Always in April

I.

Lady Peyton's ball was in full swing, but Cecelia stood alone at the edge of the dance floor with a glass of champagne in her hand. While her eyes were upon the dancers, her mind was engaged in puzzling out a matter of dates and weather. It was the first week of April, but the winter had been long and cold, and the spring flowers were late in coming out. It might yet be too early, better to wait another week, to be sure, another two.

"Penny for your thoughts, Lady Cecelia?"

The gentle, familiar voice broke Cecelia's reverie and she turned with a smile to Major Charles Godfrey. Hovering about him, one arm coiled around his, was Miss Astley. Cecelia's smile widened, not with warmth.

"I wouldn't let you have them for a pound," she said.

"It was probably dinner," Miss Astley said. "I find when a woman is looking pensive, it is always dinner she is thinking of."

"That must explain why you never look like you have any thought in your head at all," Cecelia said gravely. She paused just long enough to see the irritation spark in Miss Astley's eyes and then continued, "You are so slender, I mean."

That was the contrast between the two women: Helena Astley, so tall and narrow and fair, and Lady Cecelia Price, so small and soft and dark. Cecelia, who was a little older and a great deal wiser than Miss Astley, was too sure of her own beauty to spare any jealousy for another woman's, but it still amused her to see the worried spite gleam in Miss Astley's eyes at the hint of a slight.

Or perhaps it was Major Godfrey who sparked that worry. His arm might be entwined with Miss Astley's, but his eyes were Cecelia's alone. She met them without blushing or blinking.

"Since I've been so accused," she said lightly, "I might as well protest my innocence. It was spring flowers I was thinking of, though I will not tell you which kind."

"Daffodils," Major Godfrey guessed.

Cecelia gave him a closed smile and shook her head. "No. They would never suit my complexion."

"Have you tried Pear's Powder?" Miss Astley asked sweetly. "My grandmother swears by it."

"I'm wearing it right now," Cecelia said. "I tried rouge as well, and a little lead paint, and then a patch to cover the freckle on my nose, but the mirror did not approve what I had done to myself, so I scrubbed it all off. Alas, there is no saving some of us." She sighed heavily and looked at Major Godfrey. "That's your cue to shower me with compliments, by the way."

Major Godfrey chuckled. "If you encourage me to start, Lady Cecelia, there is a very real danger that I might never stop."

Miss Astley's expression soured, spoiling her good looks. "I should think you make it more difficult for a man to pay you compliments by begging for them."

"Perhaps that is the point," Cecelia replied. "Sometimes I quite feel suffocated in men's admiration. Don't you?"

"Now don't fault us that, Lady Cecelia," Major Godfrey said. "It might be in a man's power not to compliment a woman, but it is not in his power not to admire."

Cecelia swatted him with her fan. "So might the scorpion say to the frog!"

Major Godfrey gave an exasperated shrug, which had the effect — quite deliberate, Cecelia thought — of dislodging Miss Astley from his arm. "I see I cannot win with you! You have an answer for everything. So I will take the loser's part, and as forfeit give you... my hand?"

He spoke as the music faded for an interval. Cecelia turned away on the excuse of watching the dancers move off the floor. She could not tell what, if anything, Major Godfrey truly felt for her. Nor was she sure what she felt for him. For more than a year now they had been circling each other like leaves floating in the eddy of a river, never drifting closer, never drifting away. Miss Astley was a new development in the major's life, but Cecelia doubted she had stirred the waters between them. That she had formed an attraction to him was obvious, but he appeared to enjoy it rather than return it, with that arrogant, tom-cat streak Cecelia had noticed in all men, to take pleasure in thinking themselves desired even by objects they did not themselves desire.

"That was me asking you for a dance, Lady Cecelia," Major Godfrey pressed when she did not reply.

"I know it was," Cecelia answered, turning back to him. "Maybe I will dance with you. Perhaps later tonight. I'm not sure."

"How can I persuade you?"

"You cannot. I'm all whim and fancy tonight. It's spring, you see, and it goes to my head."

"Perhaps that's the champagne," Miss Astley said. "I would certainly dance with you, Major Godfrey, but you have not asked."

"That is why I do not ask you," he replied with a tom-cat smile. "I already know your answer. The fun, Miss Astley, lies in the uncertainty."

There were times when Cecelia was not sure if she disliked Major Godfrey very much indeed.

At the other end of the salon, one leaf of the double-doors opened for a late arrival, allowing a draught of cold air into the room which rippled the hum of conversation. Cecelia glanced briefly over then turned for a closer look. The newcomer was dressed not for a ball but for travel, in a shabby greatcoat which glistened with rain across the shoulders. His hair was plastered down over his forehead, right down to his eyebrows, and as she watched he swept it back with one hand and blinked the rain from his eyes. Something about the gesture sparked a strange sense of déjà vu within Cecelia, and the more she looked at the man, the queerer she felt, like she was in a dream, like nothing around her was real — not Miss Astley, not Major Godfrey, not the dancers or the orchestra or the marble beneath her feet, nothing but the man with the dripping hair.

"My goodness, who is that?" Miss Astley's shrill laugh brought Cecelia sharply back to her senses. "He must be a lost servant, perhaps seeking a job as a footman. He has the looks for it. Though he'll never get hired after walking in like this! Lady Peyton can't abide incompetence."

Even as she spoke, Lady Peyton was trotting across the dance floor towards the man, her stout figure bouncing with the briskness of her movement. But her briskness was not from anger: when she reached the young man, she laid her hands upon his shoulders and kissed each of his damp cheeks. They spoke in low tones, drowned out as the music rose up again.

"Who on earth is he?" Miss Astley asked.

"Never seen him before in my life, I'm sure," Major Godfrey said, frowning. "Rude of him to come in like this. He might at least have taken off his coat."

As they watched, Lady Peyton scanned the room and then pointed across the salon towards them. The young man looked directly at Cecelia. It was too far away to say he met her gaze, too far away even for her to discern what colour his eyes were, but in that moment a shock slid over Cecelia as if she had unexpectedly swallowed a lump of ice. She knew this young man, she was sure — but how?

She would soon find out. Lady Peyton was crossing the floor towards her, forging a path between the dancers, and the man was following behind. As they came closer, Cecelia saw that his eyes were grey, grave-like in both expression and colour.

"Mr Sebastian Price," Lady Peyton said, nodding briefly at Major Godfrey and Miss Astley. "My brother's secretary. And, of course, family of yours, Lady Cecelia."

And now Cecelia knew. It was a wonder she could ever have forgotten. It had been six years, of course, and he had changed from boy to man within that time, a change marked by the breadth of his shoulders and the shadow of fair beard on his jaw, marked most of all by the horrible, weary expression in his eyes. Frozen by his gaze, she could for once find no words.

Sebastian bowed, breaking the spell. "I didn't know you would be here. I'm sorry. I'm not dressed for a ball or I would linger."

"Don't be silly," Lady Peyton said. "There's no need to stand on ceremony — have a glass of champagne. Supper comes at midnight, if you would like to join us."

Sebastian shook his head — once, and very slightly. "I couldn't possibly."

"But of course, you must be exhausted, poor boy. I'll take you to your room. Come, come."

She put one firm, fat hand on Sebastian's shoulder and hustled him towards the door. He did not, Cecelia noticed, put up resistance to the hustling. He did not even look back.

"Who is he?" Miss Astley asked. "A cousin of yours?"

"No," Cecelia said faintly. "He's my husband."

*

A/N: I meant to post this last summer, but time got away from me. Since it's Valentine's Day today, there's no better now than now.