City of Darkness

Chapter FIFTEEN

October 2

3:15 PM





Cecil lit his pipe and a wave of good feeling, as unaccustomed as the autumn sunshine, washed over him. Ever since the ball, he and Hannah were practically engaged, as evidenced by the note which had come three days ago asking Cecil, William, and their mother to attend the annual Wentworth grouse hunt. Such invitations were scarce and much to be valued, for the hunt was very nearly a private family affair. His plan of pretending that William was the heir had succeeded brilliantly. Edmund Solmes had danced an arthritic little jig when Cecil had ridden over specifically to wave the invitation in his face and had barked, “You’re as good as in her bedchamber, my boy!”

Yes, well every silver lining did have its cloud, Cecil reflected, eyeing Hannah as she dismounted from her horse and began the long walk across the brilliant jade lawn toward the portico. She didn’t look so bad from a distance, but he would never be able to claim he’d married a beauty. The long features and bushy brows which sat dashingly upon the father did not look so charming on the daughter. But the man had sired no sons, bless him, and Hannah would someday have this all.

Hannah and her husband, Cecil thought, leaping to his feet as the girl neared. Winter Garden and even Rosemoral were mere hovels in contrast with the Wentworth estate, which boasted twenty bedchambers and a stable the size of most universities. It would take some flowers, some candy, perhaps the promise of a honeymoon in France…

“Cecil,” Hannah greeted him calmly, her face flushed and small beads of perspiration dotting her lip. “The ride was so invigorating. I’m so sorry your back pain prevented you from coming with us.”

“Ah, yes, polo injury,” Cecil lied smoothly, for no force on earth would persuade him to mount one of the Wentworth Arabs. Mounting their daughter would prove challenge enough. Beyond Hannah’s shoulder he could see William shakily lowering his huge frame from a gloriously white stallion and even his mother, who rode sidesaddle with a surprisingly sure hand, looked a bit off-balance as she was helped from a dark mare. “But the hunt was a success, I take it?”

“Very much so, although none of us eat grouse, of course. But the servants shall be happy tonight,” answered Hannah, flopping down gracelessly in the chair beside him and indicating with one gloved hand that he was also free to sit. “It’s a strange world we live in, is it not? We ride far out in the field and dismount, trekking through the muddy woods in search of grouse for the servants to eat. And all the while they remain here at the estate butchering lamb for our dinner.”

“It’s sport, darling. ‘Tisn’t meant to make sense.”

“Daddy took in seven fowl himself.”

“Daddy must have quite the steady aim. I shall remember that,” Cecil said, smiling.

“You should,” she answered, with no smile at all.

A young maid was circulating with refreshment for the riders and Cecil did not let his sedentary morning prevent him from trying a bit of triffle. The girl gave him a saucy smirk as she passed, not the first of the day, and Cecil returned the favor. It truly wouldn’t be so bad, he thought. Once he managed to get Hannah with child a great deal of pressure should fall from his shoulders and he would be free to do as he pleased, either with this bold little wench or another. Hannah was of a social class to understand and perhaps even appreciate a man’s need to sow freely, just so long as he was discreet and squired his wedded wife about the county with proper respect. Cecil fully intended to play by the rules.

“I must bathe,” said Hannah, not at all self-consciously, and the other ladies were also filing upstairs in giggling groups of two or three to change into day dresses. “Cousin Marguarite plans to play her violin in the south parlor for our amusement, and amusement is indeed the right term because she’s dreadful. Should I expect you to wait for me?”

“Eternally,” Cecil said fervently.

Hannah turned steady grey eyes upon him.

