Chapter Twenty

HARRY HOBBLED ACROSS to the window and, turning his back on the assemblage, eagerly read the letter.

Dear Sybil, she had written. By the time my dear Amelia delivers this letter to you, I shall be gone from this house for good. I know this will be a blow to you, and I am most unhappy to have to cause you pain. You and Charles made a home for me when I was left alone in the world, and for that you will always have my most sincere gratitude and devotion, but, in one matter, I cannot find the will to oblige you. You will have guessed that I am speaking of my betrothal. I realized tonight that I could never, under any circumstances, endure being wed to Nigel. We are completely unsuited. I appreciate deeply the effort you have made to give me a memorable wedding day, but even you will admit that one such day could not make bearable a lifetime of unhappiness, and unhappiness would be my future if I married him.

The fact that I have run away will seem to you most cowardly. It is with deep regret that I leave you to face without me the chaos, the confusion and the gossip which will follow the cancellation of a wedding such as the one you have been planning. Please believe that I had no choice. I have strong personal reasons—having nothing to do with Nigel or the wedding—for my conviction that Thorne House is no longer the proper residence for me.

Amelia will support me in my claim that I shall manage quite well in the new life to which I go. There is not the slightest need for you and Charles—nor anyone else in the family—to feel the least concern for my health and safety. I hope you don’t mind that I’m taking Gwinnys with me—she refuses to stay behind. With the warmest good wishes for your future happiness, I am and will always remain, your loving Nell.

Harry reread the letter several times, but the repetitions did not reveal any more than the first perusal. She was gone, and he knew why. The spirit of hilarity that her severed relationship with Sir Nigel had induced now evaporated completely. He looked up from the missive in his hand, his face tense and strained. “When did you get this?” he asked Sybil.

“Just before you came in. Amelia handed it to me.”

“Did you see her leave, Amelia? When did she go?”

“I saw her off very early this morning,” Amelia said calmly.

“Why did you permit her to do it, you noddy?” Sybil demanded. “Have you no sense of responsibility to this family?”

“She convinced me of the necessity of her action,” Amelia replied.

“The only necessity that I can see is that she wanted to escape from facing the repercussions of her inexcusable behavior,” Sybil declared.

“She says here,” Harry interfered firmly, “that she had pressing private reasons. I accept the truth of that statement, and so must you, Sybil.”

“And is that all you have to say?” Sybil asked incredulously. “Are you not going to find out where she’s gone? Have you no concern for her welfare?”

Amelia snorted. “Do you have any concern? You sent her off to Cornwall last year and never made the least inquiry to learn if she’d arrived. You never even let the caretakers know she was coming! You never sent for her to return. You pushed her into a betrothal she didn’t want simply to feather your own nest. How do you account for this sudden concern now?”

“I do not have to account to you, Amelia, for anything I do!” Sybil said furiously. “I’ll thank you not to interfere in what is not your affair. Nell is my ward, and I do care for her, whatever you may think. And if you were truly as concerned as you pretend, you would tell us where she’s gone—for obviously she’s told you—so that Henry can follow her and bring her home.”

“She doesn’t want to be followed. And she did not tell me where she went,” Amelia said, reaching for the teapot. “Does anyone want a cup of tea?”

Harry took the chair next to his great-aunt and smiled affectionately at her. “Are you sure she gave you no clue as to her destination, Amelia? I won’t follow her, if she doesn’t wish it, but you can understand that we must be assured that she has adequate means, proper surroundings and all that a young lady needs.”

“She left something for you, Henry, that she said will reassure you,” Amelia told him with an answering smile. From her sleeve she withdrew a small wooden box and handed it to him. Harry opened it eagerly. Inside, lying on its bed of padded satin was a long-shafted key on a silver chain.

“What’s that?” Roddy asked curiously.

Harry held up the key, a strange half-smile on his face.

“A key? Does that reassure you?” Sybil asked curiously.

“Yes, it does,” Harry answered, keeping his eyes, which seemed to glitter with an unusual intensity, fixed on the key dangling from his fingers.

“Well, aren’t you going to explain?” Sybil demanded.

“No.” he said shortly.

“That is the outside of enough!” she cried, jumping to her feet. “After all I’ve been through this morning, one would think you’d have the kindness to tell me what’s going on!”

Charles, who’d been listening to the goings-on without much comprehension, nevertheless understood that his wife was prying. “Take a damper, Sybil,” he said firmly, his good breeding asserting itself in the purposeful way he rose from his chair. “It’s time you went to your room for a bit of repose. We’ve had enough theatrics for one morning.” He helped her from her chair and drew her inexorably from the room.

Amelia rose to follow. “If no one wants tea, I think I shall go, too. See you later, dear boy,” she said, patting him affectionately on the shoulder as she passed.

Only Roddy was left in the room. His eyes were fixed on Harry, his brow wrinkled in puzzled concentration. “Does that key give you a clue to Nell’s whereabouts?”

