Henrietta relaxed, and found herself enjoying the interactions, engaged and drawn in, both wits and senses more acute, heightened in an unusual way as she bantered with James, even outright flirted, exchanging views and barbed comments, her attention wholly focused on him . . . they’d been strolling and chatting for nearly half an hour before the warmth of the necklace, especially of the rose-quartz pendant dangling above her breasts, registered, and she remembered she was wearing the charm. . . .
Oh, God! She stared at James, who at that moment was speaking with George Ferguson and thankfully didn’t see her sudden shock. But even as she tore her gaze away and schooled her features into a pleasantly smiling mask, her mind was scrambling, tripping . . . this couldn’t be what she was thinking, could it?
Hell and the devil, could it be?
Was the damned necklace working on her after all?
She didn’t know whether to feel aghast or ecstatic. But when she looked again at James . . . it was as if the proverbial scales fell from her eyes and she saw him in an entirely different light, from an entirely new perspective.
The shift in view was disorienting.
But before she’d done more than frame the obvious questions—What should she do now? Should she act on her newfound understanding, and if so, how?—a stentorian bellow of “Ladies and gentlemen!” rolled across the room.
Conversations broke off and the crowd turned toward the source of the salutation—Lady Marchmain’s butler, standing to rigid attention at the top of the steps leading down into the ballroom.
Alongside her butler, Lady Marchmain stood beaming. She raised both arms in a commanding gesture. “Friends, all, it’s time for the highlight of our evening—the fireworks! If you could all make your way onto the lawn—and yes, the best view will, as usual, be had from the bridge over the stream. If you would?” Her ladyship made a sweeping gesture, directing the crowd out of the French doors that had been opened to the terrace and the lawn beyond.
As one, the crowd turned and obediently started shuffling out.
With James, George, and the others in their group, Henrietta had been standing not far from the long windows; they were among the first to gain the terrace. They descended quickly to the lawn and strode toward the wide stone arch that spanned the stream bordering the other side of the lawn.
On James’s arm, grateful for his support amid the jostling throng, Henrietta leaned closer to say, “Head for the left side of the bridge—the fireworks will be set off from the gardens further down the stream on that side.”
“Good notion,” George, walking on James’s other side, replied.
Their group, all much of an age, lengthened their strides, picked up their pace, and succeeded in claiming a prime position on the bridge, not as far as the top of the arch but along the raised stone side to the left. Although ancient, the bridge had been built wide enough to allow drays to pass, and so could accommodate quite a crowd across its span. There were, however, more guests than there was space on the bridge; as, eager to gain the best view, more people squeezed on, the crowd shifted and rippled, and Henrietta, James, and the others found themselves strung out in single file along the bridge’s side.
While the bridge was solid enough, the low stone sides reached only to the top of Henrietta’s calves; she shuffled into a better, more balanced stance. Beside her, the side of his arm pressed to her shoulder, James glanced at her, sharply assessing in a protective way; the press of the crowd had forced him to lower his arm. Settled and stable, she smiled reassuringly back. He met her eyes, then his lips curved just a touch, and together they looked out over the swiftly running stream to the swath of dark gardens further along the bank.
As if detecting some inexplicable sign, the crowd quieted.
A brief flare broke the darkness, then the first rocket hissed and surged into the sky, trailing tongues of flame as it soared into the velvet blackness before exploding in a corona of golden light, throwing out a shower of bright red and gold sparks that slowly fell, winking out as they trailed back to earth.
A communal “ah” of appreciative delight welled from the watching crowd.
They all stood with their faces upturned, watching successive fireworks light up the sky. A particularly bright rocket had just exploded when someone in the crowd behind Henrietta slipped and staggered, causing others to jerk and turn, some crying out in surprise.
Henrietta glanced around, started to turn—
A sudden shove sent the lady and gentleman behind her cannoning into her.
Henrietta tipped—fought for balance.
Lost.
On a gasp, she fell—desperately, she reached for help. For James.
She saw his shocked face, saw him reach for her, but they were both too late.
On her back, she hit the water with a splash, and sank into the racing stream.
In the instant before the waters closed over her face, she managed to get her lungs to work enough to haul in a breath. She held it and struggled to right herself and regain the surface.
But the stream was running high—there’d been rain earlier in the week—and this close to the river, the streamlets had coalesced and were racing strongly for the Thames; the tumbling waters tossed her like flotsam and dragged at her limbs. Her skirts trapped her legs; her spangled shawl tangled her arms.
I can swim!
She screamed that at herself, fought desperately to push away the enveloping panic.