Chapter Ten Back to Previous Chapter The last week or so of April was a gloomy one, and the day designated for the annual football match dawned ominously. Fortunately, it did not rain, though grey skies and a damp chill kept away some of the usual onlookers and seriously diminished the spirits of the brave souls who huddled around the field designated for the match, a disused meadow in Lower Barstow. The new grass had been closely cut, and was sure to be trampled into the mud not long after the game began. Charles Musgrove regarded the field with his hands on his hips and an expression of intense satisfaction. Walter watched his brother with hidden amusement; Charles fulfilled the role of the young squire admirably the rest of the year, but on this day he was again a schoolboy, finding no greater pleasure in life than to play in the mud. They were both wearing their oldest clothes and boots, though in Charles' case his oldest clothes were barely distinguishable from his newest, being equally shapeless and nondescript. The brothers had both cast off coats and waistcoats and wore their shirts unbuttoned at the neck, with the only nod toward respectability being a handkerchief knotted round Walter's throat. A pink ribbon was tied around Charles' upper arm, the ends fluttering improbably in the light wind. The ribbon was a tradition started by Charles himself a few years before, shortly after his marriage. He had teasingly stolen a ribbon from Anne's hat and tied it around his arm, claiming it as his lady's favour in the manner of knights at a jousting tournament. The other young men had quickly followed suit, begging similar favours from the young ladies who gathered for the game. These young ladies were not much interested in football but were clearly interested in the spectacle of young, healthy men engaged in athletic competition, and they bestowed these favours willingly. Some of the more forward gentlemen even collected more than one, their sleeves resembling a May-pole before they were finished. Walter's arm remained bare of any such adornment; he had never solicited a ribbon from any young lady, and indeed had politely turned down the bold offers of some. This year, he toyed with the idea of requesting a ribbon from Gwendolyn Clay, but she had not yet turned up. This was something of a relief, as Walter had not yet decided how to proceed with his renewed attraction to Gwendolyn. He was unable to picture her happily sharing his quiet life at the parsonage; yet he did not like to think of giving up his profession. A gig approached; though the top was up, Walter recognized it as Eileen Gilbride's, with Michael's horse trotting behind. He was a little surprised to see them, as Eileen had indicated that she would keep Michael at home if the weather did not moderate. Michael called a greeting as he reined in his mount. Walter held the horse's bridle as Michael swung his leg casually over the front of the saddle and slid to the ground. The pale, sickly boy who had arrived in Somerset a few months earlier had virtually disappeared; outdoor exercise had filled out his gaunt frame and the weak spring sun had given his face some colour. He was turning into a rather well-looking young man, and a few of the younger ladies present watched Michael approvingly as he approached his tutor. "Go on to the field," Walter told him with a grin. "Charles is waiting for you." Michael ran off, and Walter smiled up at Miss Gilbride. "It was good of you to bring him. Are you going to stay to watch?" "Of course! Anne asked me to bring her all the details. Besides, if it rains very hard or grows too cold, I am going to take Michael home." Walter glanced up at the sky, where the clouds seemed to be diminishing. "I do not think it will rain." "Neither do I," Miss Gilbride sighed. "I have hardened myself to the idea of Michael rending and ruining his clothes with dirt. Some things in life are simply inevitable, and it can do no good to rail at the fates." "I also feared you might be too busy with preparations for the ball to attend." At a dinner the previous week, Sir Bernard had heard some young people complaining about the dearth of engagements, and had immediately proposed a ball at Kellynch. He had been told that the neighbourhood was thin that time of year, but had persisted in his plans, and it was to be held the night after the match. "No, my father has issued the invitations and given instructions to the servants," she said with a smile. "I really have nothing to do until the guests arrive." Walter was amused by her lack of concern, knowing his mother's frantic preparations for a much smaller gathering. "That sounds like a most pleasant way to host a ball." He noticed that she had a ribbon tied around her wrist. "Your brother would not wear your favour?" he asked with a grin. Eileen raised her eyebrows. "When you were fifteen, would you have worn your sister's favour?" "An excellent point. Has no one asked for your favour, then?" Many of the young men had long-standing appointments with the ladies of their choice, and were already beribboned before they arrived at the field. "No, and I'm not sure why I even brought it. Anne told me that I must bring the ribbon because it was an old and hallowed tradition." Walter laughed. "Yes, it is an old and hallowed tradition of approximately three years' standing, and your respectful adherence is noted approvingly." "Now that I am here, however," said Eileen, "I wonder if it would have been better to fly in the face of tradition. It must be a sore point to the ladies who stand on the sidelines pathetically clutching their bit of ribbon, and I would not be the object of scorn on that account." Walter realized suddenly that he