Harry swung the key idly. “Yes, it does.”

“And will you go after her and bring her back?”

“No,” Harry said thoughtfully. “At least … not yet.”

“Not yet? Oh, I see,” Roddy said with a dawning smile.

Harry cast him a quick glance. “What do you see, Roddy?”

“It’s quite obvious—you’re going to wait until you’re free from your entanglements.”

Harry smiled wryly. “You seem to have been reading my mind. But the girl has left me with a knotty problem. How can a man of honor extricate himself from an entanglement like mine?”

“I don’t know, although Nell once suggested …” Roddy stopped himself awkwardly.

“What did she suggest?” Harry asked hopefully.

Roddy shook his head in self-disgust. “Nothing, really. I should not have mentioned it.”

“But you did. Go on, please.”

“She only said that gentlemen cry off all the time.”

“Did she say that? How odd! I’ve never heard of such things.”

“So I said to her. But she would only say that one does not hear of a gentleman crying off because it is made to look as if the lady had done it.”

“Ridiculous! The only way that can be done is by mutual consent, when both parties wish to terminate the betrothal. However, I suppose a gentleman could encourage a lady to … to …” and his voice trailed off as his eyes seemed to light up with an idea.

“To what, Harry?” Roddy asked eagerly.

“Just let me think …”

As Roddy watched, Harry sat lost in thought, his eyes fixed on the key which he absently continued to swing from its chain in a shaft of sunlight streaming in from the window. After a while, Harry’s lips curled in a tiny smile, and his eyes gleamed with amusement. “Have you thought of something?” Roddy inquired hopefully.

“Perhaps …” Harry said slowly, his smile broadening. “I think … yes, I believe something may be contrived …”

It was not long afterward that Lord Thorne began to stumble. At first it occurred only in public places, like the crowded stairway leading to the boxes at the King’s Theater, when the cause might be laid to the carelessness of the passers-by. The incidents tended to be a bit embarrassing for Lord Thorne and his party, for the passers-by always showed a great deal of concern. Lord Thorne had to give repeated assurance that he was indeed quite all right, and people tended to gather and gawk. These little scenes were usually unremarkable, and Lord Thorne and his party were soon able to put them out of their minds.

But when he stumbled in a dining room or at a private party, the incidents tended to be more embarrassing. Edwina, who was usually at his side, would have to support him until he’d regained his balance. He would always apologize profusely, thus drawing more attention to the incident than Edwina thought necessary. Once, when he stumbled, and she bent quickly to support him, he inadvertently moved the tip of his cane on the hem of her skirt. When she straightened, the hem ripped away from the skirt, leaving a great gaping hole in the bottom of her dress. Although she was very gracious in her insistence that it was a mere nothing, it was plain that her evening had been somewhat spoiled.

After the third such incident in as many days, Edwina decided that it was necessary to speak to Henry about the matter. “I would rather die than have you believe these incidents disturb me in the least,” she told him earnestly. “It is only my apprehension for your safety that makes me speak of the matter at all. You see, you had not seemed to have this difficulty before. You always seemed to manage so perfectly, one was hardly aware … that is, I could not help but wonder if perhaps you are not well …”

“It’s this inadequate cane,” Henry said bluntly. “It’s damnably difficult to manage and always has been. It was only vanity that made me take to it. If I’d used my crutch, none of this would have happened.”

“Then you must return to the use of the crutch,” she urged. “It will not make a particle of difference to me, I assure you, and if it means that you will be more comfortable and safe, we must not let your vanity stand in the way.”

But as the days went by, she found that she did mind the crutch. It seemed to distort his body, raising one shoulder above the other rather markedly, and she found that she did not like to watch him crossing a room. She found herself becoming a bit self-conscious when she was with him. Evidently there were others similarly affected, for the number of their invitations dwindled. Edwina began to feel edgy and cross, and her mother remarked that her usual serenity seemed to be deserting her.

One afternoon, when they had been invited to tea at the Milbankes’, matters came to a climax. The Milbankes were mere acquaintances, but Edwina hoped that a strong friendship between the two families would develop. Hester Milbanke boasted two Dukes in her immediate family, and one of them was to attend the tea. Invitations to intimate gatherings with royalty were not at all to be despised, and Edwina had looked forward to the occasion with unusual eagerness. She dressed with the greatest care—a lovely, cream-colored “round gown” of the finest Alençon lace, with small, puffed sleeves and a deep flounce at the bottom. She would have been quite pleased with Henry’s appearance, too, were it not for the crutch, for he wore an excellently cut coat of gray superfine, a striped satin waistcoat of the most subtle greens, and a pair of Hessians whose shine was unmarred by the slightest smudge or smear. With his white-streaked hair and his imposing height, he could have been the most handsome man in the room if he’d not had to carry the dreadful crutch under his arm.

