Why do I want to burst into laughter? Chauncey wondered. Even Owen, the toad, is amusing. Her thoughts turned again, unwittingly, to her father and to the villain who had murdered him as surely as if he had laced her father’s wine with laudanum. She shuddered with reaction. If I hate him, she thought with sudden insight, I will destroy myself. But how, she wondered, her jaw tightening, could she simply forget? And now this . . . mystery.
Uncle Alfred yawned delicately behind his hand. “Do you know, my dear,” he said to his wife, “I believe I grow too old for all this jollity. Why don’t you and I return to Heath House and let the young people go to the play by themselves?”
“My, what an excellent suggestion, Alfred.”
In a pig’s eye!
“What do you say, Elizabeth?” Owen said, dropping his voice to what he must have thought to be an intimate caress. “I will take good care of you. We will see Romeo and Juliet.” He gave her a grin fraught with meaning. “Of course, we aren’t faced with their problems!”
We? My Lord, Chauncey thought, it is as I suspected. She saw the benign looks on her aunt’s and uncle’s faces. They want me to go with Owen! But why? It hadn’t been too long ago that Aunt Augusta accused her of trying to trap her dear Owen into marriage. It was too much. Hannah had always accused her charge of tempting fate with her willful curiosity. But what was life without just a bit of risk? She had no doubts that she could handle Owen.
Chauncey very carefully placed her napkin beside her plate, folding it into a small square. She raised her head and flashed a wide smile to the three people looking at her. “Do you know,” she said in a guilelessly innocent voice, “I should much like to see the play. It is so sweet of you to invite me, Owen. Are you certain that you don’t mind, Aunt Augusta?” I shall be as devious as the three of you!
“Not at all, my dear. I . . . your uncle and I want you to be happy and enjoy yourself. You may be certain that dear Owen will see to your every comfort.”
“Oh yes, Elizabeth, I shall, I promise you.”
The play was dreadful. The actors gesticulated wildly while they declaimed their lines to an increasingly restless crowd, and poor Romeo was at least forty years old. At least she wasn’t bored, Chauncey thought, her lips thinning, for Owen had managed to brush his thigh against her several times. At the intermission, Chauncey allowed Owen to escort her to the large downstairs
foyer for refreshments.
“May I have a glass of lemonade, please, Owen?” she asked.
“Your wish, my dear Elizabeth,” he said, and gave her a flourishing bow.
When he returned with her glass, Elizabeth thanked him softly and began to sip the lemonade. She eyed him speculatively over the rim of her glass and said, “I fear the lemonade is too sour. Would you mind returning it, Owen, and getting me another glass?”
She wanted to laugh aloud at the brief look of anger that narrowed his eyes. It was gone quickly, to be replaced by what Owen must have believed to be a seductive, loving look, but Chauncey knew she hadn’t imagined it. So, my dear toad, she thought as she watched him wend his way through the crowd back toward the refreshment tables, your mother is making you dance attendance on me.
When Owen handed her a new glass of lemonade, Chauncey took a small sip and handed the glass back to him. “Do you know, Owen, I fear I have developed a headache. Would you please see me home now?”
Such a pity, she thought, that the play wasn’t a marvelous production, one that Owen would have liked to see to the end. As it was, her limpid request did not elicit more than a loving nod and a look of concern from him.
“Are you feeling better, Elizabeth?” he asked once they were ensconced in the hired carriage.
“Oh yes, Owen,” she said sweetly, glad he couldn’t see the gleam of purpose in her eyes in the dim light. “It has been such an exciting day, you know. I am in such a . . . whirl of pleasure!”
“Dear Elizabeth,” Owen murmured, and gently squeezed her gloved hand. I mustn’t forget to scrub his touch off my hand. “I am so pleased that you are happy,” he continued after a moment, making Chauncey wonder if he were trying to recall a prepared speech. “It is my fondest desire to give you everything you wish, my dear.” Again he paused. Are you screwing up your courage for something, Owen? she wanted to ask him. She waited patiently, a small smile playing about her mouth.
“Is it really, Owen?” she asked as the silence grew long.
“Indeed, Elizabeth. I realize it is perhaps too soon, your father being dead for but six months, but my heart compels me to speak. I have admired you for years, my dear, years.”
My God, he really is going to ask me to marry him!
She couldn’t allow it, for if she did, she would surely laugh in his face, and perhaps burst into tears at the betrayal. And Owen would never tell her why he was asking her. He would but prattle about his utter admiration of her. She realized with a start that she was afraid. I would rather be a shop girl than marry him!
“My . . . headache, Owen, it has returned,” she said abruptly. “If you don’t mind, I would like to rest until we reach Heath House.”
“Of course, my dear.”
Did he sound the least bit relieved?
Chauncey thought furiously the remainder of the carriage ride to Heath House. There was no answer forthcoming. It appears, she decided, raising her chin in determination, that I am going to have to be an eavesdropper again.
She allowed Owen to kiss her hand, then quickly walked to her room. She sent Mary off to bed, then waited for a few more minutes. Slowly she eased her bedroom door open and peered up and down the corridor. No one was about. Stealthily she crept toward her aunt’s suite of rooms. There was a light showing from beneath the door. She didn’t even have to press her ear against the door, for her aunt’s voice sounded through as clear as the proverbial bell.
“I am pleased you did not . . . rush things, my dear boy,” Aunt Augusta said. “It is possible that Elizabeth would not think it likely that you could fall in love with her so quickly.” She gave a deep relieved sigh. “I do believe that Elizabeth will forgive us for our lack of attention to her these past months. I had not believed her so malleable, but perhaps it is so.”