did not want that, either. "I would not have such a good friend as you the object of scorn, Miss Gilbride, so unless you have another victim in your sights, I would be proud to wear your favour." "You would?" Her face showed her surprise. "I thought--well, are you certain?" "Of course. Why not?" He grinned up at her. "You would not send me onto the field of battle alone and friendless?" She offered no more opposition, but untied the ribbon from her wrist--azure blue, the color of her eyes and of her driving-habit--and retied it around his extended arm. "The lowly soldier thanks you, madam." Walter made an elegant leg that belied the general shabbiness of his raiment. Eileen clapped her fist to her shoulder in the manner of the Roman gladiators. "Those who are about to die, we salute you!" Walter laughed and took his leave of her. The Uppercross men had gathered on one end of the field and he made his way toward them, picking his way through the crowd of onlookers, which was rapidly growing as the sun became brighter. Someone called his name, and he looked up to see Gwendolyn Clay smiling at him from under her parasol. A smile of real delight crossed his face as he joined her. "So you decided to come out! I am glad to see you, love." He took her gloved hand and held it for a moment while he grinned at her rather stupidly. "I have heard so much about this spectacle that I could not miss it." Walter wondered idly where Gwendolyn had come by her information; from Eileen Gilbride, perhaps? Were they becoming friendly? His instincts told him that was unlikely. "I was also told," she added, bringing forth a length of red ribbon from her reticule, "that I was to bring a favour, and that some kind gentleman would beg it from me. You are the first to approach me, but I see you have already been honoured," indicating the blue ribbon. "There is no reason I cannot solicit the favour of two ladies," he said, adding hastily, "that is, if you wish to bestow your token upon me." "I do," she said softly, looking him full in the eyes. "Well, then," he said, just as softly, holding out his arm. "If you will be so kind, madam." Gwendolyn tied the brightly-coloured ribbon just above Eileen's blue one. "There! I will be able to see it easily, I am sure." Her hand lingered warmly on his forearm. "Not once it is covered with dirt," Walter said lightly. "In that case, you need not return the ribbon," she said archly. "You may return the favour, however, by soliciting a dance tomorrow night at Kellynch. I fear I shall be relegated to the spinster aunts and widowed ladies if you do not take pity upon me." "Somehow, I doubt that," he replied with a smile just as Charles impatiently called him. Walter bowed hastily and left her, only glancing over his shoulder once or twice as he made his way to the Uppercross end of the field. The Uppercross men upheld the honour of their village with a rousing win, punctuated by Michael Gilbride scoring the final goal. Walter found him with Eileen after the game, his blue eyes shining through the mud that streaked his face, recounting the goal for his sister in excruciating detail. Walter's eyes caught Eileen's, and they exchanged a grin. "Go on home, Michael," said Walter. "A gentleman does not bore ladies with his exploits on the playing field, the hunting field, or anywhere else for that matter. Remember that, if you remember nothing else I teach you." Michael swung himself onto his horse and said, "I have other things I would ask you about ladies." He glanced over his shoulder at a group of giggling girls who were watching him and whispering amongst themselves. "Later," said Walter warningly. He turned to Eileen. "I have come to return your favour, madam." She eyed the now-muddy bit of ribbon with some distaste. "You may keep it." "I thought you might say that." He bowed. "Until tomorrow night." "Good-bye!" She drove away, laughing. Back at the parsonage, he was greeted by a very disapproving Mrs. Brumby. "I know not why you gentlemen must cover yourselves in dirt for a game," she said, shaking her head as the manservant came past with two buckets of hot water for Walter's bath. Walter found himself repeating Eileen Gilbride's words. "Football, my dear Mrs. Brumby, is the replacement for warfare in these peaceful times. Gentlemen must skirmish, and you will allow that this method is much less dangerous, and certainly much less dirty, than real war." "I saw infantrymen come back from the Peninsula looking cleaner than you lot," the housekeeper grumbled, trundling down the passage. Walter grinned and ran up the stairs to his dressing-room. The bathtub was soon filled with steaming water, and he began to undress. He slid the two ribbons from his arm and held them for a moment consideringly. He took up his wash-jug, went to the tub, and scooped up some of the warm water. He poured the water into his washbasin and dipped the ribbons into it. With a little encouragement, the mud was easily removed, though both ribbons bled a bit of dye into the water, turning it an odd shade of purple. When the ribbons were clean, Walter squeezed out the excess water, tied them together, and spread them on top of the table to dry. Satisfied, he went at last to the bathtub and lowered himself into it with a grateful sigh. The Uppercross carriage rumbled up the gravel drive to the front door of Kellynch Hall. Walter descended first, then turned to help out his mother and father. Light poured from the windows and doors of the grand stone manor as gentlemen in sober black evening suits led their ladies, clad in brightly coloured silk, to the entrance. More revelers could be seen through the windows of the drawing-room. Mrs. Musgrove looked at them suspiciously. "I