“And you’re telling me that she has absolutely no idea who you are?”
The voice sounded incredulous, and Timothy winced as his friend’s words carried across the crowd. He did not need the entire Assembly Rooms to start asking awkward questions of him; he had enough of that from his own conscience.
“Do not be a fool,” he replied curtly. “She knows that I am Timothy.”
John’s eyes widened and his mouth fell open. “And you honestly think that that’s enough to prevent her from finding out the truth and railing you about it for all eternity?”
Timothy shrugged, but his nonchalance was forced. “Perhaps that would not be the end of the world . . . if she stayed around to crow at me, at least I would still be with her . . .”
His companion shook his head in disbelief, and took a glass of punch from a passing waiter. “Well I think you’re mad,” he said flatly. “Mad.”
Timothy watched his friend drink thirstily, and sighed. Was he mad? It had been mere hours since he had uncovered Miss Cordelia Honeyfield’s identity, and he had been wracked with guilt ever since. Not even tonight’s invitation to the Assembly Rooms, the lively music performed with such gaiety, nor the delightful food that had been laid on by the Royal Hotel, had been enough to lift his spirits.
“Besides,” John continued, a smile spreading over his face as he beheld the room before him, “are there not sufficient young ladies in Weymouth for you without mooning over one in particular? You’re the youngest doctor for miles around – I could never understand how you finished your studies so quickly – do you not think that any other woman could interest you?”
John’s gaze roved over the coiffed hair in the French style, silk dresses with their corsets tightened to within an inch of their wearers’ life, and the wafting of a dozen perfumes in the air.
Mere hours ago, Timothy had been laughing with Cordelia, wandering around Weymouth with her, leaving the strangest notes in books for unsuspecting readers to discover. His smile was unbidden, unconscious. All of these pretty puffed up ladies who were promenading before them – it may satisfy John, but he had had a taste of something real, something that satisfied. Something that he wanted.
“That’s a new one.” John’s words interrupted his meditation, and he jerked his head to glance where his friend was pointing – and his mouth fell open.
Cordelia had just walked through the large doors into the Assembly Rooms, and she was miserable. Timothy could tell why almost immediately; instead of the looser, more flowing style of gown that he had seen her in previously, she had been trussed up in a Marie Antoinette style gown with ribbons beyond ribbons cascading down the back. Her hair had been powdered, and if he was not mistaken, she was wearing court shoes.
“My my, not a bird happy in its cage,” murmured John.
Timothy swallowed. Surely here, in this alcove on the other side of the room, with the musicians a much more attractive sight to their left, they would remain unseen. They could have been spotted, for she was looking across the room vaguely as if to find an acquaintance, any acquaintance – but then a hand grasped her wrist, and Mrs Chambers led her over to the other side of the room where the Master of Ceremonies was standing.
John tutted under his breath. “I must say, the French court may lead our fashions now in the 1790s, but I do wish those poor girls would loosen their corsets – you know my sister told me of a lady who actually fainted in Almack’s last week. Couldn’t revive her until they cut the cords, and of course it was a true-blue scandal because the man whose pocket knife they borrowed –”
“That is her, John.” Timothy had stopped listening to his friend, and his gaze was still fixed on her. “That is Cordelia.”
“Cordelia?” John blinked, uncomprehending, and then he sighed with understanding. “Oh, Cordelia. Which one?”
Timothy could feel his heart pounding, and if he was not mistaken there was a bead of sweat soaking into his cravat.
“Walsingham!”
He started, and looked confused at John who was shaking his head. “I’ve never seen you act like this over a woman before, Timothy. She is the woman that you have been writing to – the elderly woman, who has come here for the sea air? What has got into you?”
Timothy was not sure. He had attended his fair share of Assemblies, both here in Weymouth and in London; had seen many a pretty face dance before him tantalisingly; but none had moved him so much as to affect him. Cordelia was different; even the temperature in the room seemed to change when she stepped into it, and the air around him seemed more solid, more difficult to breathe in, more like quicksand dragging him down into a warm abyss.