It was with a blessed sense of relief that she saw him lean the crutch against an unoccupied chair beside him when they took their places around the tea table. While seated, Henry was the most imposing gentleman in the room. The conversation was very pleasant, and Edwina noted with pride that Henry had made three witty remarks which had caused the Duke to laugh uproariously. When Hester Milbanke leaned over to Henry and engaged his complete attention for more than a quarter of an hour, Edwina felt more than satisfied with Henry, with herself and with the success of the afternoon. Everything was going so well. Suddenly Henry, laughing at a quip Hester had whispered in his ear, leaned back; his arm pressed against the upper part of the crutch, swinging the lower end up into the air. As it flew up, it struck the edge of the silver tea tray and caused it to overturn. The silver tea pot slid to the floor, spilling its contents as it fell. Edwina saw with horror a tea stain spreading down the front of her lovely gown. Cups and plates crashed to the floor with a horrid, smashing noise, splattering their contents over the clothing of everyone seated nearby. Edwina, her famous composure completely deserting her, screamed.

The Milbankes looked nonplussed for only a few seconds, but soon they laughed aside Lord Thorne’s profuse apologies. The butler and two serving maids quickly swept away the debris. Another tray was hastily brought in, and a semblance of order was restored, but Edwina’s color remained high and she was unable to say a single word. She sat unmoving, staring mutely at the shocking stain that marred the entire front of her dress, not even attempting to do her part to ease the tension in the room.

As soon as possible, Henry rose and offered her his arm. Stiffly, she acquiesced and the two bid their hosts good day. Mrs. Milbanke walked with them to the door, repeatedly assuring them that the accident had been a mere trifle and they were not to trouble themselves about it. Lord Thorne turned to thank her again, tripped on his crutch and fell flat on his face. Edwina, completely unnerved by this last horror, put her hand to her forehead and swooned.

To Edwina, the half-hour following had the atmosphere of a nightmare. Somehow they were helped into their carriage, somehow they arrived at her home, somehow she was led trembling to her bedroom. There, in the privacy of her room, and with only her mother and father to witness it, she gave way to the most hysterical outburst of her life.

In the library below, Henry waited to receive word of her condition. He had not expected his little plot to reap so dramatic a result. He paced the room guiltily, wondering if perhaps he’d gone too far. At last, Sir Edward and Lady Clara came in. “Sit down, my boy,” Sir Edward said nervously. “Do sit down.”

“I hope you are not going to tell me that Edwina is ill!” Henry said worriedly.

“Oh, no, not at all,” Lady Clara assured him. “She is merely a little overset. A mere nothing, but …”

“But?” Henry asked interestedly.

Lady Clara looked at her husband helplessly. “Don’t look at me,” Sir Edward said testily. “I want nothing to do with this. Female foolishness, I call it. Makes a man ashamed he has a daughter.”

Lord Thorne looked from one to the other quizzically. “Is something wrong?”

Lady Clara, biting her underlip nervously, sat down on the sofa and tugged at Henry’s arm. “Sit here beside me, Henry dear. I don’t know quite how to tell you this …”

Henry obligingly sat beside her. She took his hand in both of hers. “Edwina is quite shaken by the events of this afternoon—” she began.

“As well she might be,” Henry said humbly.

“Nonsense, boy!” Sir Edward barked. “Can’t think where these women get their frippery notions. No one with a grain of sense could blame you for—” He shook his head, unable to go on.

“What is it you’re trying to tell me?” Henry asked encouragingly.

“Edwina feels—although I’m certain it’s only a momentary feeling—that she cannot go on with … with …” Lady Clara colored, stammered and looked miserably at the floor.

“With our wedding plans?” Henry prompted.

Lady Clara nodded. “She’s been such an indulged child,” she mumbled shamefacedly. “She always had everything just as she’s wanted it—so easy, so perfect, so beautiful. She doesn’t know how to cope with …”

“With imperfection,” Henry supplied.

Lady Clara, her eyes spilling over with tears, looked at him gratefully. “Yes, that’s it. I s-so d-dislike to give you p-pain …”

Henry stood up. “Don’t cry, Lady Clara. I quite understand. Please assure Edwina that I wish her every happiness—”

“Listen, my boy,” Sir Edward said affectionately, coming up to him and clapping him on the shoulder, “don’t take this too badly. Chances are she’ll come to her senses in a day or two. Bound to, you know. I’ve never before known the girl to behave so stupidly.”

“Thank you, sir, but Edwina is quite right. She deserves perfection. I’ve known from the first that I’m not good enough for her.”

He went quickly and unstumblingly to the door. Before he had closed it behind him, he heard Sir Edward mutter angrily, “Not good enough for her, balderdash! That fellow is far too good for your shatterbrained daughter, and so I intend to tell her before the day is out! The silly chit has tossed away her best chance!”