by Dorothy Mack
The ride home was enlivened by a stream of mindless chatter from Vicky, which, luckily, called for little response from the young girl, who was concentrating on maintaining her dignity in a trying situation, and the silent gentleman, who was busily reassessing the essential nature of the woman he had desired so desperately to make his wife. Fortunately the riders all went their separate ways to change, for each had much with which to occupy his mind, and Vicky, especially, required some time to recover from the fatiguing effects of producing that marathon monologue.
When the members of the household reassembled for lunch, everyone’s private concerns were safely tucked out of view and general civility prevailed. A passing reference to the expected dinner party on Vicky’s part produced the hoped-for fixing of a rehearsal session for that afternoon by Lord Ellerby and Drucilla, which had the double advantage of throwing her prospective lovers together and freeing her own time for a visit to Shadow. She had been too stiff after yesterday’s extensive tour of the grounds with Gregory to exercise her favourite, but her muscles had unbent sufficiently today to make her impatient to be off to the field.
Satisfaction and tiredness were equally blended when Vicky returned to her rooms several hours later. She allowed Trotton to persuade her to rest in lieu of drinking tea in company, and was actually asleep by the time the dresser returned from delivering her mistress’ excuses. It was Trotton, pointedly oblivious of the subsequent look of dislike directed her way, who shook her awake two hours later to begin the ritual of dressing for the evening. Vicky sprang up at the disturbing touch, looked woozily around her, and slumped back against the pillows. Now, when it was too late, she remembered why she was seldom tempted to indulge in what her aunt referred to as a restorative nap. The plain truth was that sleeping in the afternoon did not restore one’s energy; on the contrary, one arose more exhausted than before, cross and fuzzy-minded, with a bitter resolution never to fall into that particular snare again. She swung her legs off the bed and shook her head to clear it of the taunting memory of just such a resolution formed the last time she had indulged this weakness. Trotton had her bath ready and she submitted with unwonted docility to all the dresser’s directions over the next hour.
When the foggy rooms in her brain cleared enough for thoughts to move in, she found herself anticipating the dinner party with genuine interest. Their guests were all attractive and personable, and Sir Hugh, at least, possessed a pleasant address and a well-informed mind that must make him a welcome addition to any gathering. Miss Fairchild’s shyness was a surface disadvantage, certainly, but unless she was vastly mistaken, the girl’s manner concealed a lively intellect and a good understanding. She would never shine in company, indeed brilliance was probably a quality she would be frightened to covet, but Miss Fairchild would never be left with nothing to contribute to a rational conversation through paucity of mental resources. It would be her hostess’ task perhaps to see to it that Elaine was not permitted to retire into the background tonight.
Her thoughts passed on to Lady Lanscomb. That the latter had been a reigning belle in her day, at least in provincial circles, was a theory that did not admit debate. Sir Hugh’s attractive mother enjoyed the company of gentlemen, but with the possible exception of herself (and that was understandable), she seemed well enough disposed toward her own sex. Vicky spared a quick hope that her cosmopolitan relative would not put up Lady Lanscomb’s back by careless name-dropping. Lady Honoria was never above her company or above being pleased, but she travelled in the first circles socially and had a wide acquaintance among the more prominent thinkers of the day. If the slightest hint of patronage should be suspected by Lady Lanscomb, the inevitable strained relations between the elder ladies could well strew obstacles in the path of Vicky’s plans for the younger. Well, if necessary, she could just drop a hint to her aunt that Lady Lanscomb must be spared any feelings of inferiority in the event it was in her nature to take offence. She only hoped her aunt would not divine her plans for Elaine; she had not taken to her niece’s other matchmaking scheme.
There was one other expected guest, whom she could do without tonight, or any night for that matter. Mr. Massingham’s presence she chose not to dwell on; it was a necessary evil to be endured, it added nothing to her enjoyment or contentment. In the process of not dwelling on Mr. Massingham, an idea struck her with unexpected force, causing her to sit up straighter on the dressing-table bench. Since the silent and dedicated Trotton was brushing her hair at the time, the results of this sudden movement were momentarily painful enough to jerk her attention back to the present. By the time Trotton had scolded and Vicky had apologised in an absent manner, she had identified the potential problem and was mentally taking corrective measures.