“You’re quite done for, you know.” John’s voice jerked him back to the conversation. The music had stopped. Those couples who had been entertaining the standing crowds – and indulging in the one chance to speak in undertones to their partners – now applauded the musicians, and retired to the edges of the room, a murmuring chatter increasing in volume as comparisons of technique were made, comments on general suitability aired, and mothers clucked around their eligible daughters.
Cordelia, a relative outsider to the company, stood to one side. He could see that Mrs Chambers, whilst keeping a close eye on her charge, was not strapped to her side. She was now talking to a gentleman of the town, her back turned to Cordelia who stood silently, looking around the room as though searching for a friendly shore.
Timothy bit his lip. “I should have told her yesterday,” he said in a low tone to his friend, turning towards him to keep his voice low. “As soon as I saw that locket, I should have realised that was the opportunity to be open – and now the situation is completely hopeless.”
“Hopeful, I’d say,” John replied matter-of-factly. “I mean, what have you done wrong? Made an honest mistake about a young lady, which you can now rectify. After all, isn’t this your perfect opportunity?”
Shaking his head, he replied, “I do not think that there is ever going to be a perfect opportunity – no, listen, John,” said Timothy, preventing his friend’s interruption, “you have not heard her talk about this doctor who has sent her here. She did not know – does not know, rather, that I was he, and she has been decidedly uncompromising on her opinions of him.”
The lead violinist was tapping on his music stand, calling one of the other musicians back to the group. Timothy watched as the wandering artiste began to drink liberally from the punch bowl. He tried not to laugh, then caught the sound of an uncontrolled snort from the other side of the room.
He grinned. He would know her laugh anywhere, even after just three days’ familiarity.
John was speaking, and Timothy tried to attend to his words. “Surely she can’t hold such an innocent mistake against you.”
“Who says it is innocent?”
John blinked. “Well, you do!”
“But that is my point,” Timothy tried to explain. “Tis only my word against hers, and no one would believe me over an innocent young woman!”
“Timothy Walsingham, my friend, you get ahead of yourself.” John placed a calming hand on his arm, and smiled reassuringly. “There is no talk yet of proving yourself, or defending your honour, or anything like that. Just think instead of the simple facts.”
But how could he think of the simple facts, when all he wanted to do was stride across the room and take Cordelia in his arms and – no, he must not think that, she did not even know who he was yet!
“The facts are,” John was continuing, “that you prefer a young woman who seems to prefer you, and there is a little confusion about identities. That is all. For all you know, a simple introduction from the Master of Ceremonies, goodness gracious me what are the chances, aha, isn’t this an excellent story that we can tell our grandchildren. Problem solved.”
Wild mirth was pouring from his friend, but Timothy did not think it was funny. “I concede that it could be solved . . . and yet it could become a tangle from which I never escape.”
The two friends watched as the Master of Ceremonies worked his way around the room, smiling at all, nodding at some, clasping the hands of others.
Timothy sighed. All he wanted was to be out of the damned tight waistcoat and be home, where he could think. “I do not want to become tainted by her idea of this doctor.”
“You are the doctor.” John helpfully reminded him.
Timothy glowered. “Thank you.”
Ignoring his friend’s chuckles, Timothy reached for a glass of wine as it was paraded past him. The Master of Ceremonies was talking to Cordelia, although Mrs Chambers appeared to be doing most of the talking.
And then the unthinkable happened. Cordelia looked up, and their eyes met.
Hers bright and sparkling, his deep and grey; sparks of desire and confusion travelled down both bodies as they were drawn together by an unfathomable tide.
“You do not think . . . “ breathed Timothy.
John laughed. “I do believe that the Master of Ceremonies is bringing your Cordelia right over here. Goodness, Timothy, who would have credited it!”
He was not sure whether his heart had stopped beating, or whether it was going so fast that it was almost a blur. This could not be happening; surely fate would not draw him such a hand as this? But there she was, gliding like a ship across the waves, and his feet were glued to the floor as though they were anchored there.
Move. Move now.
“Good evening, sir.” John’s voice called out, a lighthouse in the room, guiding Timothy back to shore. “Tis quite an honour for us to converse with the Master of Ceremonies.”
