Carla Kelly - Let Nothing You Dismay.pdf - Carla Kelly - SilverWitch

Let Nothing You Dismay

by Carla Kelly

It was obvious to Lord Trevor Chase, his solicitor, and their clerk

that all the other legal minds at Lincoln's Inn had been

celebrating the approach of Christmas for some hours. The early

closing of King's Bench, Common Pleas, Chancery Court, and

Magistrate's Court until the break of the new year was the signal

for general merrymaking among the legal houses lining Chancery

Lane. He had already sent his clerk home with a hefty bonus and

a bottle of brandy from his stash.

Trevor had never felt inclined to celebrate the year's cases, won

or lost. He seldom triumphed at court because his clients were

generally all guilty. True, their crimes were among the more petty

in English law, but English law always came down hard against

miscreants who meddled with another's property, be it land, gold

bullion, a loaf of bread, or a pot of porridge. A good day for Lord

Trevor was one where he wheedled a reprieve from the drop and

saw his client transported to Australia instead. He knew that most

Englishmen in 1810 would not consider enforced passage to the

Antipodes any sort of victory. Because of this, a celebration,

even for the birth of Christ, always felt vaguely hypocritical to

him. Besides that, he knew his solicitor was in a hurry to be on

his way to Tunbridge Wells.

But not without a protestation, because the solicitor, an earnest

young man, name of George Dawkins, was almost as devoted to

his young charges as he was. "Trevor, you know it is my turn to

take that deposition," the good man said, even as he pulled on his

coat and looked about for his hat. "And when was the last time

you spent more than a day or two home at Chase Hall?"

"You, sir, have a family," Trevor reminded him firmly. "And a

wife eager to see her parents in Kent."

Dawkins must have been thinking about the events of last

Christmas. "Yes, but I could return for the deposition. I would

rather not..." he paused, his embarrassment obvious.

"... leave me alone here, eh? Is that it?" Trevor finished his

solicitor's thought.

The man knew better than to bamboozle. "Yes, that's it. I don't

want to return to ... Well, you know. You were damned lucky last

time."

Not lucky, Trevor thought. I thought I was home free. Damn

those interfering barristers in the next chamber. "I suppose. I

suppose," he said. "I promise to be good this year."

His solicitor went so far as to take his arm. "You'll do nothing

besides take that deposition? You'll give me no cause for alarm?"

"Certainly not," Trevor lied. He shrugged off his solicitor's arm

(even as he was touched by his concern), and pulled on his

overcoat. He looked around the chamber, and put on his hat.

Nothing here would he miss.

He and his solicitor went downstairs together and stood at the

Chancery Lane entrance to the Inn. He looked up at the evening

sky—surprisingly clear for London in winter— and observed the

stars. "A rare sight, Dawkins," he said to his employee.

As they both looked upward, a little shard of light seemed to

separate itself from a larger brightness, rather like shavings from

some celestial woodcarver. Enchanted, he watched as it dropped

quickly, blazed briefly, then puffed out.

Dawkins chuckled. "We should each make a wish, Trevor," he

said, amusement high in his voice. "Me, I wish I could be more

than five minutes on our way and not have one of my children

ask, 'How much farther, Papa?'" He turned to Trevor. "What do

you wish?"

"I don't hold with wishing on stars," he replied.

"Not even Christmas stars?"

"Especially not those."

But he did. Long after his solicitor had bade him good night and

happy Christmas, and was whistling his way down the lane,

Trevor stood there, hesitating like a fool, and unable to stop from

staring into the heavens. He closed his eyes.

"I wish, I wish someone would help me."

"Miss Ambrose, do you think we will arrive in time for me to

prevent my sister from making this Tragic Mistake that will blight

her life and doom her to misery? I wish the coachman would pick

up speed!"

Cecilia Ambrose—luckily for her—had been hiding behind a

good book when her pupil burst out with that bit of moral

indignation. She raised the book a little higher to make sure that

Lady Lucinda Chase would not see her smile.

