Chapter Three

 

The person in question was indeed moping, as her brother would call it. Sitting alone in her bedchamber, Sarah gazed unseeingly out her window across the vast expanse of lawn to the dark woods of the park beyond. What was she to do now? Her only friend in the world was gone, and it was all too clear that she was not particularly welcome in what had been her home. To be sure, she was not unaccustomed to loneliness, having spent so many years with no one but her governess to show any interest in her, but having enjoyed the companionship and stimulating company of her grandmother, she now found it harder to bear than it had been before Lady Willoughby had come to live at Cranleigh.

Sarah shook her head. There was no use repining. She knew that eventually her own active mind and her natural interest in everything around her would reassert themselves and she would soon find herself almost as busy and occupied as she had been before. It was not like her to sit idle like this, but the shock of it all had taken her by surprise.

There was a tap on the door, and her sister-in-law entered. “My goodness, Sarah,” Rosalind began brightly, “you cannot sit here forever looking so Friday-faced.” Seeing the sparkle of annoyance in the green eyes, she hastened to soften this apparent criticism. After all, it would never do to alienate Sarah just when she needed her. “I know how much Lady Willoughby meant to you, but she was by no means young, you know.” Rosalind did her best to adopt an expression of sympathetic commiseration before launching into her immediate concerns.

You do not understand in the least and care even less, Sarah thought; however, she was not about to share a moment of her own private sorrow with her frivolous sister-in-law. “Yes, I suppose you are in the right of it.” She sighed, putting away all thoughts of Lady Willoughby, concentrating instead on her visitor. What did her sister-in-law want? Fully occupied with her own pleasures, Rosalind rarely had time even to notice Sarah, much less consider her well-being. There must be something that she hoped to gain by seeking Sarah out like this.

Sarah studied the beautiful face in front of her for clues as to the meaning of the visit, but beyond a certain watchful expression in the lustrous dark eyes and a slight raising of the delicately arched brows, there was not the least hint as to what her sister-in-law was thinking.

Rosalind observed Sarah with equal curiosity; however, beyond their mutual wary approach to one another, the similarities ended. The Marchioness of Cranleigh was the picture of fashionable beauty from her dress, which, although black figured silk, was trimmed in such a way as to reveal its Bond Street origins, to her elegant coiffure. She was a work of art right down to the tiniest detail. Gracefully disheveled dark curls clustered around a face that already had artists clamoring to paint it. She was the example of feminine loveliness to which every woman in the ton aspired.

Sarah, on the other hand, though neatly enough attired in a plain high-waisted gown of black bombazine with her gold hair wound in simple coils around her head, possessed none of her sister-in-law’s éclat—quite the opposite, in fact. If one were to think about it, one might almost conclude that she exerted as much effort to remain unobtrusive as Rosalind did in seeking to capture the admiration of the male sex and the envy of the female. However, if the casual observer stopped to consider, he would see that Lady Sarah Melford, though less obviously beautiful than the Marchioness of Cranleigh, possessed a certain attraction all her own—a cool elegance conferred by classic features, a small straight nose, finely sculpted lips, and deep green eyes that revealed a lively intelligence. Her customary expression was one of thoughtfulness rather than flirtatiousness, and she was thus often ignored when surrounded by the more vivacious countenances of other females bent on attracting masculine attention. But anyone who paused a moment to contemplate her face would immediately be intrigued by its character and, upon closer examination, would be attracted by the personality so obviously present in its owner and so obviously lacking in the bland, undiscriminating expressions of those around her.

It was Rosalind who broke the silence. “Sarah, I know this is difficult, but it is not at all ladylike to be so self-indulgent at a time like this. There is so much to be done, people coming to offer their condolences and...” The marchioness paused as she sought a delicate way to phrase the next sentence. “Besides, I shall need your help.” Sarah looked up in some surprise. Yes, that was the best way, Rosalind decided, one had to appeal to her for assistance. Sarah was ever eager to do good works, and the marchioness had never failed to win what she wanted when she adopted a helpless and cajoling tone.

She sighed and collapsed gracefully into a chair. “Your brother feels he must remain here at Cranleigh for some time, but you know how important it is to be in London where his career is concerned. People are so fickle; the minute one is not around, one is forgotten.”

And you should know that better than anyone, Sarah muttered to herself as she recalled the acquaintances that Rosalind had cultivated assiduously, even in such an out-of-the-way place as Kent, and then dropped when they were no longer of any use to her.

“Therefore, if he cannot be in London, we must bring London to us,” her sister-in-law concluded brightly. Then, anticipating objections, she quickly added, “Of course, being in mourning, we shall keep it the most quiet of affairs, just a few close friends here for the country air.”

For a moment Sarah’s air of gravity deserted her. Her lips twitched and a humorous glint dispelled the somber expression in her eyes. The vision of Rosalind, who considered it rusticating to be driven through Hyde Park at anything but the height of the fashionable hour, enjoying country air almost overset her. However, she ruthlessly suppressed the derisive chuckle that threatened to burst out, and nodded encouragingly.

