Anne Gracie - Gallant Waif

Sir Phillip left, leaving his daughter looking embarrassed and angry. There was a long moment of silence. Julia took a quick, graceful turn about the room, the swishing of her skirts the only sound in the room. The practised movements displayed, as they were meant to do, the lush, perfect body encased in the finest gown London could provide, the fashionable golden coiffure, the finely wrought jewellery encircling her smooth white neck and dimpled wrists. Finally Julia spoke.

“I am sorry if you heard something that you didn’t like, Jack, but you must know that eavesdroppers never hear any good of themselves.” She shrugged elegantly, glided to the window and stood gazing out, seemingly absorbed in the view of the fashionably landscaped garden beyond the terrace.

Jack’s face was grim, the scar twisting down his cheek standing out fresh and livid against his pallor.

“God damn it, Julia, the least you could have done was told me to my face—what’s left of it,” he added bitterly. “It’s partly because of you that I’m in this situation in the first place.”

She turned, her lovely mouth pouting with indignation. “Well, really, Jack, how can you blame me for what has happened to you?”

His lips twisted sardonically and he shrugged, his powerful shoulders straining against the shabby, light, superfine coat.

“Perhaps not directly. But when my father ordered me to end our betrothal you cast yourself into my arms and begged me to stand firm. Which of course I did.”

“But how was I to know that that horrid old man truly would disinherit you for disobeying him?”

His voice was cool, his eyes cold. “That horrid old man was my father, and I told you at the time he would.”

“But he doted on you! I was sure he was only bluffing…trying to make you dance to his tune.”

His voice was hard. “It’s why I purchased a commission in the Guards, if you recall.”

The beautiful eyes ran over his body, skipping distastefully over the scarred cheek and the stiffly extended leg.

“Yes, and it was the ruination of you!” She pouted, averting her eyes.

He was silent for a moment, remembering what she had said to her father. “I am told that I will never dance again. Or ride.”

“Exactly,” she agreed, oblivious to his hard gaze. “And will that horrid scar on your face go away too? I doubt it.”

She suddenly seemed to notice the cruelty of what she had said. “Oh, forgive me, Jack, but you used to be the handsomest man in London, before…that.” She gestured distastefully towards the scar.

With every word she uttered, she revealed herself more and more, and the pain and disillusion and anger with himself was like a knife twisting in Jack’s guts. For this beautiful, empty creature he had forever alienated his father. Like Julia, he had never in his heart of hearts believed his father would truly disinherit him, but it seemed his father had died with Jack unforgiven. It was that which hurt Jack so deeply; not the loss of his inheritance, but the loss of his father’s love.

Feeling uncomfortable under Jack’s harsh scrutiny, Julia took a few paces around the room, nervously picking up ornaments and elegant knick-knacks, putting them down and moving restlessly on.

Jack watched her, recalling how the memory of her grace and beauty had sustained him through some of the worst moments of his life. It had been like a dream then, in the heat and dust and blood of the Peninsula War, to think of this lovely, vital creature waiting for him. And that’s all it was, he told himself harshly—a dream. The reality was this vain, beautiful, callous little bitch.

“Oh, be honest, Jack.” She twirled and stopped in front of him. “You are no longer the man I agreed to marry. Can you give me the life we planned? No.”

She shrugged. “I am sorry, Jack, but, painful though it is for both of us, you must see it is just not at all practical any more.”

“Ahh, not practical?” he echoed sarcastically. “And what exactly is not practical? Is it my sudden lack of fortune? My ruined face? Or the idea of dancing with an ugly cripple and thereby becoming an object of ridicule? Is that it, eh?”

She cringed in fright at the savagery in his voice.

“No, it is not practical, is it?” he snarled. “And I thank God for it.”

She stared as she took in the meaning of his last utterance.

“Do…do you mean to say you don’t want to marry me?” Her voice squeaked in amazement and dawning indignation. It was for her to give him his congé, not the other way around.

He bowed ironically. “Not only do I not wish to marry you, I am almost grateful for the misfortunes which have opened my eyes and delivered me from that very fate.”

She glared at him, her bosom heaving in a way that had once entranced him. “Mr Carstairs, you are no gentleman!”

He smiled back at her, a harsh, ugly grimace. “And you, Miss Davenport, are no lady. You are a shallow, greedy, cold little bitch, and I thank my lucky stars that I discovered the truth in time. God help the poor fool you eventually snare in your net.”

She stamped her foot furiously. “How dare you? Leave this house at once…at once, do you hear me? Or crip—wounded or not, I’ll have you thrown out!”

He limped two paces forward and she skittered back in fright.

“Just give me back my ring,” he said wearily, “and your butler won’t be put to the trouble and embarrassment of manhandling a cripple.”

She snatched her left hand back against her breast and covered the large diamond ring with her other hand.

“Oh, but I am very attached to this ring, Jack,” she said in a little-girl voice. “I did love you, you know. Surely you want me to have something to remember you by?”

He looked at her, disgust filling his throat, then turned and silently limped from the house.

London. Late autumn, 1812.

“Good God! Do you mean to tell me my grandson did not even receive you after you’d travelled I don’t know how many miles to see him?” Lady Cahill frowned at her granddaughter. “Oh, for goodness’ sake, Amelia, stop that crying at once and tell me the whole story! From the beginning!”

Amelia gulped back her sobs. “The house is shabby and quite horrid, though the stables seem well enough—”

“I care nothing for stables! What of my grandson?” Lady Cahill interrupted, exasperated.

“His manservant told me Jack saw no one.”

The old lady frowned. “What do you mean, no one?”

“I mean no one, Grandmama, no one at all. He—Jack, that is—pretended to be indisposed. He sent a message thanking me for my concern and regretting his inability to offer me hospitality. Hospitality! His own sister!”

Amelia groped in her reticule for a fresh handkerchief, blotted her tears and continued, “Of course I insisted that I go up and tend him, but his man—a foreigner—would not even allow me up the stairs. I gathered from him that Jack was not ill…just…drunk! He won’t see anyone. And, according to his manservant, he’s been like that ever since he returned from Kent.”

There was a long pause while the old lady digested the import of this. “Kent, eh? I wish to God he had never set eyes on that poisonous little Davenport baggage.” She glanced up at her granddaughter. “I take it, then, that the betrothal is definitely at an end.”

“Unfortunately, yes, Grandmama.”

“Good!” said Lady Cahill vehemently. “He’s well rid of that little harpy and you know it.”

“But, Grandmama, it appears to have broken his heart.”

“Nonsense! He’s got a fine strong heart. He’s got my blood in him, hasn’t he? When you’re my age, you’ll stop prating of broken hearts and other such nonsense. Bodies mend and so do hearts.”