Chapter 20
Dusk had not yet fallen when Rosalind stepped gingerly into the small boat that waited to take their party across the Thames. It dipped slightly under her weight and she hurried to an empty seat on unsteady legs, desperate for stability in the precarious craft. But even seated, she could not seem to lose the panic rising in her like a floodwater. She fought to focus on the other occupants, who all seemed happy and unconcerned. Even so, her gaze was drawn against her will to the dark depths of the river. The crowd on the Westminster side of the bank and in the boats crossing the river were in high spirits, the water amplifying the sound of voices colored with anticipation of a night of pleasure. The river, though, looked menacing and forbidding. And much too close.
“Rosalind, are you well?”
Tristan’s voice sounded in her ear as he settled into the boat. An instant calm settled over her, knowing he was beside her. It was an idea that should have unsettled her. She had never relied on anyone before; even when her father and sister had been living, she had more often than not been the one that others leaned on.
But Tristan was turning much of what she believed on its head. In more ways than one.
“I’m fine,” she murmured, casting another careful look over the side of the boat as Lord Kingston settled into a seat, gently bobbing the craft. “I simply never cared to spend time on the water, is all.”
“Never tell me the fearless Miss Rosalind Merriweather dislikes the water,” he teased.
“Call it an instinct for survival.”
“Did you never learn how to swim as a child? I was under the assumption you grew up in the country, and I never met a country-bred person who didn’t learn to swim while still a babe in arms.”
“No, I did. But it was so long ago, I don’t believe I’ll remember how if we should happen to find ourselves inthat.” She indicated the water sloshing against the hull of the boat with a jerk of her chin. A boat that looked smaller and less stable by the minute as they pushed from shore and started their swift way across the river.
She sucked in a quick breath, her hands tightening on the bench beneath her. Immediately Tristan’s arm was around her. The warmth and strength of it seeped under her skin, relaxing the knotted muscles of her back, unclenching her teeth. It was a totally natural posture on his part. Anyone looking at him would assume he was merely laying his arm casually along the back of the bench.
Yet Rosalind felt the true meaning behind it. He was offering her his strength, giving her comfort. The protective ball in the pit of her stomach eased a bit, unfurling, letting loose part of that vulnerability she kept so closely hidden. She sent him a small, thankful smile. He returned it, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. Her heart thumped in her chest in the most peculiar way.
Before she could countenance it, their craft came to rest against the Vauxhall Stairs at the south bank. In no time they had disembarked and found themselves at the entrance to the famed Pleasure Gardens.
Rosalind had read of this place, of course. Guinevere herself had written of it, having visited during her own trip to London. She recalled the happily-penned words she had received from her sister, telling of the elegant elite mingling with common folk, of the music and lanterns and gaiety. She had poured over that missive night after night, until it was fairly burned in her brain.
Now she was here. She took several steps away from their group, the better to take the glory of the place in. The orchestra building was front and center, the musicians hard at work above the mingling crowds. Handel’s famed statue was a shining white marble beacon,peering with a relaxed kind of contentment from his perch. Lanterns swayed in anticipation of their lighting, ready to illuminate the smiling faces of the attendees.
She gave a small sigh, thinking of Guinevere. How she must have loved this. As clear as day she saw in her mind’s eye her sister walking these wide lanes, dancing beneath the orchestra, dining in the supper boxes. She wished she had Guinevere here, that they could share this moment together.
Once again she felt a presence at her side. She turned with a smile, expecting to find Tristan. And was surprised to find Mr. Carlisle beside her.
“How are you enjoying the evening, Miss Merriweather?” he asked in his jolly way. “Is Vauxhall all you expected it to be?”
“Thus far it is exactly as my sister described in her letters home.”
The happiness in his expression faded to something bittersweet. “Yes, I remember that night well.”
She blinked in surprise, turning to more fully face him. “You were with her that night then? The night she came to Vauxhall?”
“Indeed. We were not of the same party, of course. I was a young bachelor and came with a group of friends who were determined to make mischief.” He chuckled, his eyes on her, though the remnants of memory so glazed them she suspected he did not see her at all. “But then we spotted your sister and her group and quickly joined them. It was a fine night we all had, eating and dancing and walking about. I believe I even took her on a promenade at one point.”
She blinked back tears. “It sounds lovely.”
“It was.” He was silent for some minutes, until Tristan returned to their group, lifting the pall over her and Mr. Carlisle.
“Dinner has been ordered and we will now be shown to a supper box, if you’re amenable.”
The group moved into The Grove. Night was beginning to fall in earnest, and the crowds were quickly thickening. Mouthwatering scents floated in the air, savory ham and sweet tarts, and the perfume of hundreds of flowers, all mingling in a wonderful decadence.
“In the three Seasons we have been to London,” Mrs. Weeton said, “we have never once stepped foot in Vauxhall. Sir Tristan, your idea for this evening’s outing was positively genius.”
“You hear that, Rafe?” Tristan said to his friend as they entered the box and settled on the benches. “The Weetons have never visited these famed avenues. We shall have to give them an evening they shall never forget.”
“I shall take that challenge, gladly,” Rafe replied with a grin.
The men were true to their word. For soon a waiter brought their repast, a stunning array of cold meats and pastries, puddings and salads. The ham was amazingly thin, the punch surprisingly strong. And then a whistle blew, followed by a second, and thousands of lanterns flared to life simultaneously, illuminating the partygoers in a wash of gilded light.
