And Then She Fell(45)
James inclined his head in acceptance.
Once seated beside him at the long table, Henrietta found herself enjoying the gathering more than she’d anticipated—certainly more than she had previously enjoyed such events. She’d attended innumerable house parties through the years, but she had never before had . . . a focus. A locus for her attention, a pivot about which she could circle. That, she realized, with a swift glance at James, currently chatting with Violet on his other side, was what was different. James’s presence widened her experience of everything about her; the conversations, the sallies, the quick quips and repartee all seemed sharper, more engaging, when viewed through the expanded prism of his likely reactions as well as hers.
In the sense of scope, he opened her eyes. Never before had she viewed the world about her and considered how it might appear to, or might impact on, another.
That, she supposed, smiling and shifting so she could better hear something Miss Hendricks wished to impart to her, was what forming a relationship was all about; learning and empathizing with the feelings of one’s other. Presumably that was what the affectionate tag “the other half” implied.
She was glad they’d agreed to include the Ellsmeres’ house party on their schedule of useful events. Even though their quest might have been superseded, this was the perfect setting for her and James to spend time together, to get to know each other better out of the hothouse environment of the ton’s ballrooms. Here, they would have time to ramble and talk without constraint or reserve, or the ever-present threat of interruption. As the covers were drawn and the company all rose, she realized she was looking forward to the next days with unalloyed expectation.
As she’d foreseen, at Lady Ellsmere’s direction the entire company repaired to the large music room on the other side of the old mansion. There, they passed an enjoyable few hours entertaining each other with ballads and song. Miss Fotherby was one of the first to take her seat at the pianoforte; she sang a ballad in a piercingly sweet voice. A few performances later, Rafe Cunningham sang, accompanied by Miss Findlayson; his baritone was rich and powerful, and held them all spellbound. Then Giles Kendall joined Rafe, singing tenor to Rafe’s baritone, in what was quite certainly the most riveting performance of the evening. Somewhat later, Henrietta played the pianoforte and sang a sweet country song, followed by a duet with James, then Violet and Channing joined them for a rousing rendition of an old shepherd’s song, a long and repetitive, subtly jocular composition of chorus and verses of extraordinary length.
She was out of breath, and so were the other three, by the time she played the last resounding chord. The audience gave them a standing ovation, then Lady Ellsmere called for tea.
Finally the evening ended, and in loose groups, the guests made their way down the corridors and up the stairs. Ascending the stairs beside James, Henrietta smiled at him and murmured, “I’d completely forgotten the brouhaha of this morning.”
His eyes met hers. “No lingering effects?”
She shook her head. “None. I’m quite recovered, and this evening has been . . . the right sort of distraction.”
“Good.” They stepped into the gallery at the top of the stairs. James hesitated. The ladies were wandering off in twos and threes down the corridor to the left, while all the males had been housed in the opposite wing. Reaching for Henrietta’s hand, trapping her gaze, he raised her fingers to his lips and lightly kissed. “In that case, I’ll wish you a good night’s rest. Sleep well.”
She smiled brilliantly, lightly gripped his fingers, then drew her hand free. “You, too.” She held his gaze for an instant, then inclined her head and turned away. “Good night.”
He watched her walk away, then followed the other gentlemen down the corridor into the other wing. Just before he reached his door, he sensed someone watching him, felt the weight of their gaze on his back. Halting before his door, grasping the knob, he glanced up the corridor.
Rafe Cunningham stood in a doorway back along the corridor, watching him.
The light was too dim to make out Rafe’s expression, but if James had to guess, he would have said that confusion dominated. Rafe, he realized, must have seen him part from Henrietta.
Opening his door, James went in and shut it. He paused, wondering if he should speak with Rafe now and put the poor devil out of his misery, at least with respect to James’s intentions toward Miss Fotherby, which, from Rafe’s reactions, Rafe at least partly knew, or rather, thought he did.