hope we shall not be obliged to rub elbows with all the ragtag and bobtail of Somerset. I detest these vulgar great squeezes." Walter exchanged a look with his father. Mrs. Musgrove had been fractious for several days; perhaps understandably, she found it disconcerting to be the guest of relative strangers at her childhood home. Walter imagined himself in the position of returning to Uppercross Hall in such a circumstance and tried to be sympathetic. Candlelight bathed the elegant interior of the house, softening the hard lines and enveloping visitors in warmth. When Sir Bernard saw Mrs. Musgrove, he went to her immediately, took her hand, and patted it in the friendliest manner. "My dear Mrs. Musgrove, I welcome you to Kellynch." "I thank you, sir," she replied, pleased at such marked attentions from her host. "I am delighted to be here." She looked around and sighed dramatically. "I have such fond memories of this house, my mother and my father--I am afraid I shall be overcome--Sir Bernard, if you would be so kind as to find me a seat?" "By all means, my dear madam. Please come this way." He led her to one side of the room and established her in a chair along the wall. Walter felt a tug on his elbow. It was Michael Gilbride, nervously correct in his new evening-suit. "Is my cravat right?" he asked in a whisper. Walter surveyed him critically. "You look very fine tonight, sir! Have you engaged any young ladies to dance yet?" Walter and Eileen had spent the week teaching Michael various dances, and he had determined to stand up for every number. "I am dancing the first with Miss Cecilia Hayter." Walter smiled. "Wasting no time, are you? Well done, Michael!" Michael grinned. "She is very easy to talk to. Did you know that she was at the match? She congratulated me on my goal, and asked me about the game, and then before I knew it I was asking her to dance, and she said yes." He looked a little dazed at the recollection. "That is the way of it," Walter said, trying not to laugh. "Tread carefully, my friend; do not fall into the trap of allowing the ladies to flatter you into an unwise declaration." "Michael, do not monopolize Mr. Musgrove," came a voice from behind them, which proved to belong to Eileen Gilbride. Walter stared for a moment in frank admiration. She wore a simple yet elegant silk dress in a shade of light sea-green with just enough blue in it to emphasize the colour of her eyes. Froths of fine lace cascaded from the tight-fitting sleeves and the off-the-shoulder neckline. A single strand of pearls and matching ear-drops were her only jewelry. Her hair, normally worn in a rather severe chignon, had been arranged in soft ringlets around her face with small white flowers tucked in here and there. She glowed warmly in the candlelight, as attractive as a roaring fire on a cold winter's day. Walter swept an elegant bow. "Good evening, Miss Gilbride. Michael, I hope you have already claimed your dance, for I fear there will be few to go round." "Dance with my sister?" cried Michael. "Must I?" "Did it ever occur to you," said a very amused Eileen, "that I would not much care to dance with my brother?" "Lucky for me," said Michael, visibly relieved. "Fortunately, I need not be so nice," said Walter with a smile. "I hope you do not consider dancing with me such an unpleasant chore." "Of course not," she said quietly. "I hope you will excuse me, sir. I must greet my guests." The Wentworth family had just arrived, and Walter greeted his aunt with a kiss. She smiled up at him and said, "Walter, you grow more handsome every time I see you." "My mother says I have the Elliot countenance," Walter responded lightly, "so if I am handsome, I have your family to thank." "The Elliot countenance? No," said Lady Wentworth consideringly. "You have always reminded me of my mother's father, James Stevenson. Miss Gilbride," she called, turning toward Eileen, "is the portrait of Mr. Stevenson still in the Blue Saloon? Although I suppose it is not Blue anymore," she added. "Is he the dashing gentleman in the pink satin coat?" asked Eileen with a smile. "Yes, he is still there. He watches over me as I do the household accounts." "I would like to show the portrait to Walter. There is a resemblance there, do not you think?" Eileen raised an eyebrow. "I have never noticed it, but then I have never seen Mr. Musgrove in pink satin." "And you never shall," Walter assured her as she led the way to the Blue Saloon. Despite Lady Wentworth's misapprehensions, the saloon was indeed blue; the wallpaper was a light, icy shade, the draperies were of darker blue velvet, and the furniture upholstered in various shades of blue stripes and damasks, accented with pillows of different shapes and sizes, all blue. Lady Wentworth looked around appreciatively. "Miss Gilbride, this room is lovely! It looks very like it did when my family lived here. This was my mother's sitting room. But I seem to recall that Lady Elliot--the last Lady Elliot, that is--had redecorated." "She did," said Eileen, with a small shudder. "In horrid, heavy dark red and purple. The housekeeper told me how it had been, and your son has generously allowed us to change whatever we like." She smiled shyly at Lady Wentworth. "It must be strange to come here as a guest, when this house was once your home." "It is strange," Lady Wentworth admitted. "But seeing how charmingly you have fitted up this room has made it much easier. And there is my grandfather." She led them to a large portrait hanging on the far wall. James Stevenson looked down on them benevolently. At first, Walter could not see any trace of himself in his great-grandfather's countenance; the colourful clothing and elaborate powdered wig stood in