Nine

Merrie breathed a relieved sigh when Elliott led her back to her aunt.

“I trust you’ll save the next waltz for me.” He touched his lips to her gloved hand before releasing her.

Merrie rested her fingertips on her temple. “I . . . I’d like to sit for a bit. It’s quite warm in here.”

“I’ll bring you a cup of punch.”

Unable to think of a gracious way to refuse, she nodded. “Thank you.” A crowd of dancers waited at the punch bowl. Perhaps by the time he was served, his mother would have brought another young woman to meet him. She hoped so.

As soon as he was out of earshot, Aunt Isabella leaned toward her. “He seems quite attentive.”

“He’s not interested in me.” She kept her voice low. “I was invited so that his mother would stop her matchmaking.”

“Why, that’s shameful. Making you a part of his deception.”

“I have no intention of allowing the pretense to continue.”

“I should hope not.”

Merrie felt a twinge of guilt at her words. Elliott’s maneuvering felt too much like her own efforts to hide her writing from her aunt.

Across the room, the musicians left their instruments and moved toward a door almost hidden by the potted palms. If she hurried, she could visit with Colin for a moment. She excused herself and hastened across the empty dance floor.

“Colin.”

He turned when she spoke his name. “Miss Bentley. I’m surprised to see you here—although I shouldn’t be. This is your world, after all.”

She waited to respond until the violinists departed. “You can call me Merrie now. No one’s listening.”

“It’s not proper for you to be talking to me in these surroundings. I’m hired to be here—you’re a guest.”

“I’m not worried about proper. We’re friends.”

He took a step closer and bent his head toward her ear. “Not here. I don’t want to ruin your chances in society.”

“But, Colin—”

“Here’s your punch, Miss Bentley.” Elliott swayed beside her, the ruby liquid dangerously close to spilling on the pale green silk of her gown. “I can’t imagine what you’d have to say to the entertainers this evening. The order of the dances is already listed on your card.”

She took the cup from his hand, holding it away from her skirt. “Mr. Thackery and I are acquainted. I was merely saying hello.”

“Well, now that you’ve greeted him, shall we join the party and let him enjoy refreshments with his companions?” He gave Colin a brusque nod. “Fine music, Thackery. Carry on.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bunting,” he said, his face a mask of politeness. Turning abruptly, he strode through the doorway his companions had used a moment earlier.

Merrie stared after him, then rounded on Elliott. The pulse pounding in her throat threatened to choke her. “Mr. Thackery is a pianist, not a . . . a . . . chimney sweep. You didn’t need to speak to him in that manner.”

He gripped her elbow and steered her toward her aunt. “Right now he’s in our employ. I’ll speak to him however I wish.”

She felt the gazes of other guests as he propelled her across the floor. When Aunt Isabella noticed them coming in her direction, she stood. “Are you quite all right, Merrie? You look flushed.”

She set the untasted cup of punch on a small table. “I’m feeling quite ill. Would you mind if we left early?” She shook her arm free of Elliott’s grasp.

“Of course not. Elliott, would you please ask one of your servants to have our carriage brought around?”

He gave her aunt a forced smile. “Right away, Mrs. Daintree.” On his way out of the room, he turned and scowled at Merrie.

She watched him go, thankful his charade had come to an end.

Within minutes a maidservant appeared. “Your carriage is waitin’ out front, ladies.” She helped them don their cloaks, then opened the door.

“Thank you,” Aunt Isabella said. “Please give our regrets to Mrs. Bunting, and tell her I’ll call on her next week.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

When Merrie saw Mr. Peters smiling at her beside their carriage, she dashed toward him, heedless of the rain. This evening couldn’t end soon enough. Halfway to his side her slipper caught in the ruffles around her skirt. Stumbling forward, she put out her hand to break her fall and landed on her knees in a puddle.

A burning pain shot up her right arm.

“Miss Merrie!” Mr. Peters took her by the shoulders and lifted her to her feet. “Are ye hurt?”

She cupped her throbbing wrist with her left hand. “No. Just embarrassed. Please, let’s leave.”

The coachman helped her into the covered carriage, then assisted Aunt Isabella. Once they were headed toward home, she leaned against her aunt. “I’m so sorry. There’s mud all over the front of this lovely dress.”

“Mud can be cleaned. Your well-being is more important. After watching Elliott this evening, I’m thankful he’s not the one for you.”

“I’m thankful too,” she said, thinking of the frozen expression on Colin’s face when he turned away from her. Somehow she’d have to make amends for the insult he received because of her actions.

By the time they reached home, Merrie’s wrist felt hot. Without thinking, she extended her right hand to Mr. Peters to help her from their conveyance, then sucked in a sharp breath when he clasped her palm.

Flickering light from the lamps in the carriage entrance illuminated his stricken features. “Forgive me, miss. Did I hurt ye?”

“A little.” She tucked her injured wrist against her body. “Would you mind lifting me down?”

“O’ course.” His strong hands clasped her waist. As soon as her feet touched the ground, Aunt Isabella hastened to her side.

“Let’s get you indoors.” She turned to the coachman. “Peters, please fetch Dr. Goodrich.”

Merrie shook her head. “I hate to disturb the doctor this late. I’ll be fine until morning.”

“I don’t want to take the chance.”