In forty-eight hours, her main object had shifted from merely ensuring that the sundered engagement between Drucilla and Mr. Massingham not be taken up again to actively promoting a match between Gregory and Drucilla. She could say with honesty that some little progress toward this object had been achieved, but it was undeniably desirable, nay, mandatory at this stage, to conceal her scheme from Mr. Massingham. Most decidedly did she desire that he should not redouble his efforts to woo a wealthy bride while these efforts might still be effective. His public attentions to Drucilla must be discreet, because Sir Hugh had required a pledge that he should not reveal the past connection between them, but she would not put it out of his power to get the girl alone by some means or other. It was sheer stupidity to underestimate an opponent, and she had never questioned Mr. Massingham’s resourcefulness. A small frown creased Vicky’s forehead as she recalled that too much had been said of the prospective duet between Gregory and Drucilla to draw back now. Lady Honoria would be bound to request the pleasure of hearing them, and the performers themselves would wonder about the omission should she hint her aunt away from the subject. The fact of the riding lessons could be concealed, however. She must forestall any announcements on this subject. Perhaps she could catch Drucilla before the girl went downstairs.
“What time is it, Trotton?”
“Nearly six-thirty.”
“So late?” They had compromised between country and town hours because the Meadowlands party was coming such a distance. “Are we nearly ready?”
“Yes, miss. As soon as I place this aigrette in your hair, you’ll be able to dress. I have everything laid out.”
“Feathers? Good heavens, Trotton, this isn’t a full-dress ball, merely a country dinner party, and a small one at that!” Vicky’s eyes flashed to the mirror while she uttered the protest. The reflection confronting her could not be other than aesthetically pleasing if to look one’s best was a condition to be desired, but Vicky eyed the complicated hairstyle rather dubiously, swivelling sideways to glimpse the twisted swaths at the back and the top curls cascading over her ears. Trotton’s angular figure, stiffly drawn up, caught her eye, which climbed to encounter a mulish expression on the dresser’s sallow face.
“Is there something amiss, Miss Seymour?” she asked in sibilant tones.
“Well, it’s too late to worry about it now,” returned Vicky with ill-timed frankness; then, seeing the alarming rigidity of the abigail’s stance, amended hastily, “No, no, it’s most attractive, Trotton, but no feathers, please. In fact, no ornaments at all. Anything else would spoil the effect. It’s been quite some time since my hair was arranged to such advantage. It’s just that it seems a shame to waste such an elaborate style on a small family party, that’s all.”
And that is positively all the conciliating I am prepared to do tonight, she vowed silently, closing her mouth and jumping up from the bench. She presented her back to the disapproving dresser as she headed for the bed, where her gown was laid out. There was no time to pursue the topic, but she did acknowledge some passing curiosity as to what lay behind Trotton’s action. It wasn’t diminished when she recognised the gown being slipped over her head. This was a bronze-green affair of delicate silk, undeniably attractive but shockingly
expensive, and more suited to a London salon than a country drawing room. When she moved, every line and curve of her body was emphasised by the diaphanous fabric. “Provocative” was the only word for it. She couldn’t appear in company with Lady Lanscomb wearing something so expressly guaranteed to excite censure from a respectable matron already predisposed to take her in dislike.
“Not this dress, Trotton,” she protested. “It’s inappropriate.”
She would have said more, but the abigail was behind her fastening up the buttons. “You wore it to Lady Melbourne’s soirée last month and received several compliments, so you told me.”
“Trotton!”
“You are going to be late, Miss Seymour.”
Vicky glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “Oh, Lord, so I am.” She bit her lip in momentary indecision, then said, “Fetch my Spanish shawl, Trotton — the black one.”
When the dresser began to protest against this desecration, her mistress continued snappishly, “There is a great purple bruise below my shoulder in back. I just saw it in the mirror. If you had not selected such a low-cut gown, I would not be needing a shawl. Quickly, please, I am already shockingly late.”
