Free Elisabeth Fairchild by Provocateur

her. The water’s silvered sheen, the rock of the boat, reminded her of the childhood voyage to France. Just such a troubled look her father had worn. Her odd ways had worried him then. She worried him now by refusing to marry. She was fortunate to be blessed with two who care so deeply for her happiness.
    Exhaling anger’s white, misted heat, she gathered owl’s wings about her, that the feathers might not get caught by the breeze, nor distract her as she walked the boat’s ribs. “The Captain is a tremendously fine fellow,” she admitted. “Courageous to have survive torture.”
    From Lydia’s lamp dimming shape, as she stepped to the pier in a flutter of feathers, comes the relentless suggestion. “Marry him then.”
    Not the first time Lydia had recommended it. Heaven knew, Dulcie’s father did his best coaxing. She would soon be considered a fusty old maid if she did not give up her dream. And yet, she clung to the ghost of possibility in the innermost glow of her soul, that brave Stapleton, survivor though he might be, dear man, was not the match heaven intended. She loved another, drawn to him from the moment he first lit her gaze. She tindered his flame. Memory of him consumed her.
     
    Like a match head caught in a draft, he leaned in her direction from the depths of his carriage, head cocked, eyes narrowed, light intensely blue. The day of the riot.
     
    As Dulcie leapt from the barge, she questioned her conviction, as much as she had once questioned the light. There lingered a niggling uneasiness concerning her unshaken conviction that she was meant for a notorious rogue. It seemed preposterous. Father would be appalled. Lydia outraged. Yet she could not deny heart’s truth or, soul’s certainty.
    She could count on her fingers the times they had met. She remembered every minute, every word, every flicker in his light. Ramsay’s grip as he lifted her from the crushing throng--saved her from a trampling--quite possibly saved her life.
    She turned and watch the boatman shove paddle to pier post, making way for the next in a line of more than a dozen guest-filled craft, delicate bubbles on water, lanterns bobbing--fragile as her feelings. She must marry--wanted love, a home and children. The Captain was a good and worthy man. Could she be wrong about Ramsay?
    Up the embankment they flew ahead of her, falcon and falconer, Lydia fluttering with anticipation. A blaze of crimson light rippled and flew in the wind. She loved nothing so much as a good masquerade.
    And Dulcie loved a man who always wore a mask, who lived life as a masquerade.
    She gathered feathered skirts and hurried to catch up. The litter of life’s dreams whirled like the coppery gleam of scattered leaves on the path, life’s light fading. Was it time to admit defeat? To acknowledge Ramsay’s disregard? He paid little heed to her warnings. His brother’s trial--her open admission that she knew him for what he was—had not proven the turning point she longed for.
    Vain hope. Vain longing.
    The path took a sudden turn. A ruined Greek temple loomed, marble gods and goddesses cavorting. The garden swallowed her friends’ light, their movement. Hedges cut dark shadows, giant chess pieces interrupted in game’s midst. Rooks, knights, and kings are frozen--like her life--awaiting the next move.
    At last, another bend in the path revealed a golden glow. Torches scorch the darkness. Light spilled from doors and windows flung wide-- ready for visitors--like Carlton House--the day they had met. She would never forget. One does not forget when destiny and mortality meet face to face.
    Music swelled from Tristam Hall, strings and brass beckoning. The past fell away beneath hundreds of candles buttery warmth. Wall sconces, candelabra and chandelier, pushed aside darkness with flickering fingers, exposing movement, masks, the glimmer of satin and silver.
    With a breathy sigh Dulcie cast aside longing and surrendered to gilt-edged sound. The Hall’s