Her aunt nodded at Mr. Peters, who returned to the driver’s bench and directed the coach toward town. She slipped her hand under Merrie’s left elbow as soon as the horses were in motion. Once inside, they stopped under one of the lighted sconces in the reception hall.

“Please, let me look at your arm. Do you want me to help you remove your glove?”

“I can do it.” Merrie slipped her left thumb under the cuff and slid the elbow-length glove as far as her wrist. Wincing, she stopped and stared. The light revealed puffy, reddened skin. She gritted her teeth and pulled her hand free. The effort left her trembling.

Aunt Isabella hovered next to her. “Merciful heavens! That looks dreadful.” Hesitating, she glanced down the hallway, then put her arm around Merrie’s waist. “We won’t awaken Mrs. Wagner. Come upstairs with me. I’ll help you out of your dress before Dr. Goodrich arrives.”

The doctor strode into Merrie’s bedroom, his gold-rimmed spectacles gleaming in the yellow lamplight. From his well-tailored black coat to his polished boots, he looked as if he’d been waiting by his door for a patient to call him out.

“Well, well, Miss Bentley. Your aunt tells me you took a nasty spill.” He placed a small leather satchel on top of her bureau. “Let’s have a look at that arm.”

Merrie shifted in her chair and pushed the sleeve of her dressing gown above her elbow. Dr. Goodrich bent over her. Placing his hand under her wrist, he raised her arm almost level with her shoulder.

“Hmm. Hot. Swollen. Can you move your fingers?”

She wiggled them, blinking back quick tears of pain.

His thumb probed against the bones of her wrist, causing fresh tears. “Doesn’t feel broken. More like a severe sprain.”

Relief flooded through her. “So I can use my hand? That’s wonderful news.”

“Not so fast.” He turned to Aunt Isabella, who stood in the doorway. “Would you be so good as to bring me a basin of cold water, ma’am?”

When her aunt left, the doctor opened his satchel and removed a narrow roll of white cloth. Facing Merrie, he said, “As soon as your aunt fetches the water, I’m going to soak these bandages and wrap your hand and arm. For tonight, keep the wrist cold and wet. The longer you can tolerate the moisture, the better.”

She gazed at her bed with its fluffy down-filled quilts. “But . . . how will I sleep?”

“You must keep your arm atop the covers. You might try resting it on a serving tray.”

The image of her arm looking like a poached salmon on a platter brought a weak smile to her face. “Then tomorrow I’ll be better?”

He shook his head. “You’ll need to rest the injury for at least a week—probably more. Your aunt can fashion a sling for you. You must not use that hand.”

“But I—” She bit off the rest of the sentence. The doctor wasn’t interested in her concerns, and she couldn’t ask Aunt Isabella to help her write her articles. Thankfully, Colin would be here on Monday. She’d ask him.

While the guests at the ball enjoyed a midnight supper at the Buntings’, Colin left by a side door leading from the kitchen. Once the dancing ended for the evening, he had no reason to linger.

Seeing Merrie with young Mr. Bunting left a sour feeling in the pit of his stomach. She looked like an angel in her elaborate gown. And like an angel, she was out of his reach.

With his cloak slung over his shoulders against the early morning chill, he held the reins in a loose grip as his horse plodded over muddy streets toward home. Broken clouds allowed sufficient moonlight to illuminate his route.

He’d been a fool to think Merrie could ever be interested in him. His parents had made a happy life together with very little, but Merrie had always known the best of everything. Compared with the impressive houses he passed on his way to the parsonage, he had nothing to offer. The least painful thing would be to stop seeing her.

He straightened in the saddle and resolved to make his next visit his last. Mrs. Daintree would find another piano teacher. Once he left her employ, he hoped he’d be able to forget Merrie’s brilliant blue eyes and fetching smile.

On Monday morning, the memory of Mr. Bunting’s faultlessly tailored evening attire spurred Colin to take special care as he dressed. He stropped his razor to a fine edge and shaved his dark whiskers as close to his skin as possible. After donning a clean shirt and pressed trousers, he fastened his necktie in a wide bow and draped his black frock coat over his arm.

His father’s eyebrows shot up when Colin arrived at the breakfast table. “What’s the occasion?”

“Nothing special.” He strove to keep his tone casual. “I’m going to Miss Bentley’s this morning.”

“Does she expect you to be dressed in your finest?”

He shook his head. He’d never been able to pretend one thing while doing another. His father had a way of cutting through the fat to reach the meat of a subject.

“No. I don’t believe she pays much attention to what I wear.” As he spoke, he realized the statement was true. Merrie focused on him as a person.

“If you set the standard too high, she’ll expect this every time,” his father said, with a teasing grin.

“I plan to tell her I won’t return after today.” His stomach twisted into a knot. Saturday night he believed he had a good idea, but Monday morning’s light cast shadows over his intentions. Not to see Merrie again? He quailed at the prospect.

“And why is that?” His sharp gaze drilled into Colin.

“She lives in a different world. You should have seen how beautiful she looked at the ball. Like an angel. The hostess’s son paid special attention to her. And who am I? A lowly piano teacher.”

“You’re the same person you were a week ago. She liked you then, didn’t she?” His expression softened and he rested his hand on Colin’s shoulder. “I know I’ve cautioned you against becoming attached to Miss Bentley, but perhaps I should have remained silent. Let her decide whether she no longer wants your company.”

“I’ve already decided. This will be best for both of us.”