Mr Archibald, a pompous man who enjoyed nothing better than to be admired, smiled broadly. “Ah, Mr Stanford, you know that the pleasure is all mine.”
The two men exchanged pleasantries and Timothy stared at Cordelia. She stared back, a cheeky smile on her face but her hands demurely clasped together at the front of her gown. He tried to ignore the stirrings growing deeper than he had ever imagined possible, and attempted to focus on the conversation.
“. . . new to Weymouth, I took it upon myself to introduce her to some of the respectable gentlemen of the town,” Mr Archibald was saying.
Timothy tried not to show the alarm he was feeling, but his feet unconsciously shuffled and his neck twitched. Was this not the exact nightmare that he had hoped to avoid?
Cordelia curtsied, deep and low, and Timothy tried not to gaze too much at the subtle curves that suddenly became much more visible. The heart locket was still there.
“May I introduce Mr Stanford?”
John bowed at the Master of Ceremonies’ words, and now Timothy’s heart was beating so fast his ribcage may explode. The musicians were tuning for their next piece but they sounded a long way off, and he was starting to be able to see his heartbeat as his pulse raced across his eyes –
Mr Archibald was now gesturing to him. This was it. This was the instant that he lost her.
“And this –”
“Oh, I know who this is.” Cordelia’s voice was clear as she interrupted the Master of Ceremonies. “This man and I are known to each other.”
Timothy blinked. Then a broad smile grew on his face. “Indeed. Would you grace me with the next dance?”
Cordelia felt, rather than spoke the answer. She had not even admitted to herself that she had hoped that the tall man she was starting to admire more than any other man, would ask her to dance, and now here he was, doing just that.
She nodded. His arm was offered, and she took it without checking with Mrs Chambers – who in any case, had already found another woman to converse with, and seemed perfectly happy to allow Cordelia to stride off with this gentleman.
The wool of Timothy’s frockcoat was coarse under Cordelia’s fingertips. Her gloves had been abandoned at a table several minutes before, and she was glad now; every touch was more special, more intimate when it was made without the interference of gloves.
“You look . . .” Timothy was speaking at such a whisper as they made their way to the middle of the room that she could barely hear him, and she lifted her head to him, noting the smile and the seriousness on his face. “You look beautiful, Cordelia.”
Try as she might to prevent it, a blush washed over her face and the tingling in her stomach, the one that she had tried to ignore as soon as she saw him when she had entered the room, returned.
“Thank you,” was all she could murmur in return before they parted to face each other.
There were seven other couples in this set, and the musicians seemed impatient to start, beginning so quickly that one young lady had to push her partner into position. Laughter rang out through the room, and Cordelia giggled, dispelling the uncomfortable nerves that had suddenly flowed through her. Why should she be nervous? She knew Timothy well enough for a country dance. Why, they had discussed William Gifford together.
And then something happened that she did not expect. The first melody of the music struck up, and she stepped towards Timothy, and his blazing gaze took her off guard. Before she could regain her composure, their hands were lifting and they touched, and she could not help but gasp at the intensity of it: skin to skin, flesh to flesh, neither of them wearing gloves. It was as though she had been burned.
There was ringing in her ears that had nothing to do with the music, and he stumbled as he made his way back to his set. Did he feel it too?
They came together again, and this time, he spoke. “Cordelia, there is something – something about you that I cannot understand, and I want to.”
Her heart fluttered again. “I –”
The cruel dance drew them away from each other again; all they could do was look; but the force in his eyes almost made her take a step backwards. Emotions stirred in her that were something akin to . . . love?
“I had hoped you would be here,” she managed to breathe the next time they came close, but all else she had planned to say was lost when he placed his hand around her waist. The dance demanded it, and Cordelia accepted it willingly, the heat of his hand piercing not her gown but her very soul. This man – this man could touch her anywhere and she would let him, she would want him to, she would –
They broke apart again, and Cordelia swallowed as she twirled around the woman who stood on her left. What on earth was she thinking, what was she doing? Blushing furiously now, she tried to focus on the dance and not the handsome man who was mirroring her every move.
But she could not stay away from him. Even if the dance had not ordained their paths to meet again, she would have sought him out willingly.