strong contrast to Walter's elegant black evening suit and carefully-arranged dark hair. However, there was something there--in the dark eyes, the high cheekbones, the strong jaw, the lips that quirked up at one corner with barely-hidden amusement--that hearkened to a family tie. "Did people really dress like that when you were a girl?" Walter asked his aunt. She laughed. "This was painted around the time my mother was born. By the time I was old enough to remember, most people had begun to relegate powdered wigs and satin coats to their footmen." Walter glanced at Eileen, who was smiling at him. "What is it?" he asked her quietly. "I am amused at my own silliness." She gave Mr. Stevenson an affectionate glance. "I have sat here idly and imagined all sorts of fascinating histories for this fellow--I have named him Louis, by the way, never having been informed of his identity--and now that the resemblance has been pointed out to me, I am trying to picture you as a deposed French aristocrat forced to make his living as a highwayman. I confess that I have always had a weakness for a rogue." Walter deepened his voice and cried out in a very bad French accent, "Stand and deliver! Those pearls, mademoiselle, would make ze pretty toy for a certain opera-dancer back in Paree." "My dear sir, I would very much like to oblige your--er--opera-dancer, but I cannot. This pistol that I carry in my reticule should serve as my pass." "You would shoot a poor, deposed aristocrat who is merely trying to make his living? Recall how expensive is ze pink satin, mademoiselle!" "I dare say not as expensive as the opera-dancer. I have sympathy for your unfortunate circumstances, sir, but I am persuaded that your lady is perfectly capable of supporting herself, without reference to my pearls." "Walter! There you are!" Mrs. Musgrove stood in the doorway with Sir Bernard. "What are you doing in here? Sir Bernard and I have had a famous notion! You shall open the ball with Miss Gilbride! Who better to do it, after all, than the grandson of Sir Walter Elliot? If Charles had not been so stubborn about staying home with Anne tonight, I would have insisted that he do it, but this is probably for the best, as you are a much better dancer." Walter glanced at Eileen. Her gaze was averted and her face showed a faint blush. "I would be delighted to do so, if Miss Gilbride is amenable." "Of course," said Eileen quietly. "I thank you, sir." She passed him quickly without meeting his eyes and followed the others out of the room. Walter watched her with a frown, wondering at her sudden change of demeanour from friendly banter to a cold, embarrassed distance at the simple idea of dancing with him. He lingered a moment, gazing up at Mr. Stevenson, feeling an odd kinship with this man he had never met and wondering if he had understood the minds of women any better than his great-grandson. In the passage between the drawing-room and the ballroom, he caught up with Eileen and touched her arm. "If you would prefer not to dance with me, Miss Gilbride--" "No, no." She shook her head. "I am sorry that you have been forced into this. I know not what my father was thinking." "I do not feel as though I have been forced into anything distasteful. I should very much like to dance with you." The musicians played a warning flourish, and Walter put out his arm. Eileen smiled at him. "Have a care, sir; such gentleman-like behaviour might lead you to lose your dastardly reputation amongst the brotherhood of highwaymen!" She placed her gloved hand upon his arm and allowed him to lead her into the ballroom. Something sparkling caught his eye, and he looked up almost involuntarily to see Gwendolyn Clay, clad in a gown of some shimmering stuff, standing to one side. Their eyes met; she smiled and bowed her head in acknowledgement just as a young man unknown to Walter claimed her hand for the dance. A bolt of envy struck him like cold steel in his heart. Miss Gilbride proved to be a graceful dancer, the light silk of her dress swaying about her legs as they moved through the set. However, Walter found it difficult to concentrate on the task at hand; his eyes kept moving to Gwendolyn and her partner, a dandyish young man that Walter thought must be one of his cousin George Hayter's set. At last the music stopped, and Walter once again became aware of his partner. He thought rather guiltily that he should apologize for being inattentive, but to his relief, Eileen simply murmured an excuse and slipped away. He found Gwendolyn sitting alone in a corner, delicately working out non-existent wrinkles from her elbow-length gloves under the disapproving scrutiny of several matrons. "Those old cats are watching you like you've stolen their cream," he said with a grin. Gwendolyn flicked her eyes in their direction, then back to her task. "Spiteful creatures! I shall not let them ruin my evening." "Do you think a waltz with the rector would raise your reputation in their eyes?" She smiled up at him. "More likely bring down yours, but if that is an invitation, I accept." A few moments later, they were whirling about the floor, her trim waist tucked into the curve of his arm. Walter had eyes for no other; there was only Gwendolyn, the muted light sparkling from her diamond necklace and the silver-embroidered net of her gown. Later, he could not remember what they talked about, only that there was laughter and a sense of dizzying joy in having her once more in his arms. He thought that everyone must be watching them, watching her, the men wishing that they could take his place, and there was triumph in the thought that he alone knew of the very private delights of Gwendolyn Clay's company. It seemed only a moment until the