What Lucinda Learned by Beth Bryan Page B

And Ivor had his own reasons for keeping on the good side of at least one of these ladies.
    There was a crash, then a gasping sob, and Belle hurled herself upon him. In theory, Ivor had no objection to beautiful young women throwing themselves at him, though in practice he preferred that they did not do so with their full weight. He staggered, winded.
    “Snake! Snake!” screamed Belle. “Python! Viper! Cobra!”
    “Cobra?” Ivor got his breath. “Don’t sound right to me—cobra in Dorking Wood.”
    Belle grasped at his arm and tried to straighten herself, but her foot slipped on some moss and her ankle turned. “Ouch!” She clutched again at Ivor.
    He stumbled once more. “Dash it, gel, what is it now? Another cobra?”
    “No, no, my ankle.”
    “Not broken it, have you?”
    “I don’t think so, but it does hurt.”
    “Better get you back to the chaise, then. Lean on me.”
    They could see the others now. Lucinda, Will, Patience and Richard had joined forces and were sitting beneath the spreading elm: Even from halfway across the field, it was possible to see that only Miss Grantham and Mr. Devereux were taking part in any conversation.
    Much as Ivor appreciated the role of chivalrous rescuer, he felt Belle’s weight even more. “Ho there!” he shouted. “Help ho!”
    They came hurrying to meet him and Ivor gladly yielded Belle to her brother’s arms. The two duennas were fully awake now and took charge, sending a handkerchief to be soaked in the stream and arranging for Belle to be carefully settled in the chaise.
    Dispatched to collect pillows and a rug, Lucinda watched as Patience and Richard fetched a restorative glass of wine for the invalid. They did not, she considered, viciously punching a velvet pillow, they did not need to stand quite so close together, or to whisper quite so much.
    Sir Charles emerged from the wood and had to have the situation explained to him. His chagrin was complete when his mother, hurrying by with some sal volatile, said accusingly, “Really, Charles, could you not have taken better care of Belle?”
    By common consent the excursion was felt to be over. Ivor resigned his seat in the chaise to Belle and joined the two girls in the landau. He paid them a number of bluff, jovial compliments, but when neither responded more than perfunctorily, he soon fell silent.
    Dev led the cavalcade and Charles and Will rode beside the landau, but both appeared sunk in gloom. Patience’s thoughts also seemed to be less than enlivening. As Lucinda watched the golden afternoon decline, she felt that no one could describe the expedition as a success.
    Certainly, if its object had been to cheer Lucinda, it had been a distinct failure. She awoke the next day in the same crotchets. When she and Ethelreda went for a stroll along New Bond Street the next morning, she could scarcely respond patiently to the acquaintances they met, and their endless stream of chit-chat.
    “Really, cousin,” she complained after the third such encounter. “I had no idea London was so full of tattle-mongers.”
    “Come, Lucinda! There is no need to react like a Methodist. Naturally people are interested in each other’s doings.”
    “Well, I am not.” Lucinda glared ferociously at a befrilled gown in a bow-fronted shop window. “I am not in the least concerned with whom Mr. Richard Devereux may marry.”
    Mrs. Cleeson stared at her. “Are you quite well, Lucinda? Are you sure you do not have the headache or perhaps a touch of indigestion? I am not convinced those gooseberries last night were entirely ripe.”
    “My digestion is perfectly sound, cousin.”
    “You need not hesitate to tell me, child, for I know indigestion does tend to make one crotchety.” Lucinda ground her teeth, but Mrs. Cleeson continued, “For you know, it is quite nonsensical to say people ought not to be interested in Mr. Devereux. His impending marriage is the talk of the town. He is a Devereux, after all. And his uncle—”