Sarah could never like her vain and selfish sister-in-law, but on the other hand, one could not help but be fascinated by the very boldness of her machinations, nor could one underestimate her determination. She had learned that lesson from watching Rosalind Tredington make herself Marchioness of Cranleigh.

Sarah would never forget the day that Rosalind, hustled off at a tender age to a seminary in Bath by a father too wrapped up in his own amusements to care for a daughter, had come home. It had been a great shock to the entire neighborhood when the elegant creature had emerged from the traveling carriage.

That particular day Sarah had been over at Tredington Hall, where she and Richard had set up a series of jumps and were engaged in challenging one another to ever more daring feats of horsemanship. She had barely recognized the young lady, dressed in the height of fashion, who alighted so daintily and greeted the assembled retainers with cool graciousness.

Sarah had looked in vain for the awkward, whining creature who had never been able to keep up in any of the games they had devised. Even though Rosalind was the eldest of the three of them, she had not been able to run as fast, jump as high, or climb as well as Richard and Sarah, and she was so frightened of horses that riding was out of the question. Sarah, Richard, and the other children in the surrounding countryside had always scoffed at her as a poor, timid creature. Now Rosalind was about to have her revenge.

Every man for miles around, from the squire to the stable boys was now besotted with her, and they fell over themselves to offer her assistance of any sort. If her carriage pulled up in the village, there was a crowd around it, clambering to hold the horses, help her down, or carry her packages. Even the squire’s two sons, Tom and George, both thoroughgoing misogynists who had always avoided Rosalind at all costs, gave up their wild rides across the countryside attending this mill or that hunt in favor of lounging around her drawing room.

Sarah had not been able to believe it. Yes, Rosalind had grown; the skinny body had developed curves, and she now laughed flirtatiously, batting long, dark lashes and making a great show of dimples and tiny white teeth when she smiled, but she was still the same old Rosalind—self-centered and slightly vain, interested in nothing but fashion and herself. However, no one but Sarah seemed to realize this, and suddenly the whining useless girl everyone had tried to avoid had become a most fascinating creature, sought out by one and all—women as well as men—for wherever the men were, all the women wished to be, and the men were all paying court to Rosalind.

Suddenly, Sarah found herself feeling very much alone. With Rosalind returned, Tredington Hall became the hub of neighborhood activity. The Tredingtons had always been a wild and fun-loving crowd, up for anything, and Rosalind wheedled her father into giving one party after another, from Venetian breakfasts to masquerades, even a medieval tournament with Rosalind presiding as the dispenser of prizes. For respectability’s sake, Rosalind was always accompanied by a colorless, silent spinster, Aunt Honoria, actually a remote cousin plucked up from drudgery as governess to provide proper companionship for her beautiful young relative.

At all these festivities Sarah found herself watching her former acquaintances make utter fools of themselves. Being lively, inquisitive, and adventurous herself, Sarah had always spent more time with Richard Tredington and his friends, preferring their company to that of their sisters, who did nothing but chatter endlessly of fashions and sigh over young men who were far more likely to spend time with a horse than with a girl. Now all of this was changed. Her companions who formerly rode all over the countryside in search of one lark after another were content to dance attendance at Tredington Park, doing nothing except admiring Rosalind and listening to her chatter.

Disgusted though she was by this behavior, Sarah could not help being curious, and she had hung on the edge of these conversations in order to hear what Rosalind was saying that was so fascinating. Perhaps she had learned something after all at her select seminary. But Sarah was doomed to disappointment. After several hours of listening, she discovered that the conversation contained a good deal of gurgling laughter and revolved around only one subject—Rosalind Tredington.

Completely baffled by this sudden transformation in her childhood companions, from lively young people to complete simpletons, Sarah had complained to her grandmother. Lady Willoughby had laid a comforting arm around her granddaughter’s shoulders and replied ruefully, “It is all rather silly, my dear, I know, but this is the way of the world. When men, young or old, see a beautiful woman, they behave like perfect idiots.”

“But... but she is not even very nice,” Sarah had wailed tearfully, for Rosalind, quick to recognize that Sarah could not be won over by her coquettish airs had not been slow to hint, ever so delicately of course, that Lady Sarah Melford was rather eccentric in her tastes and therefore not someone whose companionship or opinion was of any importance. The others, slavishly following the lead of their goddess, and without second thoughts, had abandoned Sarah to her own devices.

“I know.” Lady Willoughby had sighed sympathetically. “She does not have to be nice, but believe me, you would not truly wish to be friends with the sort of people who seek out her company. In time you will discover those who enjoy discussing more important things in life than the trivialities that dominate her conversation.”

Her granddaughter had derived some consolation from this, for she considered her grandmother to be the wisest, most knowledgeable person in her world, but as time wore on, she began to give up hope that this state of affairs would ever come to an end.