music stopped, and Walter reluctantly escorted his partner to a chair. The eyes of the matrons, and at least one raised lorgnette, were upon them, so he simply gave her hand a significant squeeze, bowed, and left her. Walter wandered about the room, trying to keep a silly grin from his face, never thinking to ask the hopeful ladies sitting down to be his partner. It would have diluted his happiness, to dance with another woman after being so close to Gwendolyn, so close that he could still smell her perfume. Miss Clay had already obtained another partner, and Walter watched them dance with benevolent approval. It was very right and proper that she should not sit out. At the beginning of the next set, Walter was at last able to bring himself to partner other ladies. He would not ask Gwendolyn again, not yet; he would save that happiness for later, after the supper break. After a string of forgettable partners, he saw his cousin Sophie Wentworth sitting down by herself, and went to her. "I hope you saved me a dance," he said with a smile. Sophie looked up at him sadly. "I do not care to dance." "What's this?" he cried in mock astonishment. "Sophie Wentworth, not dancing at a ball? Have you turned your ankle, love? Do you have the headache?" "No, of course not," she said, lifting her chin proudly. "I just do not care to dance, that is all." "You will dance with me. I shall brook no argument. Come along, now." He took her hand and tried to pull her to her feet. Sophie resisted, protesting, "I have already denied other gentlemen. You will make a fool of me." "Nobody can censure your taking pity on your poor clerical cousin. Come along." He finally succeeded in raising her from the chair. Sophie glared at him resentfully but allowed him to lead her away. She was clearly in low spirits, and as Walter had high spirits to spare, he tried to impart some of them to his cousin. By the end of the set, she was smiling, but she was still not the lively Sophie of old. "Come in to supper with me," he coaxed her. "I will fetch you some lemonade, and perhaps they have some of those lobster patties you like." Sophie heaved a dramatic sigh and reluctantly preceded him into the supper room. Walter found two chairs, installed Sophie at one of them, and went off to fetch the refreshments. The room was crowded, and it took some time to obtain them; when he returned he found George Hayter in the chair next to Sophie, whispering in her ear, while she wore a look of profound distaste. George had come down from Oxford a few years before and had gathered about him a set of young men with more fashion than sense who fancied themselves not unlike the Corinthians of their fathers' time. They never seemed to understand that the indulgence of such pretensions amid the rural farms of southern Somerset only made them laughably absurd. "Here you are, Sophie," Walter said lightly, placing the plate of lobster patties and a glass of lemonade on the little table. "Some cold lemonade, as promised. Drink it before it gets warm. I wouldn't let them put it in a silver cup, either; makes it taste odd, if you ask me." "I can fetch you something better to drink than that," George said to Sophie, who rolled her eyes. "I know not what is the practice at Oxford these days, coz," said Walter genially, "but at Cambridge it was considered very bad ton to monopolize another fellow's supper partner. Move along, now." "Do you want me to leave?" George murmured to Sophie. "Oh, do go away," she cried, sinking her head in her hand. "Yes, run along, cub," said Walter, seizing his cousin by the elbow and pulling him to his feet. "I think the lady has made herself quite clear." George made as if to assume a fighting stance, and Walter added quietly, "If you create a disturbance at this ball, your father shall hear of it. Go away now and it will remain between us." George stared at him for a moment, then lowered his head and stalked away. "Heaven preserve me from violent young lovers," Walter said to Sophie as he took the vacated chair. "'Tis a shame that my uncle Hayter did not make George take orders, or find him some other profession. It might have been the making of him." Sophie was silent, and after a moment Walter added, "You used to like George. Did he do something to change your mind, love?" She idly twisted the glass of lemonade this way and that. "No, nothing very bad." "'Nothing very bad?' But he did something?" Sophie took a delicate sip and said, "I let him kiss me, just once, and he has not left me alone since." She glanced over at Walter and added, "You tried to warn me, and you were right." Walter patted her arm. "Letting a fellow steal a kiss is no great sin, Sophie. It certainly does not give my cousin the right to importune you when you have made your preferences clear. I shall speak to my uncle about it." "Oh, no!" cried Sophie. "George is so afraid of his father--I do not want to get him in trouble." "I doubt he would show you the same consideration, love, but I shall respect your wishes." They sat quietly for a moment, and then Walter added, "You know that if any man is bothering you, and you do not wish to tell your father, that you may depend upon me at any time. You are not alone, Sophie. I promised Edward that I would watch out for you while he is away. Look upon me as acting in the place of a brother." Sophie smiled at him with real sweetness, and Walter reflected that she was a much more attractive girl when she let go of her affectations. "Thank you, Walter." She offered him the plate of lobster patties, which he declined, and she applied herself to them with relish. Sir Bernard stopped at the table, crying out genially, "Mr. Musgrove! Miss Wentworth! I hope you are enjoying