“I don’t reckon they change people’s natures, but they might change what they do with them. You’re going to continue to be determined, but you’re going to use that to choose the right husband.”
“Yes, I am,” Ariana said, standing.
And I’m going to remember that the Earl of Kynaston has always been on the road to ruin, and people don’t change. So, he was pleasant this evening and behaved quite normally, but beneath that exterior, he’s a wreck.
•••
Ariana settled into bed pleasantly tired, but hours later was still awake, at least in part because of thinking about a certain wretch’s potential for reform. Tinkling clocks around the house and more sonorous chimes from church bells farther afield told her it was two in the morning of what the French called anuit blanche. She didn’t often suffer them, but she knew how it would be. Simply lying there wouldn’t bring sleep, and soon her legs would become irritated and might even cramp.
She climbed out of bed, shivering in the cold air. The fire had died long ago. She drew back the curtains to let in the moonlight, and then wrapped herself in her thick woolen robe, even pulling the hood up over her head. Her fur-lined slippers would help keep her feet warm. Even so, she needed to be vigorous if she wasn’t to become chilled through.
A few circles of the room told her this wouldn’t do.
At home at these times she walked the corridors. There were no long corridors here, but there was more space outside this room and staircases to go up and down. Clearly the whole house was asleep. No one would know.
She used the tinderbox to light a candle and then ventured out. The only sounds were from ticking clocks. She walked briskly up and down this corridor, her slippers making little noise. It was a short corridor, however, so she started downstairs. She’d been too inactive in recent days. That was why she couldn’t sleep. At home she enjoyed a long walk or ride on most days, and sometimes both. Merely going around Boxstall involved considerable walking.
Her sleeplessness was from other causes, however, and more than damnable Kynaston. As she turned to go downstairs, she accepted that she was more worried about hersituation than she’d admitted to Ethel or herself. The death of the princess had brought all her worries to the fore, but once she’d busily engaged in her plan, the hovering disaster had moved backward in her mind. The encounter with Uncle Paul had brought it back to the front. Some fatal folly by Norris, and Uncle Paul could have Boxstall and all attached to it tomorrow. If she left her brother to himself, it could be years before he took up his duty. Her mother expected him to fall in love, but not everyone did. There were far too many middle-aged bachelors. She had to force him, but she was coming to see that his complaint had some value. It was no easy matter to find a congenial spouse, and to marry someone uncongenial would be horrible.
She walked up and down the carpeted lower corridor, fighting uncertainty and guilt, past the doors to the small and large drawing rooms, and then the music room. And who knew what else? Lady Cawle had her private chambers there, but the house remained silent.
Ariana’s candle flame flared with the passing air, just as her mind churned over her problem. Should she leave her brother to settle in his own good time? That would release her from her husband hunt. High rank brought responsibilities, however, and that was the end of that.
Tired of the limited space on this corridor, she looked longingly down into the hall. There was much more open space there.
It was deserted, lit only by a glass-shielded candle, which stood on a side table. Her own was burning down rapidly under the wind of her movement, so she blew it out before going downstairs. She’d be able to relight it before returning upstairs.
Once in the hall, she put her candle beside the litone, then took advantage of the larger space. She marched down toward the rear of the house and then returned to circle the hall, grateful that the floors were wood and not marble. The cold of marble might have penetrated through leather and fur to chill her feet. As it was, she was warm from the exercise and her troubled mind was settling.
She must stick to her course. She could afford to be particular at first, for the perfect husband might be available, but if she didn’t find him soon, she’d take whichever gentleman was the most tolerable.
Even Kynaston?
Neither tolerable nor suitable!
All the same, once summoned, the wretched man would not be driven out of her mind. He’d returned to the house with them earlier, but immediately gone out again. Probably to some drunken wallow. It was positively tragic and someone should drag him back from the brink. Lady Cawle was forceful enough in other respects, but she seemed to treat him as if he were fragile.
Earlier Ariana had tried to raise the subject with her mother, but Lady Langton had only praise for Kynaston as an escort and a companion. He was all that was amiable. Ha!
Yet perhaps he was better than she’d thought. Perhaps that drunken moment had been only that—a moment. He’d clearly charmed her mother, and she’d seen him part of a cheerful group at the theater. She’d glimpsed his better side in the cellars when he’d cleared a space for her and they’d discussed the mural. Did he still play an instrument and sing? Music, said William Congreve, had charms to soothe a savage breast. Or was it beast?
Beast Kynaston. That fit, yet against her will that memory returned—the memory from eight years agoof Kynaston playing the lute and singing an old song. As best she remembered, he’d been at ease about performing and seemed to enjoy it. She’d been struck by that, because most young bucks were more awkward about being musical.
Such an excellent performance meant practice, and practice meant discipline. She remembered thinking that he couldn’t be as much the Town idler as he’d seemed. Her obsession had led her to find out more about his choice of song.
“Pastime with Good Company” had been written by Henry VIII before he became king, but it had remained popular to the present because it had a good chorus. When Kynaston had performed, many of the men had joined in that chorus:
For I delight to hunt, sing, and dance!
My heart is set on all goodly sport
To my comfort. Who shall stop me?
Hunt, sing, and dance. Men these days were as fond of hunting as back then, but many were less keen to sing and dance.
It wasn’t long after that performance that she’d fled back to Boxstall, but some of the fascination had lingered. She’d looked up the song and found both the original lyrics and modern versions that came more easily to the tongue, including the one Kynaston had sung. She’d even practiced singing it—in private, for it was a man’s song.
Ah, foolish seventeen.
