhere near as well or as long as I had in the cavalry. But mounted, I felt more in league with the world, and I had missed the time in the saddle. I hoped Grenville's friend would not object to his secretary borrowing a horse every now and then and riding off into the Berkshire countryside.
Lost in thought, I did not see Louisa Brandon and her pony phaeton until I was nearly upon her.
She drove alone, the reins held in her competent hands, her high, mannish hat set at a jaunty angle. A Brandon groom clung to the back of the phaeton, his face set against Louisa's swift pace. She often drove out in the afternoons, and I realized that I had probably lingered in order to see her. I had finished with my fit of temper of the night before and hoped she would allow me to apologize.
In my turbulent life, Louisa had been a constant. I'd met her when I'd been twenty, and from then until now we'd spent little time apart. She'd been married to Brandon already when he'd introduced her, but her friendship had carried me through fire and storm. Even now, after she'd told me to keep my distance, the most difficult part about leaving London would be leaving her.
Louisa turned her head, saw me. I feared for a moment that she would pass me by without a word, try to cut me dead as she had last night. As she neared, I saw the indecision in her face, then she drew beside me and pulled the pony to a walk.
"Gabriel," she said in her clear voice. "Good afternoon."
I hid my relief by tipping my hat, then I turned my horse to ride along beside her.
"I am always pleased to see you on horseback," Louisa said. "You look almost like your old self."
"A little grayer," I answered, matching her light tone.
"We all are, are we not?"
"Not you."
She smiled. "Only because gray is more difficult to see in fair hair. But it is there, I assure you."
The groom, who was about nineteen years old, stared stiffly ahead, uninterested in our conversation.
"Louisa, I wish to beg your pardon. I was abominably rude last evening. I am sorry."
"I was rude as well," she said, voice cool. "May we forget it?"
"If you wish."
We rode for a time without speaking. When she took up the conversation again, her voice was deliberately neutral. "Aloysius read out the letter you sent him explaining your decision to go to Berkshire."
"Yes." I imagined Brandon reading it with glee.
"When would you leave?" Louisa asked.
"Soon."
Her reins went slack, and the pony, bored, slowed and stopped. "Such a thing will be fine for you. Do you believe you have the temperament to become a secretary?"
"It can be no worse than writing reports for a regimental colonel."
She tried to smile. "We will- " She broke off. "I will miss you."
We studied each other, I unwilling to say anything that might endanger our friendship further. Underneath the drama between the Brandon and me, Louisa's friendship was a rock.
Louisa drew a breath, and the moment passed. "You must write of course." Another smile curved her mouth but did not enter her voice. "It will be your profession, now."
"Indeed, I will write lengthy and tedious reports of life in the country. How many flowers wilted at dinner and whether the vicar's wife has a new hat."
Louisa's smile faded. "We will miss you." I noted the firm we that time.
She seemed to remember that her cart sat unmoving. She flicked the whip, and the pony woke up and trotted on, the groom still stoic.
That evening, I turned up, in my newly brushed regimentals, at the Derwents' mansion in Grosvenor Square at the precise hour of seven o'clock. We had supper in the grand dining room amid the sparkle of crystal glasses and the gleam of silver. A row of French windows between mirrors gave out into a garden, which had been lit with festive paper lanterns.
On my first visit with the Derwents the previous summer, when they'd turned out their finest plate and cutlery and lit the house from top to bottom, I had wondered who was the grand guest for the evening. To my amazement, I realized all the fanfare had been for me.
The Derwent family flattered me, but they had genuine liking for me. I at first had been bewildered by them, then I'd decided to let myself enjoy their innocent enthusiasm. They loved more than anything to hear tales of my adventures in the Army, would sit for hours listening to me speak.
Sir Gideon was bluff and genial as usual, very much the country squire. Fair-haired Leland seemed to have survived public school and university without scars, an amazing feat. His sister, Melissa, looked much like him, and both had a frailty that worried me. I hoped that when the time came for Melissa to marry, she would find a gentleman who would understand her naivety and not break her. She watched me shyly and rarely spoke. In the last six months, I believe she had said all of five words to me.
Lady Derwent did not cough much during the meal and seemed better. She spoke with a bright animation that matched her son's and husband's as the butler served champagne.
Mrs. Danbury behaved as though she had nothing on her conscience. She ate the with good appetite and chatted with ease. I began to wonder if Lady Breckenridge had invented the tale of Mrs. Danbury leaving with my walking stick, but I could not think of any reason Lady Breckenridge would do so.
We finished supper and adjourned for cards. I had a lively game of whist with Leland and his father and mother, while Mrs. Danbury and Melissa played upon the pianoforte and the harp.
As the light music filled the room, a marvelous thing happened. I forgot. I forgot that I was poor and lonely and that my career was behind me. I forgot about murder and deceit and the ugliness of the world, forgot everything but the pleasant music, the sincere laughter, the soft slap of cards, and the clink of pennies as we settled up-we never played for more than a farthing a point. The Derwents drew a curtain between themselves and the world, and I enjoyed retreating behind the curtain with them.
I breathed the peace of this place, happy I'd found a refuge. But I knew in my heart that the peace would not last. Lady Derwent was dying. It was only a matter of time before this bright house became one of mourning. Perhaps that was why they were so cheerfully determined to enjoy themselves now; they knew that darkness was coming.
After cards, the Lady Derwent proposed a walk in the garden. The fair weather had lasted all day, and the moon was bright. I joined them, breathing the clean air, which, though cold, was refreshing. The paper lanterns danced, spreading blue and pink and red lights, rendering the garden colorful even in the bare winter night.
But I had come here for another purpose. Mrs. Danbury had not joined us, and I excused myself, declaring I'd forgotten my gloves.
I quickly walked back to the drawing room where Mrs. Danbury had stayed behind to cover the harp. The smell of beeswax and the ladies' perfumes lingered in the room, and the laughter and music seemed to as well.
Mrs. Danbury looked at me in surprise. She settled the dust cover, flapping it like a drapery over a bed. "Will you not walk, Captain?"