She gave him a warm smile and offered him her hand. "Then like Christian, I shall have to brave the dangers of Vanity Fair. But with you as my guide, how can I possibly come to harm?"
"And your Aunt Susan, of course," Jonathan said modestly, though he took her hand more firmly in both of his own.
"Of course. And your sister and friends. It shall be fine. Thank you for your concern."
"Well, that's all an elderly fellow like me is good for. To sit in the corner like a gooseberry and stop you young people from taking a fall."
Pamela shook her head. "Oh, no, you're not going to tease me about that any more. If you're elderly, I'm the Queen of the May. And don't you dare sit in the corner. Your dancing is far too good, your company far too scintillating."
Pamela blushed, and with a curtsey, removed her hand from his grip and left the room, hoping her progress didn't look like headlong flight.
How had she dared speak to him thus!
Jonathan stared at Pamela as she hurried away from him. She had looked so embarrassed. Was it possible? Did she really admire him so much as she seemed to have indicated today? Pamela Ashton, of all people, wealthy heiress and the ideal of at least two-thirds of the men in the district?
He found himself preening in the mirror as he played over the things she had said, her looks and smiles, her touch. He smoothed back his hair, adjusted his collar and cuffs, retied his cravat, then checked his cuffs once more. He brushed his shoulders, though they were dust-free, and adjusted his coat tails. Then he made a face at himself in the mirror, and threw himself into a chair.
Damnation. He had forgotten again, for all too brief a time, but nonetheless, he had had a brief and blissful respite from his plight. Strange how a few moments in her company could do that to him.
Clifford caught his eye, and gave Jonathan what he read as an encouraging smile.
He shook his head.
His friend opened his mouth to argue.
Jonathan growled low in his throat. "If you value our friendship, you will not voice that thought. And tonight we will be lively and cheerful. Not one word about the war, clinics or orphanages. We will have a jolly evening of cards and charades, and tomorrow we shall shoulder our burdens once more and all go back to our ordinary lives."
Clifford sighed, and waved his hand as though giving in. "If that's what you really want, Jonathan."
Jonathan shrugged, his expression sour. "It may not be. I don't know any more. But it's all I will permit myself. I simply cannot sacrifice an eternity of future bliss in Heaven for a temporary and fleeting happiness here on earth."
"And what if you're wrong, my friend? What if God has given you a gift?"
"A test, more like. I cannot fail. I gave my word."
"What of your heart?" Clifford asked, his tone gentle.
"Clifford, that's enough!"
His friend reached over to rest his hand on his friend's forearm. "You don't need to answer to me. But God knows everything, including the secrets of that organ I just mentioned. As for temporary and fleeting happiness, I look at Vanessa, and I see an eternity in her eyes. And in the face of my son."
Jonathan shook Clifford's hand off and vaulted out of the armchair, striding away. "I'm going to have a walk before supper. Pray excuse me."
Not even pausing for his greatcoat, he stormed straight passed the astonished footman and out the front door into the wintry afternoon.
Chapter Eleven
The supper table was rather silent as they all stared at the empty place setting. Pamela was reminded of Macbeth's banquet scene, with the vacant chair reserved for Banquo, who lay dead out on the heath.
The small party looked up expectantly every time the door to the elegant burgundy dining room opened. They were all exceedingly relieved when Jonathan at last appeared, wind-swept and white with cold, but otherwise very much alive.
Pamela's heart lurched to look at him. He was alive, but most certainly didn't look fine.
He reassured them quickly. "Pray do not let me disturb you. I got lost," he lied. "I shall go up and wash and change if I may, Henry, and join you all in a moment."
"I've laid out a few choices of clothing for you, Jonathan. Take your time," Henry said with a smile which did not quite reach his eyes.
Jonathan bowed, and vanished once more.
Pamela assumed he was distressed over the letter from his friend, and sighed. He was a good man, but felt things so deeply. If she was shallow like a ford, he was as deep as the English Channel, with all sorts of currents, eddies and swells she could scarcely fathom.
She could understand him being worried and upset, perhaps even feeling guilty for having left the Peninsula before the war was over. But he had fought for so long, and his vocation had forbidden him from killing any longer. Perhaps he was sorry that he had not gone back to become an Army chaplain? Was he even now thinking of returning to the Continent?