She made a business of fastening topaz earrings, and the indecision was now Trotton’s. After a second or two, the abigail stalked over to a high lacquered chest and took a black lace shawl from one of its drawers. Still radiating disapproval, she draped it over her mistress’ arms and across her back. Her eyes flickered once, then dropped, but Vicky, watching in the dressing-table mirror, had seen the reluctant admiration at the effect created by the lacy texture against the silk.
She gurgled with laughter at the abigail’s dilemma. “Admit it, Trotton. You know the result is really quite elegant, even if it wasn’t your idea. And,” she added with satisfaction, “it cancels the effect of this immodest gown — nearly cancels it, that is,” as the glass reflected a suggestion of hipline and rounded derrière as she moved toward the door, fastening a bracelet to match the earrings as she went.
“It looks very nice, Miss Seymour.”
That stiff concession, Vicky well knew, was all the admission Trotton would ever make that her own taste might be at fault. She twinkled saucily at the maid, told her not to wait up for her, and went gaily out of the room.
Vicky would have been greatly amused to discover that her faithful abigail was reflecting sourly that there was no helping some people at all. The way she saw it, Miss Seymour was in great danger of counting her chickens before they hatched if what they were saying in the Room about Lord Ellerby and that Miss Hedgeley spending hours together supposedly practicing singing was true. She might think he was too much her slave to look at another woman, but there was many a slip ’twixt cup and lip, and Miss Hedgeley was a mighty pretty girl. The word in the Room was that she was also an heiress. You couldn’t prove it by her luggage, which was meagre, but it was said that her trunk would arrive any day from London. And here was Miss Vicky scarcely bothering with her hair and running around in men’s clothes half the time, which was a scandal in itself. And when her dresser had spent hours devising an exquisite hairstyle and rigged her out in a gown no young miss not even out yet could hope to compete with, what had been the result? Had she been grateful for the trouble and effort, or pleased to have the best made of herself? Not she! No, Miss High and Mighty had merely complained about her hair and proceeded to ruin the effect of the gown. But that was Miss Vicky all over. Headstrong was what she was and always had been, what with Mr. Seymour, rest his soul, encouraging her to go her length in everything without curb. It was to be hoped that she did not come to regret this night’s work, but Trotton wagged her head dolefully as she bustled about tidying up the bedchamber. It wasn’t too late for Ellerby to cry off, not by a long chalk it wasn’t, and Mrs. Simmons had seen a period of turmoil in the tea leaves this afternoon.
Blithely unaware of the sorrowful future in store for her if she did not mend her ways, Vicky headed down the corridor, having already forgotten her appearance, and prepared to enjoy her evening. Mindful of her mission, she tapped on Drucilla’s door, to be informed by the maid that the girl had gone down earlier. As she hurried toward the staircase, she was accosted by the housekeeper, who spent the better part of five minutes detailing a complaint concerning the laundress. She was not released until she had twice assured that lady that she might use her own discretion in handling the affair. Her ears had caught the sounds of arrival in the lower hall. She went dashing down the stairs, but slowed to a more decorous pace when it became evident that she would not be able to reach the hall before her guests entered.
Conscious of her own lateness and several pairs of eyes on her, Vicky felt her customary self-possession desert her briefly. Her colour was rather high, and she stammered an apology to Lady Lanscomb that included the others. Sir Hugh was staring at her in patent admiration. Intercepting Mr. Massingham’s comprehensive assessment that seemed to annul the purpose of the shawl, she hitched it higher on her arms in a defensive gesture and directed a frosty glare at him before offering her hand to Sir Hugh.
By the time Cavanaugh and the footman had helped the Meadowlands party to divest themselves of their outer clothing, Vicky had herself well in hand again. She had already received an account of the journey in reply to her polite inquiry to Lady Lanscomb and had complimented the ladies on their appearance. Now she waved the butler off and herself escorted her guests to the main drawing room. Mr. Massingham went ahead to open the door while Vicky stood aside to usher in the new arrivals. As the others filed past, a low voice meant for her ears alone murmured sardonically, “Seeing you in such high force relieves my mind of all worry that you might have suffered repercussions from your fall.”