yourselves!" "I think my cousin is enjoying the lobster patties, sir," said Walter with a grin. Sophie's mouth was full, so she just nodded. "Capital! Mr. Musgrove, can I interest you in a wee glass of whiskey?" He proffered a bottle nearly full of a light amber-coloured liquid. Walter eyed it doubtfully. "I have never tasted whiskey." This was true enough; a brief and disastrous experimentation with gin in his schooldays had led him to confine himself to wine and brandy, and he rarely drank either to excess. "Never tasted good Irish whiskey? Well, that is an oversight that we must remedy!" Sir Bernard snapped his fingers at a servant, who hastened over with two tumblers. Sir Bernard poured generous portions and handed one glass to Walter. "Sláinte!" Walter sipped cautiously, expecting the liquor to burn like brandy; to his surprise, it rolled over his tongue like velvet and slipped gently down his throat, spreading warmth all the way down and out to his limbs, and leaving behind a slightly sweet, fruity aftertaste. He sipped again, and again, and soon Sir Bernard was refilling his glass. "Ladies and gentlemen! Please join me in a toast!" the older man cried, turning to the assembled company. "To her Majesty, the Queen!" Everyone dutifully rose, repeated the toast, and drank, except for Eileen Gilbride. She remained seated at one end of a long table, staring mutely at the glass of champagne sitting on the table in front of her. There was an embarrassed silence, and Sir Bernard hastily lifted his glass again and said, "To Lieutenant Wentworth, the absent lord of this fine manor!" This time, everyone drank; more toasts were proposed, and Sir Bernard kept a strict eye on Walter's glass, refilling it before he could ask. Sophie begged a taste, and Walter allowed her to sip from his glass; she made a face and took a gulp of lemonade, making her cousin laugh. Before supper was over, Walter's glass was refilled several more times, and because of the pleasant warmth and light taste of the whiskey, and because he was seated, he did not realize how the liquor affected him until he tried to stand up to take Sophie back into the ballroom. The room swam in front of him; he reached out and clutched the arm of the chair, and hastily sat down again. "Can ya wait a momen', love?" he slurred to Sophie. She stared at him in amazement for a moment, and then laughed aloud. "You're foxed! I am not surprised; you drank enough of that whiskey to float a frigate." "Wasn' dat mush," he protested weakly. Sophie rolled her eyes. "I wonder what is worse: having your partner pester you for a kiss or having him get drunk at supper. At least George Hayter is still capable of dancing." "I don' wanna kiss," he muttered. "That is well, for you shall not get one." "You go back an' dance," he said, pushing her toward the door. The room was empty except for servants gathering discarded dishes and glasses. Sophie stopped teasing and looked at him gravely. "Are you sure? Can I get you something?" "No, no, jus' gotta res' a bit." "Very well," she said doubtfully, then leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. "There, you get a kiss for being sweet earlier, though I'm sure you don't deserve it." "Thanks, love," he said, grinning at her, and she smiled and left him. Walter sat for a moment, enduring the amused and knowing glances of the servants, and then remembered the large French windows in the Blue Saloon. He rose unsteadily and lurched out of the supper room, down the passage to the now-darkened apartment, occasionally bumping into walls along the way. He made his way to the windows, yanked them open, and breathed deeply of the cool night air, feeling more sober with each breath. "Walter?" said a female voice behind him. For a moment he thought it might be Sophie, and then he turned and saw Gwendolyn. The sight of her in the moonlight cascading through the windows made him smile. "I saw Sophie come back from supper by herself and I came looking for you. Are you ill?" "You look like a midsummer night," he said, grinning at her stupidly. "Your hair is the moon, your dress and your skin are a beam of moonlight, and your diamonds are the stars." He took a step toward her, and realized too late that his assessment of his relative sobriety had been misleading; the room spun, and he lurched as he tried to walk. Gwendolyn stared at him for moment, then cried in tones of disgust, "You are drunk!" Walter clutched the window frame and muttered, "Just a trifle bright in the eye, love." "Bright in the eye indeed!" The coldness in her eyes was distressing to Walter, who murmured, "Don't be angry, pretty Gwen. You look so pretty tonight, please don't be angry with me." He reached out for her; she pulled back with a low cry of distaste, but Walter was too quick. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her to him inexorably, murmuring endearments. Then his arm was about her waist and his mouth upon hers, and for a moment it was like it had always been; the memory of the way their bodies fitted together, the way her waist felt in the curve of his arm, coursed through him like fire in his veins. Then, through the waves of inebriation, he slowly became aware that Gwendolyn was struggling to free herself from his embrace. He released her immediately, and received a stinging box on the ears as payment. "How dare you!" she cried. "Who do you think you are, that you can get drunk and manhandle me? I swore I would never allow myself to be so ill-used again, not by any man--not even by you, Walter Musgrove!" Walter leaned back against the window frame and touched the side of his face gingerly. The slap had sobered him somewhat; in his new clarity, he suddenly remembered that he had