Rivals and Revels (A Regency Romance)

22. The Brothers' Quarrel (1 of 2)

Lady Catherine's season in London was so busy, that Mabel had to tone down her excitement in the letters to Hazel. Her sister was with child and her mood was fragile. Mabel scoured every missive for a hint if Everett was the father, but Hazel left nothing between the lines. She didn't know, or she would have slipped. It was impossible for it to be otherwise with her mean streak. And so Mabel stewed like Hazel stewed.

On her part, she never mentioned Everett, her discovery of his calf-love or that she had stuffed his notebook with the poems behind a loose board in her wardrobe, hopefully never to be found again. If he wanted it, he'd have taken it with him, wouldn't he?

She made light of the winter festivities and trips to the Opera, which Lady Catherine attended at least once a week. More, if the opera had tragic lovers, which nearly all of them inexplicably had. Tragic lovers drew crowds more than the happy ones, as if there wasn't enough heartbreak to go around. Perhaps misery does love company.

As winter retreated before the joyous charge of spring, Mabel wrote mostly of the garden and of Radcliffe. Both safe, wholesome topics, no matter what Everett implied.

In February, the fragile cups of the snowdrops defied the sleet. Lord Chesterton spent most of his evenings at home, rather than joining his Mother's capers. He had a soothing effect on her nerves, marvelously soothing.

The crocuses pushed forth and burst open in a fan of skinny long leaves; how she had missed the colours amidst the greys of the winter. Lord Chesterton was the soul of courtesy no matter how tired he was. The other day he had commented, "What need do we have of the inconveniences of the public gatherings, if Miss Walton sings twice as good as any diva?"

Mabel blushed as the words dropped from her pen upon the paper, fixed in ink, then crumpled it with a merciless hand. Such a pricey waste, and she had to start over again, yet she couldn't include this. She absolutely couldn't. Not for fear of upsetting Hazel's sensibilities or being mocked for fawning over Radcliffe, but because the sweet words were hers. How she blushed to the tips of her ears was also hers.

Then the jonquils' anointed themselves with golden crowns, the fresh lords of spring. Lord Chesterton's habit of reading the choice bits from the newspapers to Lady Catherine and herself was growing on her.

"Imagine, dearest Hazel, asking me if the spirit of Napoleon was quite extinguished in the nations or similar political things." Mabel wrote. "But, my dearest, I found having opinions and voicing them to be quite infectious. I'm afraid I cannot be stopped now."

The first rose to break through the loving embrace of its green bud wasn't far off either. The emotion that grew between Lord Chesterton and her, now truly resembled the thick friendship he'd sought. His trust strengthened her armour of civility during Everett's visits.

'Perhaps,' she thought, rocking slightly on her stool by the pianoforte, 'perhaps, I should only mention the roses.'

Her nimble fingers run through one of Mozart's whimsies. At the low table, Lady Catherine's cards produced soft rustling sounds as she laid out her game of patience. A log crackled in the fireplace, burning low. On her first day, so long ago, she nearly died of embarrassment by barging into Radcliffe's study, but now she was accustomed to whiling evenings in its coziest corner, because Lady Cathrine often wanted her to play music.

From behind the door of what used to be old Lord Chesterton's smoking room, and now became a kunstkamera where Radcliffe kept collections in a merry disarray, male voices droned, then picked up in intensity. It was almost impossible to tell Radcliffe from Everett if she didn't hear what was said. Breaking like waves, the incomprehensible conversation weaved into her music.