"My dear Lady Lucinda, I have not met her, but from what I

know of your family, I suspect she is in control of her situation. Is

it not possible that your sister welcomes her coming nuptials?

Stranger things have happened."

Her young pupil rolled her eyes tragically, and pressed the back

of her hand to her cheek. "Miss Ambrose, in her last letter to me

she actually admitted that Sir Lysander kissed her! Can you

imagine anything more distasteful? Oh, woe!"

Cecilia abandoned her attempt at solemnity, put down the book

after marking her place, and laughed. When she could speak, she

did so in rounder tones. "My dear little scholar, I think you are

lacing this up a bit tight. If the wicked stage were not such a pit

of evil and degradation, you would probably be anointed a

worthy successor to Siddons! It is, um, possible that your sister

doesn't consider kissing to be distasteful. You might even be

inclined to try it yourself someday."

The look of horror that Lucinda Chase cast in her direction

assured Cecilia that the time was not quite ripe for such a radical

comment. And just as well, she thought as she put her arm around

her twelve-year-old charge. "It is merely a suggestion, my dear.

Perhaps when you are eighteen, you will feel that way, too." It

seemed the teacherly thing to say, especially for someone into

her fifth year as instructor of drawing and pianoforte at Miss

Dupree's Select Academy for Young Ladies.

Her young charge was silent for a long moment. She sighed.

"Miss Ambrose, I suppose you are right. I do not know that Janet

would listen to me, anyway. Since her come out she has changed,

and it makes me a little sad."

Ah, the crux of the matter, Cecilia thought as the post chaise

bowled along toward York. She remembered Miss Dupree's

admonition about maintaining a firm separation between teacher

and pupil and—not for the first time—discarded it without a

qualm. She touched Lucy's cheek. "You're concerned, aren't you,

that Janet is going to grow up and leave you behind?" she asked,

her voice soft. "Oh, my dear, she will not! You will always be

sisters, and someday you, too, will understand what is going on

with her right now. Do trust me on this. Perhaps things are not as

bad as you think."

Her conclusion was firm, and precisely in keeping with her

profession. Lucy sighed again, but to Cecilia's ears, always quite

in tune with the nuances of the young, it was not a despairing

sigh.

"Very well, Miss Ambrose," her charge said. "I will trust you. But

it makes me sad," she added. She looked up at her teacher. "Do

you think I will survive the ordeal of this most trying age?"

Cecilia laughed out loud. "Wherever did you hear that phraser

It was Lucy's turn to grin. "I overheard Miss Dupree talking to

my mama, last time she visited."

"You will survive," Cecilia assured her. "I mean, I did." Lucy

stared at her. "Really, Lucy, I was young once!"

"Oh! I didn't mean that you are precisely old, Miss Ambrose,"

Lucy burst out. "It's just that I didn't..." Her voice trailed away,

but she tried to recover. "I don't know what I meant."

I do, Cecilia thought. Don't worry, my dear. You're not the first,

and probably not the last. She smiled at her charge to put her at

ease, and returned to her book. Lucy settled down quietly and

soon slept. Cecilia put the book down then and glanced out the

window on the snowy day. She could see her reflection in the

glass. Not for the first time, she wondered what other people

thought when they looked at her.

She knew she was nice-looking, and that her figure was trim. In

Egypt, where her foster parents had labored for many years—

Papa studying ancient Coptic Christian texts, and Mama doing

good in many venues—her appearance excited no interest. In

England, she was an exotic, Egyptian-looking. Or as her dear

foster brother liked to tease her, "Ceely the Gift of the Nile."

Cecilia looked at Lucinda again and smiled. And heaven knows I

am old, in the bargain, she thought, all of eight and twenty. I

doubt Lucinda knows which is worst.

She knew that her foster brother would find this exchange

amusing, and she resolved to write him that night, when they

stopped. It was her turn to sigh, knowing that a letter to William

would languish three months in the hold of an East India

merchant vessel bound for Calcutta, where he labored as a

missionary with his parents now, who had been forced to

abandon Egypt when Napoleon decided to invade. She looked

out the window at the bare branches, wishing that her dear ones

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