seen her diamond necklace before. "I beg your pardon," he said coldly, "but you are not quite the picture of moral rectitude, you know. Not standing there wearing that necklace that Dalton gave you in payment for--services rendered. I wonder, what liberties might I be allowed if I gave you a diamond necklace?" Gwendolyn stared at him a moment, her hand moving instinctively to her throat, where the diamonds sparkled provocatively. "I do not know what you mean." "You forget, Gwen. I was there when Dalton gave it to you." "I did forget." She fingered the necklace nervously. "I have just got it out of pawn. I lived off the money from this necklace for two years, until--" "Until your stepfather conveniently died and left you a fortune. Also in payment for services rendered, I believe." Walter knew he was being unnecessarily cruel, but could not stop himself. Gwendolyn glared at him. "I only allowed Dalton's attentions then to get the necklace, or some other trinket. He was free with them. I planned to sell it, to give us a start, let us get a house, get married. I did it for you--for us. You were never meant to know." "I see. I was never meant to know. And I suppose that, the next time we were feeling a trifle purse-pinched, you would fall back into Dalton's arms and get another trinket to sell, while I go about in contented ignorance. And everyone could say, 'Poor Walter Musgrove, so besotted he knows not when he is being cuckolded.' If you think I would consent to live on money got in such a way and never ask questions about it, Gwen, then you do not know me at all." "No," she said softly. "I begin to think that I do not know you." She turned and fled from the room. Walter watched her leave in righteous silence. All his happiness from earlier was gone; he could no longer look at Gwendolyn without seeing the necklace, without thinking of her in Dalton's arms. The pain of her betrayal that he had kept at bay for three years, that he thought was gone forever, returned with a vengeance, and he made his way to a sofa and collapsed upon it. He lay on his back, one foot still on the floor and one leg hanging over the scrolled arm of the sofa. When he closed his eyes, the room immediately locked into a tight spin, increasing in speed until he felt the weight of it would crush him. He reached out, desperately trying to anchor himself to earth; when his hand made contact with the cool wall, the spinning stopped at last. A warm wave of sleep washed over him, and he dozed for a time, waking when he heard voices in the room. The sofa lay in shadow, and he could not be seen, as long as he did not speak or move to give himself away. His senses were a little fuzzy, and he was comfortable, and very much inclined to just stay there on the sofa for a while. "Why did you not join my toast to the Queen, girl?" Walter recognized Sir Bernard's voice, now uncharacteristically subdued. "You know why, Da." That was Eileen, the Irish lilt more pronounced than usual. It's like music, Walter thought, a smile spreading across his face. Her voice is like music. Or like water tumbling over rocks in a brook. "You embarrassed me in front of our neighbours." "I am sorry if I did, but you know how I feel about this subject. Next time give me a hint and I'll leave the room first." Walter could not see her, but knew the impish grin that she was wearing as she spoke. "You're so like your mother, Eibhlín. And not just in looks." "Too much for your comfort, I know." "Aye. You're a proud, stubborn girl, and I love it in you as I loved it in your mother." Walter turned his head slightly, and in the light of the single candle they had brought with them, he could see that father and daughter were embracing. He smiled and turned away, not wishing to intrude on their privacy. "I had best get back to our guests. Will you come?" "In a moment." The door closed, and Walter heard Eileen moving across the room toward the French windows. He looked up and saw that she was preparing to close them, and he said sharply, "No! Please don't!" He tried to sit up but only succeeding in falling off the sofa into a heap on the floor. "Who's there?" cried Eileen in alarm. "Walter Musgrove," he said, rather sheepishly. "Mr. Musgrove?" There was a note of concern in her voice as she advanced on him with the candle. "Are you ill?" "No, not precisely." Walter managed to pull himself onto the sofa. His head felt heavy and his movements were slow and deliberate. Eileen was staring at him, her brow creased in concern, so he added, "I am afraid I was a trifle overset by your father's whiskey." "Good heavens! How much did he give you?" "I am not sure," Walter admitted. "Five or six glasses--perhaps seven." Eileen burst out laughing, and he added defensively, "They were not very large glasses." "They would not have to be," replied Eileen, very much amused. "I apologize, sir. My father does not always realize that other men have not his capacity. He was only trying to be a good host, I assure you." "I do not blame your father," Walter sighed. "I could have refused. I suppose I should have." "Shall I fetch your parents?" Walter groaned and leaned his head back. "No. I would not have my mother make a scene at your ball. If you will lend me a horse, I can ride back to Uppercross." "Certainly not," declared Eileen. "I shall not be responsible for you riding into a tree. If you wish it, I will order my father's carriage." "Not yet," said Walter, reaching out to her. "Will you stay and talk with me for a while?" "You want me to stay with you?" she asked softly. "Yes, if you will." He gave her a lopsided grin. "I am not quite ready to go home, and I like talking to you." Eileen hesitated, bunching her skirt in her hands