“Half an hour should be enough,” she said, rising. He was certainly handsome, she thought fleetingly, and he said the right things, but did she really want to look at him across the breakfast table for the next forty years? Hannah sighed, dreading the moment she would have to exchange riding gear for the constrictions of a corset and stays. Dreading the moment she would have to trade girlhood for the constrictions of wifedom and motherhood. But the day was coming soon enough, for she was past twenty and she had faced the fact long ago that any man who married her would be doing so for her money. She was rich and she was plain and there was no reason to pretend otherwise. If not Cecil, it would be some other suitor, equally poor and handsome and eager, and her father made it clear that the one thing he expected from his cherished daughter was a brood of grandchildren. Perhaps Cecil would at least have the prudence to get her with child and then leave her alone. He seemed a sensible sort, beneath all that lace and velvet.

The remainder of the riders straggled off to change, the servants darting off behind them to provide basins, water, and towels. Cecil was left alone once again in the portico. He took up his sherry and looked around for the yellow-haired maid.





“Thought you was to marry Miss Hannah,” whispered the girl, squirming a bit as Cecil worked his hands beneath the tight ribcage of her bodice.

“Who told you that?” he answered breathlessly, finally managing to pull her down beside him. These rosebushes clustered in back of the stables provided a safe hiding place. He would have to remember.

“Slow down and do it proper,” said the girl, as arrogant as Hannah in her way. “You’re going to rip it,” she added primly, rising back to her knees and beginning to unhook the miniscule buttons with swift, sure hands. “There, we can loosen it up a bit, but I daren’t take it all off here in the daylight. And everyone knows about you and Miss Hannah, even the deaf girl who does the mending.”

“I don’t care for her,” Cecil said, watching the girl daintily lift up her black cotton skirt to expose two ivory garters. “It’s a business arrangement, pure and simple.”

“Who do you care for?”

“No one. You. I care for you. What did you say your name was?”

The girl giggled, letting him pull her back down on top of him. “I’m June,” she said. “Remember that name when you’re master of the house, won’t you, love?”

Cecil mumbled something incoherent and then they both were silent. The heat of Indian summer mixed with the nearly overpowering scent of the roses and the surprising sureness of the girl was too much for him. She seemed to sense this.

“Lie back,” she said throatily. “I’ll take care of it.”

Ah, yes, Cecil thought, letting his head roll to the grass with an inelegant thud. This is how it should be. The master of the house should lie back and let the serving girl take care of it.

“Hush,” said the girl, her face suddenly frozen in fear.

“Hmm,” murmured Cecil. He hadn’t said anything.

“Hush,” June whispered. “I hear someone. Bloody Bob, he works in the stable and he thinks he owns me.”

Cecil froze too, for there were unmistakably the sound of footsteps approaching, soft in the grass but distinct.

“There,” Silas Wentworth was saying. “These are the rosebushes I wanted you to see. We keep them out back where the sun is a bit better, but they are Hannah’s pride, aren’t they, darling?”

“Yes,” answered the familiar voice, calm and self-assured.

“Oh God,” Cecil thought, the blood suddenly deserting the lower limbs of his body and rushing back to his head with such veracity the thought it would explode. June was lying immobile beside him, her eyes and legs wide.

“My grandfather grew roses,” William said. “He took several prizes, didn’t he, mother?”

“Indeed,” Gwynette said, although Leonard Bainbridge’s horticulture experiments had never been quite such a social asset before. “You must come with us sometime to Rosemoral, Hannah, and gather cuttings for your own gardens…”

The voices faded and for a dizzying moment Cecil thought he was safe. Then he heard his brother - fat, wretched, stupid, hopeless William - say mildly “I do like that peach colored variety over there. I say, Miss Wentworth, is that one of your specialties?”

“The color is nothing compared to the scent,” Silas Wentworth said proudly. “I shall pluck you a sample…”

And then the bushes parted as the gates of hell and four startled faces looked down at the couple sprawled beneath them. With a muffled shriek June leapt up and sprinted toward the stables, buttoning her dress as she ran, but Cecil could do little more than gape up at the expressions of his accusers. Wentworth speechless with fury, his mother ashen with shock, William unaccountably amused, and finally Hannah. Her face, as always, was difficult to read and Cecil was in no condition to be perceptive.

Drat it all, Hannah was thinking. I shall have to go through this tedious courtship process yet again.