Apparently, people in London were no more discerning than those in Kent, for reports of Rosalind’s resounding success in taking the ton by storm had made their way back shortly after she had left for her first Season. It was not that Sarah aspired in the least to a place in the fashionable world, but it did seem unfair that someone as vapid as Rosalind should so quickly be hailed as an incomparable. There was some consolation, however—and Sarah was disgusted at herself for even thinking such petty thoughts—which was that all of Rosalind’s brilliant admirers had remained precisely that. No one had asked her to become his wife.

With some difficulty Sarah had stilled a vulgar impulse to gloat when Rosalind, still single, had returned to Kent. Sarah’s amusement had been short-lived, however, when she discovered the next step in Rosalind’s campaign. She alone had been able to see how deliberately Rosalind had turned her ankle and stumbled as she emerged from church just in front of the Marquess of Cranleigh. Harold, rushing gallantly to her side, had been the recipient of such a warm, melting look that he had been startled out of his usual fog of complacent self-importance. If it had not meant that Rosalind would intrude on her life more than ever, Sarah would have been amused by it all, as Harold, utterly helpless in the face of such determination, had been played like a fish on a line. His sister, put off as she was by his unbounding conceit, even found it in her heart to feel sorry for him as she watched Rosalind gather every aspect of the marquess’s life into her own dainty hands, establishing complete control over him.

“A few select guests—Lord Edgecumbe and his wife and daughters, the Duke and Duchess of Coltishall, the Chevalier d’Evron, the Earl of Burnleigh,” Rosalind’s voice broke into her sister-in-law’s reverie.

“The Earl of Burnleigh?” Sarah exclaimed involuntarily.

“Why, yes. He is a coming man in political circles and a friend of Richard’s. You may have even met him, for he has visited Richard at Tredington several times,” Rosalind replied with studied casualness.

Yes, Sarah certainly did remember the Earl of Burnleigh. No one who had laid eyes on him was likely to forget the tall, athletic figure, the lean, aristocratic features, and gray eyes that surveyed the world with a cynical contempt for humanity and all its failings. Oh yes, Sarah remembered Alistair, Lord Farringdon, Earl of Burnleigh.

Who could ignore or forget one of the most renowned rakes of the ton! Rumors of his conquests had even reached their quiet part of the world.

It was only natural that someone of such libertine propensities should be a crony of Lord Tredington’s, for Richard, though not much in the petticoat line, was ripe for any other sort of mischief. In fact, Sarah recalled far more about the Earl of Burnleigh than she cared to. The most potent image she retained of him—one that simply would not go away—was of the earl and Rosalind the night of the masquerade ball at Tredington Park. Sarah, escaping the stuffiness of the ballroom and in search of fresh air, had gone for a walk in the gardens and had come across them, Rosalind and Lord Farringdon, locked in a passionate embrace on a secluded bench. They had been so involved that they had not the least thought of anyone or anything else while Sarah, transfixed by the scene, had stood for what seemed ages before making her escape unnoticed by the lovers.

It had been shortly afterward that Rosalind and Harold had announced their engagement, and Sarah, who usually scorned love and romance as figments of silly girls’ imaginations, could not help asking herself how someone who had been wrapped in the arms of a man like Lord Farringdon could marry a man like Harold. She would have been astonished to know that Rosalind, in the few moments of unwelcome thought that would intrude in spite of her best efforts to ward them off with parties, flirtations, or the acquisition of the latest fashionable kickshaws, wondered very much the same thing.

However, Rosalind had been given very little choice in the matter, for the Marquess of Cranleigh had been the only one to offer her his name, his ancient title, and an establishment of her own—not that Rosalind was the least grateful to him for it. Unfortunately, the very fact that Harold had been so quick to give her those things made him appear stupid and weak to the woman who had manipulated him so easily. No, Rosalind could not admire, could barely even like, such a man, but then men like the Earl of Burnleigh would never allow someone else to lead them as she had led Harold, and they certainly would never have offered marriage.

“But Richard can see to it that Al... er, Lord Farringdon is sufficiently amused. I do need your assistance in seeing to Lord Edgecumbe’s daughters and to Lady Amelia who is rather shy despite being daughter to the Duke of Coltishall,” Rosalind continued, redoubling her appeal. “And, as I believe that Edgecumbe’s daughters are considered to be rather blue, I am persuaded you will know just what to say to them. I never have the least notion.” The marchioness shrugged helplessly as though rational discourse were as foreign to her as Arabic or Hebrew, Sarah thought.

“I shall do my best,” Sarah replied listlessly. The idea of entertaining strangers at such a time was less than attractive, but at least these particular guests seemed to offer more of potential interest than most of Rosalind’s acquaintances did.

“Good. I depend on you.” With a satisfied smile the marchioness, eager to put her plans for amusement into action, rose and hurried from the room, leaving her sister-in-law to her own speculations concerning the forthcoming festivities.