nervously; finally she said, "Very well," and perched next to him on the sofa, which was only large enough to seat two. They sat in silence for a moment, watching the evening breeze stir the gauzy white inner curtains at the open French doors. Eileen ventured, "I suppose you heard my conversation with my father." "I apologize. I did not mean to eavesdrop." "Oh, I know that," she said, turning toward him hastily. "I just thought perhaps--you might be wondering why I did not join in the toast to the Queen." "You need not tell me." "No, I want to. I hope you will not think badly of me." She hesitated, then said quickly, "I am really very happy here in Somerset. Everyone is friendly and welcoming, but--" "It is not your home," said Walter gently. "That is not it," said Eileen reflectively. "I feel very much at home here, more so than I did in Dublin, even. In a way, I am afraid of becoming too much at home, as though if I forget Ireland, forget where I come from, it would be an affront to my mother's memory. My father does not understand. He thinks we are better off here than we were there, and he is probably right. He is from the North of Ireland, from Ulster. He was raised a Protestant. As a boy, he never knew the common prejudice that is practiced against Catholics in Ireland, even now." "The law has given Catholics the same rights as Protestants." "On paper, perhaps, but in practice--the poor of Ireland live in such degrading conditions, Mr. Musgrove! They are much worse off than the poor of England, if you can imagine it. Scrambling to grow potatoes on whatever tiny bit of land they can find for exorbitant rent, hoping those potatoes will last the winter so their families do not starve. I read in the newspaper that in America, the potatoes have a disease, a blight that causes them to rot in the ground. If that blight should ever pass to Ireland, I shudder to think what would happen to the poor." Eileen sighed and shook her head. "We were a great deal better off than most. My father traveled around Ireland as a young man; that is how he met my mother in Kerry. She agreed to marry him only if he would stay in the south. My mother's people were farmers, and my father rented a bit of land and raised pigs." "Pigs?" asked Walter in surprise. "But now, he--" "Oh, no," Eileen laughed. "Not anymore." "What is your father's business?" "You don't know?" Walter shook his head, and Eileen explained, "In his youth, he worked as a linen-weaver. When my mother passed on, he took Michael and me to Dublin and set up as an agent for linen-weavers who wished to export their goods. Later, he began to export wool as well." Walter listened to the history in silent fascination. Eileen continued, "When we lived in Kerry, it pained my father to see how the Protestant landowners persecuted the poor Catholics, and they treated him as badly as any other. He begged my mother to let him take us north, but she could not bear to leave the land of her birth. My father did not want Michael and me to suffer that prejudice. I cannot blame him for taking us away, for trying to give us more--believe me, I've no desire to return to the pig farm. It is just that everything my father does to make us more English makes us less Irish, and sometimes I feel as though if I countenance it, I am being unfaithful to my mother's memory. That is why I did not join the toast tonight." She looked up at Walter with a rueful smile. "I should not have embarrassed my father in front of everyone, but I fear I have never chosen my battles skillfully." Silence wrapped round them again. Walter felt that after their brief conversation, he had learned more about Eileen that night than he had in all the months of their acquaintance. Suddenly he turned to her and said, "I have a question." Eileen glanced at him warily. "Yes?" "Did your father call you Evelyn just now?" She laughed softly. "He called me Eibhlín." "Ev-leen?" Walter repeated doubtfully. "That is my name, really, though 'Eileen' is easier for English tongues." Her smiled faded, and she added, "It was my mother's name. My father rarely uses it, anymore." "Eibhlín," Walter said dreamily. "'Tis a pretty name. Does it have a meaning?" "Yes, it means 'light.' 'Sunlight,' really.'" Walter smiled. "It suits you." She looked at him questioningly, and he explained, "You light up a room when you enter it." She stared at him for a moment, her surprise evident; then a smile spread across her face, and her voice held its usual bantering tone when she said, "That is a very pretty compliment, sir. Are you taking lessons from your friend Louis?" indicating the picture of Mr. Stevenson, which hung above the sofa. "Oui, mademoiselle," Walter murmured, leaning closer to her. "I still have my eye on ze pearls. Do not forget, I am a rogue." "That is well," she said softly, "for I am very fond of rogues." There was a moment's silence, and then Eileen said, "Now that I have done wearying you with my family history, shall I order the carriage?" "Please do." "Very well. If you like, rather than walk through the house, you may go out through the French windows. Turn right and walk straight ahead and you will come to the driveway. I will tell the coachman to meet you there." Eileen rose and extended her right hand for her usual handshake. Walter took it and pressed her palm to his lips, then to his cheek. "Good night, sweet Eibhlín." She smiled and caressed his face gently, as if touching something infinitely precious. "Good night, Louis," she whispered, and a moment later, she was gone. Continued in Next Chapter ~ Table of Contents By A Lady Comment on this story Home ~ Site Map ~ Contact Original Images and Content Copyright © 2002 by Margaret C. Sullivan. All Rights Reserved.