“Timothy,” her voice low as they clasped hands once more, not taking her eyes from his, “I do not think that there is a man in the world who I would rather be with, right now, than you.”
“And I do not think that I would let you.”
They parted, and Cordelia stared at him. Did he say . . . this was intolerable, she must speak to him properly without all of this stepping away and stepping forward. Did he mean . . . ?
The dance was coming to a close now, and Cordelia hated the musicians for speeding through their bars so quickly, a tide eager to kiss the shore. Could they not see that every moment spent here with Timothy was one she would treasure?
For the last time, they came together, her arms leaning back as he encircled her waist with his hands. But instead of following decorum and leaning backwards to mirror her, he leaned forward. Cordelia could feel his warm breath on her neck, and the impulse to lean forwards and meet his lips with hers overwhelmed her.
“Cordelia,” said his voice, low so that no one else could hear but her, “Cordelia, I think I –”
Applause drowned out his last words. The musicians had stopped, but Timothy had not let her go. Cordelia’s chest fluttered up and down, out of control. Slowly, she raised her neck. His face was mere inches from hers; all she had to do was move her lips and they would kiss. She wanted to, but she waited, hesitant.
He swallowed, and she was captivated by the movement of his neck. He was undoubtedly male, this close, and she could feel the strength in his arms as he held her tight.
“Cordelia,” he repeated, and now his voice was jagged with barely repressed emotion. “Cordelia –”
“Cordelia!” A different voice now called out her name, and suddenly the tight clasp she was nestled in disappeared. Timothy strode away as Mrs Chambers came bustling towards her. “Cordelia, that was an elegant dance. Have you met Mr Yattersly? He is a gentleman of Lyme, Lyme Regis you know, and has come here for . . .”
An hour later in her own room at the Golden Lion, Cordelia stared out of the window at the crescent moon that was reflected like a broken mirror on the ever-shifting waves. Tonight could not have been more perfect if she had planned it herself – perhaps even then. If she closed her eyes, she could still feel the touch of Timothy across her waist, feel his warmth, taste that tantalising promise of a kiss that never came.
But it was wrong to think of a man so, surely it was? She was not here to matchmake, she was here to . . . well, return to full health, according to her father. What was she here for, if not for an adventure?
The memory of his laughter made her smile in turn, standing alone in her room. He was unlike any man she had ever met; gentle, and intelligent, and strangely happy for her to do almost anything she wanted. Attractive characteristics, certainly, but he was something more. There was a depth to him, more mysterious than the deeps of the ocean where no one knew what lived there. There was much more to Timothy than met the eye.
Her eye fell upon the paper and ink pot on the desk, beside her bed. Her face fell. Dances and beachside strolls aside, there was one thing still to be done.
Seating herself at the desk, fighting the tiredness that was creeping over her with every stolen minute, Cordelia began to write.
Friday 12th – or Saturday 13th March, 1790. Weymouth
Dr Walsingham,
What a disappointment you are turning out to be. I waited for you as long as I could, you know, but when there is better company to be had, I must go where delight and diversion take me. Of course, there is not much of a contest when you decide that seeing me is simply not inviting enough to bother to attend our appointment, but you will be glad to hear that I found quite enough amusement to entertain me throughout the day. I do, however, have the promise to my father to keep, and I feel that it is only right that you sort out your own affairs when I have been most obliging.
Perhaps it is the location that does not suit? I hate to think that it could be the company, and so I propose a different meeting place altogether. It seems that the promenade is a little difficult for you, and I suppose that one wishing to avoid crowds would find it most arduous. I have it on excellent authority – local, mind you, and dependable as the ocean – that the bathing restrictions are rarely used, and where the line is often drawn could be a simple place to meet. It is directly opposite the bathing machines, where the beach becomes segregated. Let us say, tomorrow at midday? That should give you enough time to find an excuse not to come.
I am becoming impatient to meet you, Dr Walsingham, and if you insist on hiding yourself away I shall have to come and hunt you out. Let us both pray, for your sake, that it does not come to that. Until then I shall remain,
Miss C Honeyfield