Vicky favoured him with a brief glance. “I thank you, sir, for your concern, but it is quite unnecessary, as you can see. I suffered no ill effects at all.”
With that deplorable sense of poor timing common to inanimate objects, the black shawl slipped from Vicky’s shoulders just as she obeyed Mr. Massingham’s gesture to precede him into the room. The next instant she stiffened involuntarily as warm fingers rearranged the folds of lace across her back.
“Thank you,” she muttered between clenched teeth, casting him a swift look from under her lashes.
Mr. Massingham’s eyes were fixed on a point over her shoulder as he bowed in polite acknowledgment, but his jaw had taken on a certain rigidity. She could not deceive herself that the bruise had escaped his notice. Fortunately, the necessity to perform general introductions put a quick end to the moment of awkwardness.
The elder ladies took each other’s measure in the intervals between uttering gracious speeches indicative of their great pleasure in the acquaintance. Lady Lanscomb had the felicity of perceiving herself in a higher state of preservation than the grey-haired, aquiline-featured Lady Honoria, and the latter was quite satisfied with the recognition, after a few minutes of conversation, that her counterpart was a frivolous creature with more hair than wit. Naturally, these discoveries increased the pleasure they might be expected to derive from an initial meeting.
Conversation was general until Cavanaugh announced dinner. As Vicky had foreseen, Miss Fairchild spoke only when directly addressed, but her few contributions were pertinent and she appeared to be enjoying herself in a quiet way. Seeing that she continued to take an active part in the evening should be a relatively simple matter now that any qualms over the reactions of the two elder ladies seemed superfluous. With only three gentlemen, the table could not be balanced, of course, nor was it possible to come up with an entirely satisfactory seating arrangement, but so small a party might discard the rules and converse across the table at times. Vicky and her aunt sat at opposite ends tonight, Lady Honoria having firmly proclaimed her position to be that of permanent privileged guest when she came to reside with her niece after the death of her brother-in-law. She had no intention of playing hostess anywhere except in her own home. Vicky had placed Lady Lanscomb betwe
en her son and Lord Ellerby on one side of the table and Mr. Massingham between the younger girls on the other. This had the advantage of conceding the older woman two gentlemen as dinner partners as well as keeping Elaine at her hostess’ side, where she might unobtrusively see that the girl stayed in the thick of things. It also placed Drucilla too near Mr. Massingham for comfort, but Lady Honoria on the girl’s right hand would see to it that he didn’t monopolise her attention. On the way into the dining room, Vicky found time to advise Drucilla in an undervoice to keep her riding lessons secret until she could surprise the others with a demonstration of her skill. Although she looked surprised at the mention of the lessons out of the blue, the girl had readily agreed.
Only Mr. Massingham was even aware of the hurried exchange. Vicky found his speculative gaze on them when she glanced away. The odious creature saw entirely too much! She passed him with head high, a chilling look in her own eyes, which was a mistake, she knew at once, as those dark grey orbs narrowed thoughtfully. Her countenance reflected none of her irritation as she took her place at the head of the table and prepared to do the honours of her home.
At least the dinner might be regarded as an unqualified success, she assured herself later without conceit. It wasn’t fashionable to employ a woman as cook in a large establishment, but she’d challenge the haughtiest French chef to fault Mrs. Baker’s cooking and presentation for a company dinner. She had never dined at any board presided over by a male chef who could equal Mrs. Baker’s way of roasting venison deep-basted and flavoured with tarragon and other seasonings, nor had she ever come across pheasants that were as succulent as those Mrs. Baker cooked in clay. Both specialities had appeared tonight among the two courses and several removes and had been enthusiastically received by the guests. Lady Lanscomb, whose eyebrows had climbed on perceiving Miss Seymour presiding over the table, praised a number of the dishes effusively and paid her the compliment of requesting the cook’s recipe for a savoury vegetable mélange smothered in a delectable wine sauce. The others showed their appreciation by doing hearty justice to all the cook’s efforts.
