Chapter 12

CHAPTER 12

I f Flora had expected some token from the captain, some small communication in the days that followed, she kept both her expectation and her subsequent disappointment to herself.

He did not send flowers.

He did not come to call.

He did not so much as send the merest note.

Despite her best intentions, Flora was taken aback. Surely, there would be some acknowledgement of their intimacy. Of their friendship? Surely, she did not have to go to him a-begging. Could she not expect such societal civilities of him?

Yet, she knew she was expecting too much. She knew their association was destined to be short lived, and she had accepted, even welcomed that fact. She had expressed no regrets.

And yet none of that kept her from missing him, this witty handsome man she had only met once. And none of it kept her from attending Lady Quince Cairn’s Green Night Fête—“Calling it the Winter Solstice is far too witchy for current tastes,” the lady had explained—in a state of near indecent anticipation.

Every one of her close acquaintances would be there, including her sister, Maisie, and her husband, Archie, who was a great friend of the Marquess of Cairn. Flora could only hope that the most important person, and newest of her acquaintances, would be there, also.

The evening dawned—if evenings could dawn, she supposed—inauspiciously. Freezing rain sleeted down upon the city at an almost horizontal angle, as if all the winds of the North Sea were being driven inland by a whip hand.

But these resilient Scots were making merry despite the filthy weather. The party at the Marchioness of Cairn’s lovely townhouse on Charlotte Square was to begin at sunset, and Flora arrived at the appointed hour with Maisie and Archie in their carriage to protect her—and her best evening gown—from the raw elements, though the Cairn’s residence was but a stone’s throw from the Conway house at Kirk Brae Head.

And while outside was everything chill and inhospitable, within was everything warm and gay and inviting. The marchioness had festooned her home with every possible sort of greenery—laurel, bay, fir, holly, and ivy hung in fragrant swags above every doorway. But the center of Lady Quince’s festive decorations was the ‘kissing bough,’ a sphere wrapped with ivy, holly and mistletoe, and adorned with red apples, oranges, spices, ribbons and candles.

Flora could only hope that Captain Balfour would appear to help her make good use of it. And also hope that her hopes for the captain didn’t show on her face.

“What a delight to have you here this evening!” the Marchioness of Cairn greeted them. “I have not seen you out and about much this Christmas Season, Maisie. Nor you, dear Flora. You both look marvelous—that gown is enchantingly becoming.”

“You are too kind, my lady,” Flora allowed.

“I have been keeping rather close to home this season,” Maisie answered. “And you know I’m not one for socializing.”

“Perhaps,” was all the Marchioness would allow. “But Flora has not your excuse.”

“My apologies,” Flora said simply. No need to reveal that she had been pining in private rather than in public these last few days.

The marchioness narrowed her gaze. “Do I detect a hint of melancholy?”

“Not at all,” Flora lied through her smile. “Well, perhaps a bit, with my father—” She hated to trot out her poor papa’s disgrace and self-exile, but it was hardly a secret, and far better to mention her father than the real reason she might—might—be melancholic.

How could she bring up his name? Who else were his intimate friends? How could she ask after him without giving herself away? What would Maisie think of her if she inquired after him? Who else could she ask?

Fortunately, she did not have long to wait. She knew the moment he entered the room—some internal barometer sensed the change in pressure. She counseled herself to be calm. She counseled herself not to blush, or worse, look expectant. Not to rush to him.

She would be happy, certainly, to see him. She would be warm and witty. She would make him laugh.

She cast a calm smile his way while he made his good evenings to the Marchioness of Cairn, but kept her attention on Maisie and Greer, the Duchess of Crief and her husband, the Duke.

“That sounds quite lovely, Your Grace. I have never been to the Highlands, myself,” Flora prattled. “The city of Edinburgh has been study enough for me this past year.”

Flora hoped she wasn’t talking absolute nonsense, as she smiled and nodded and tried to keep her attention on the people in front of her. Despite the fact that the duke and duchess excused themselves to greet Jack a short while later, Flora made herself take stock of the time and take a deep breath before she allowed herself to wander away from Maisie and join their group, as if she had all the time in the world and was not there expressly and exclusively to see and speak to him.

“Captain Balfour, good evening.” She tried to suppress her joy into warm civility.

Jack made a perfunctory bow to the whole of their small group before he flicked the barest glance her way. And only when it was either overlook her or be rude, did he deign to add, “Miss Conway.”

She thought she saw him swallow, as if taking a bitter dose of medicine, but her concern was swept away by his coldness. He was as standoffish and chilly as if they had never met. As if he had no desire to even remember her.

Confusion was like a damp fog creeping upon her. But she would not dissemble. She would not be embarrassed.

“Are we not friends, Captain Balfour?” She finally managed after Lady Creif had somehow herded her husband away. “Are you not happy to see me?”

“My dear Miss Conway. I fear not.” His step away was jerky, not at all his usual gracefully masculine self. “I may not allow myself the pleasure. I dare not.” He made another, almost terse bow and would have withdrawn from her, had she not stopped him.

“Come now, Captain,” she tried to echo the teasing charm of their last meeting. “You know it won’t do. We are under the kissing bough.”

He immediately stepped back. “It will have to do, Miss Conway.” His voice was without warmth. Without pity. He made another curt bow. “Please. I am leaving.” He tugged at the cuff of his coat in a gesture of impatience. “On the morrow. The Admiralty have indeed chosen me and bid me come. Immediately. A ship awaits in Portsmouth. I must be gone. I came only to make my farewells to friends to whom I owe…”

The brief look he gave her was nothing but agony. All that rage and grief she had sensed in him was, for one awful moment, laid bare.

