Read Online The Memory of Your Kiss by Wilma Counts - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Wilma Counts
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accompanied Sydney and her aunt to the ballroom, leaving the vicar and the younger visitors in the music room with his sisters. In the ballroom, they found a long table at one end of the room, with a number of smaller tables spread along the side walls, each providing seating for eight people.
The room itself was magnificent. One long wall had several large windows and two sets of double French doors leading to a large and well-tended garden. Opposite that wall were three large tapestries between which were large mirrors that would at night reflect the light from two large chandeliers. The other walls were covered in green and gold embossed silk; the painted ceiling, like the tapestries, depicted scenes from Greek mythology.
“What a beautiful room,” Aunt Harriet exclaimed. “I remember attending a ball here soon after my brother moved to Devonshire. You have done a marvelous job of preserving it, my lord.”
“My father had the tapestries cleaned and mended. They date from the fifteenth century. And, please, Mrs. Carstairs, call me Henry. We are to be family, after all.”
“Why, thank you. Then I shall be your aunt Harriet as well as Sydney’s.”
Henry smiled and shook his head, but looked with affection at his fiancée. “I am forcing myself to think of her as Sydney. To me, she has always been Bella. I keep forgetting.”
They all smiled at this, then Sydney, observing the linens, fine china, and table decorations, said, “I had not realized this breakfast would be quite such an elaborate affair. There must be a hundred places set here!” She felt a little overwhelmed and some of her trepidation must have shown in her voice.
“Never mind, my dear. Stevenson and Roberts, along with Mrs. Knight, have everything in hand,” Henry assured her, naming his steward, the butler, and the housekeeper. “Besides, you know almost everyone—tenant farmers, Paxton Hall servants, village people, and so on.”
With a gentle hand at the small of her back, he guided her to the head table and began to point out who would sit where. Sydney took it all in, but only half listened until he said “—my cousin Zachary, here, next to you—”
“Your cousin who ?”
“Zachary. Zachary Quintin. His mother is my aunt. You will like him. Army man. With Wellington.”
“I—I know him,” Sydney said.
“You do?”
“We met in Bath,” she said, trying to quell the surprise and panic she felt with knowing that Zachary would see her being married.
“What a small world it is,” Aunt Harriet said. “Lieutenant Quintin is a particular friend of my son.”
“Had I known you were going to Bath, Bella—uh, Sydney—I would certainly have made him known to you,” Henry said.
“It happened very quickly,” Sydney said, still trying to absorb this news. Zachary. He would be here. Tomorrow. Oh, dear God.
Aunt Harriet cast Sydney a questioning look, then launched into babbling about soldiers coming to Bath to convalesce from war wounds. Sydney was grateful for time to pull herself together and wondered just how much her keen-eyed aunt knew of what had passed between her and Zachary.
“Such a pity so many of them must return to the battlefields,” her aunt was saying.
“But are we not lucky to have them performing as they do for our sake?” Henry said.
“Indubitably,” Aunt Harriet said.
When the three of them rejoined the others, Sydney had herself under control and could marvel with the others about the coincidence of Zachary Quintin’s being Henry Laughton’s cousin.
“My grandfather, the sixth earl, disapproved of his daughter’s marriage to a man he thought of a ‘nabob’ and because of that, my father was never very close to his sister,” Henry explained. “Sad, isn’t it, what happens to some families?”
Later that night—the eve of her wedding—Sydney had tossed and turned in her bed, beset by doubts. Was it right to marry Henry feeling as she did about Zachary? And, really, how did she
The room itself was magnificent. One long wall had several large windows and two sets of double French doors leading to a large and well-tended garden. Opposite that wall were three large tapestries between which were large mirrors that would at night reflect the light from two large chandeliers. The other walls were covered in green and gold embossed silk; the painted ceiling, like the tapestries, depicted scenes from Greek mythology.
“What a beautiful room,” Aunt Harriet exclaimed. “I remember attending a ball here soon after my brother moved to Devonshire. You have done a marvelous job of preserving it, my lord.”
“My father had the tapestries cleaned and mended. They date from the fifteenth century. And, please, Mrs. Carstairs, call me Henry. We are to be family, after all.”
“Why, thank you. Then I shall be your aunt Harriet as well as Sydney’s.”
Henry smiled and shook his head, but looked with affection at his fiancée. “I am forcing myself to think of her as Sydney. To me, she has always been Bella. I keep forgetting.”
They all smiled at this, then Sydney, observing the linens, fine china, and table decorations, said, “I had not realized this breakfast would be quite such an elaborate affair. There must be a hundred places set here!” She felt a little overwhelmed and some of her trepidation must have shown in her voice.
“Never mind, my dear. Stevenson and Roberts, along with Mrs. Knight, have everything in hand,” Henry assured her, naming his steward, the butler, and the housekeeper. “Besides, you know almost everyone—tenant farmers, Paxton Hall servants, village people, and so on.”
With a gentle hand at the small of her back, he guided her to the head table and began to point out who would sit where. Sydney took it all in, but only half listened until he said “—my cousin Zachary, here, next to you—”
“Your cousin who ?”
“Zachary. Zachary Quintin. His mother is my aunt. You will like him. Army man. With Wellington.”
“I—I know him,” Sydney said.
“You do?”
“We met in Bath,” she said, trying to quell the surprise and panic she felt with knowing that Zachary would see her being married.
“What a small world it is,” Aunt Harriet said. “Lieutenant Quintin is a particular friend of my son.”
“Had I known you were going to Bath, Bella—uh, Sydney—I would certainly have made him known to you,” Henry said.
“It happened very quickly,” Sydney said, still trying to absorb this news. Zachary. He would be here. Tomorrow. Oh, dear God.
Aunt Harriet cast Sydney a questioning look, then launched into babbling about soldiers coming to Bath to convalesce from war wounds. Sydney was grateful for time to pull herself together and wondered just how much her keen-eyed aunt knew of what had passed between her and Zachary.
“Such a pity so many of them must return to the battlefields,” her aunt was saying.
“But are we not lucky to have them performing as they do for our sake?” Henry said.
“Indubitably,” Aunt Harriet said.
When the three of them rejoined the others, Sydney had herself under control and could marvel with the others about the coincidence of Zachary Quintin’s being Henry Laughton’s cousin.
“My grandfather, the sixth earl, disapproved of his daughter’s marriage to a man he thought of a ‘nabob’ and because of that, my father was never very close to his sister,” Henry explained. “Sad, isn’t it, what happens to some families?”
Later that night—the eve of her wedding—Sydney had tossed and turned in her bed, beset by doubts. Was it right to marry Henry feeling as she did about Zachary? And, really, how did she
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