"…someone should tell Clara that she's making a fool of herself," one of them was saying indignantly. Her companion's voice was much calmer and a little amused.
"My dear, she's finding that out already. It's plain as day that Falkner doesn't want her. I only hope it's set her down a step or two—"
"Pooh! That won't daunt her for long. Lord Falknet is a handsome devil, but Clara's really just biding her time until the man she really wants comes along."
"Who is that?"
"Why, didn't you know? Clara has always preferred Rand Berkeley over every other man, and he's arriving tomorrow."
"With his wife in tow, I'll wager."
"Probably. Rosalie Berkeley—how that name rankles! —it isn't enough that she actually managed to marry the Earl of Berkeley, but he insists on dragging her around with him like an umbrella—"
"Yes, keeping her within arm's reach and pulling her out whenever one of us tries to approach him!"
"Doesn't he know that it's unfashionable to be seen too much with his own wife?"
The two women giggled lightly.
"Unfashionable or not," one of them concluded, "he'll undoubtedly have Rosalie with him. Do you think that will stop Clara from trying… ?"
Their laughter faded as they continued down the path, while Mira sat on the bench feeling as hard and frozen as one of the marble statues in the garden.
"Rand Berkeley," she whispered, her eyes round and unblinking. "Rosalie." Sackville had never mentioned them to her before—she had had no idea that he was even acquainted with them! She could not believe that they would be attending the hunt. Thethought of them coming here made her tremble, made her stomach tighten in a sudden cramp. She put a hand to her midriff, her gaze vacant as a horrible scenario appeared before her.
Rosalie would see her and stiffen in shock, her lovely face becoming pale with fear and hatred. "Miretik. I had prayed never to see you again… traitress, liar… you deceived me, you took my friendship and tried to destroy meV
1 didn't mean to," Mira whispered. "Forgive me."
"I loathe the sight of you. You don't deserve to be forgiven for the pain you caused us."
And then Mira would turn to Rand, only to find the same cold condemnation written on his face.
'You were not only disloyal," he would say, "you were a coward. You should have stayed to face what you had done, you shouldn't have run away."
"I was afraid… I didn't know…" Mira blinked and shook herself as panic took hold of her. "I've got to ieave," she said, one hand fumbling with the neckline of her dress, which had suddenly become too tight. "I've got to get away… mon Dieu … tonight." She began to cry, and put a hand up to her face as tears fell from her eyes. Rand and Rosalie would be here tomorrow. She tried to make plans and could not think. Weeping harshly, Mira bowed her head at the folly of having tried to escape her past. The nightmare of five years ago was upon her again, as fresh as if it had happened yesterday.
I ord Sefton was in a jovial mood, a liberal amount of port having loosened his tongue and mellowed his spirits. Sefton was unusually gossipy, reciting a load of rumors and social tidbits that Alec cared not a whit about, but one of the penalties of attending a hunt this long was that sooner or later one had to endure tedious conversations of this sort. They walked slowlytoward the eating room, whiling away the few minutes before supper.
"I say, did you hear about the king's forthcoming visit to Hanover? He's leaving at the end of the month."
"Affairs of state?" Alec inquired.
"No—I hear there are a few Protestant princesses he intends to look over most thoroughly. He wishes to marry again."
"Of course," Alec murmured sardonically. George IV had shown little grief over the death of his wife, Caroline, the year before, despite the fact that they had had so much in common—fat and slovenly, both of them, as well as being loose-moraled and vindictive. The only difference between the two was that Caroline had been coarse while George was pretentious and affected. Now it seemed that the king, whose taste had always been for older women, was turning his eye toward young and lively girls. "I suppose it won't present much of a difficulty for him to marry despite the fact that he already has a wife?"
"You mean Mrs. Fitzherbert? It's never actually been proven that they were legally married, and besides, they have been separated for nine years now—"
"Separated but not divorced."
"Do you really believe that they were married?" Sefton asked.