“I’m so sorry,” was all she could manage.

“Forgive me, I beg you.” His voice was as frayed as an old rope. “But I must bid you goodbye.” And, without looking at her again, he took his leave.

Misery cut into her like a raw wind out of the Highlands. She could barely breathe. She did not think she could even move from where she stood, frozen upon the floor.

But Flora forced herself to move, and then after a few hesitant steps in one direction, and then another, found that she needed to move. To give her something to do instead of dissolving into tears. To exercise the corrosive feeling of failure that tasted like acid in her mouth.

But in her heedless flight she found herself at the vestibule of the front door, where Jack was taking his leave of the marquess.

“Godspeed, Jack,” Alasdair, Marquess of Cairn was saying.

“Cairn,” was all Jack said as he shook the marquess’s hand and, without so much as a single backward, rueful glance at her, fled into the sleety night.

“I wonder what we said to scare him off?” Lady Cairn murmured, appearing silently at Flora’s side. “Not a whit of wit out of him tonight, did you notice?”

“I did.” Flora all but stammered her reply. But even she could hear the telltale aching regret in her voice. She strove to care less. “And Captain Balfour is renowned for his wit and amusing manners, is he not?”

“He is,” Quince confirmed. “But if you ask me—and I know you did not, but I cannot help noticing such things—before this evening, I thought I detected an interest in you from him.”

“Did you?” Flora felt her eyebrows might fly right off her face with surprise.

“I really did,” the marchioness insisted. “And even this evening, he kept darting surreptitious looks at you the whole time he was here—which granted, was not long—when he thought no one was looking. But I was. I saw it.”

“How…strange,” Flora finally concluded. “He did not speak to me above three or four words. And he clearly was not pleased with the company.”

“Oh, you mustn’t think that! He was clearly miserable with himself and his circumstances. I am sure he was entirely preoccupied by his imminent return to his profession—though it is a shame that such a man should have to return to the navy because the earldom cannot support him. Such gross mismanagement from his forebears, if you ask me.”

“Yes,” Flora agreed with just as much regret. “A vast deal of mismanagement.”

“Too vast a deal,” Lady Quince agreed. “That such a man should be so at the mercy of the winds of fate—quite literally, upon the seas!” she added for emphasis. “Well, it’s just not right.”

“No.” Flora could do nothing but agree while she continued to fight back her tears.

But Quince, as the marchioness had repeatedly asked Flora to call her, was looking at her rather sympathetically, Flora thought, and she was far too miserable for subterfuge. “I wonder if I may ask you something in confidence, my lady?”

“Certainly.” Quince was all assurance. “I am particularly good at keeping confidences, for I understand their import.”

Flora damned her metaphorical torpedoes. “How well do you know Captain Balfour?”

“Jack? My husband knows him very well,” Quince said quickly. “Thinks him an excellent fellow. Exceptionally brilliant captain.” She took Flora’s elbow and steered her to a less public spot so she might speak more confidentially. “What it is you particularly wish to know?”

“Your own opinion of his character, I suppose. For women often see things differently from men, like your esteemed husband.”

“I find his character sterling, despite his reputation as a rogue,” the marchioness answered immediately. “Unimpeachable. Loyal to a fault. Exemplary frigate captain the newspapers say, and Alasdair thinks they are the best of the navy, the frigate men. The heart of the service, he calls them. Charming and handsome, to boot. But you will have come to that conclusion on your own.”

“Yes.” He certainly was a handsome man. “If you like that weathered, seafaring type.”

Quince’s eyebrow arched in suspicion. “Did you not?”

Flora tried her best to dissemble. “I suppose.”

“Yes, I think half of Edinburgh has been at least a little in love with Jack Balfour—his charm, not to mention his wit, is legendary.”

It hurt to hear that his behavior to her had not been so out of the ordinary. But at the same time, it also helped. “He does give his charm quite freely.”

“Has…?” Quince drew her back toward the wall where they were entirely private. “Has Jack somehow…trifled with your affections?”

“No, no,” Flora insisted. “Certainly not trifled. But I thought we had…” She could not think of what to say that might not reveal and expose her. “Lady Ivers warned me that he is not to be considered—that he is poor.”

“Yes, damn it. That’s that fate I was railing against but a moment ago. But he is poor, poor man. So, what he needs is clearly a rich wife, though what he also needs is a sensible, independent woman, and I fear rich and sensible do not often come together in one person.”

“No,” Flora agreed. “It’s all too sad.”

“Yes, but are you leaving?” she asked, though it seemed to Flora that it was the Marchioness who was steering her toward the door. “Miss Conway’s things, if you please,” Lady Cairn called to the footman attending the portal. “But let me find you a good stout pair of mittens.”

“You are very kind, my lady, but it is not so far to home that my hands will become that chilled.”

“But what if you should find yourself wanting to make snowballs?”

“Snowballs?” Flora was entirely confused on top of being intolerably sad. “Why should I want to make?—?

“To pelt upon someone’s windows. From the rear garden. A handful of pebbles will work in the summer, but a snowball upon a window—a first floor bedchamber window—should be a fun way to get someone’s attention. The sort of someone who might have rooms on the mews behind King’s Circus. Which can be accessed neatly from India Street, just a few blocks north.” She tipped her head helpfully in the desired direction. “My intelligence tells me it’s the second window from the right of the first floor of number twenty-six. Take a footman or a groom if you can. But the snow should keep the idle ill-doers away.”

Flora was reduced to stammering again. “I thank you, my lady.”

Quince pressed a quick kiss upon her reddened cheek. “Thank me when all is right between you and the gentleman in question.”

“I will do.” If she dared.

And was very, very lucky.