by Joan Smith
“That is possible,” Stornaway confessed mildly. “I have yet to call on the other Mr. Alton. I have discovered there are two bucks by the name. It is possible they are both unlicked cubs in poorly-cut jackets, as Daugherty described the thief.”
“Now see here!” John blustered.
“Yes, that is where I am seeing. If you have lied to me, Alton, I shall return and peel the hide from your body.”
The menacing tone sent my poor heart quivering. I was certain John would give way, but it was nothing of the sort. He prided himself on his “pops,” as he termed his fists. “Be very happy to have Jackson set up a match,” he answered bravely.
"I look forward to the exquisite pleasure of teaching you a lesson in civility, sir. After I have drawn your cork and let the air out of your gas bag, I shall see you are struck from the list of the Four Horse Club. Good evening, sir. You will be hearing from me again. If I am mistaken, I shall tender you an apology, and if I am not . . ." He laughed a mirthless, evil, ominous laugh, then turned and left the room. "My condolences to Mrs. Alton on her illness. I hope she makes a speedy recovery,” he said in a very civil way to the butler.
"Now see what a pickle you have got me in!” John exclaimed, turning to vent his wrath on me, as soon as I appeared from behind the door. "What did he mean about April Spring? I hope it is not Perdita he was talking about.”
“Yes it was.”
“If that girl gets me barred from the Four Horse Club, I’ll . . . I’ll . . . Oh, damme, Moira, why couldn’t you take decent care of her? It was your job.”
“So many things happened. And really, you know, it is her papa who is trying to ram Mr. Croft down her throat.”
“Curst loose screw. Ought to be in Bedlam.”
There was a note of pity creeping into his voice as he looked at me. “You realize I cannot take the two of you out driving now. If Stornaway ever finds out it is me and not Cousin Harry, I am done for. Finished. Kaput. Reputation won’t be worth a brass farthing. Devil of a temper. Rules society with an iron thumb.”
“He sounds a dangerous character.”
“Worst rake in London. Don’t know how the deuce you and Perdie ever got mixed up with his likes. Thing to do, I think, just go about my business tomorrow as if nothing was the matter. Go to Jackson’s, go on the strut on Bond Street, visit a rout or two in the evening, then next morning the three of us whistle out of here at the crack of dawn. No danger of Stornaway turning up at Grifford’s. As well as engaged to Lady Dulcinea. Won’t be throwing his cap at Grifford’s chit, thank God.”
"Who is this Lady Dulcinea you speak of, the one he is engaged to.”
“A duke’s daughter. Great thundering bore of a girl. Niece of an archbishop, cousin to half the Cabinet members, a stick and a prude.”
“How does a man like that come to be dangling after this piece of propriety?”
“Damned if I know. Opposites attract, they say. She’d turn him off in the squeezing of a lemon if she knew how he was carrying on. Keeps all his petticoat dealings on the sly. The ladies don’t realize what a wretch he is, and the papas don’t care. Got money coming out his ears. Very eligible parti. To tell the truth, Moira, there ain’t such a thing as a good nobleman. All you read of them in the journals is debts and duels. Shabby lot.”
“What do you think he will do?”
“Call on Cousin Harry, then come rattling back here when he finds out he’s made a mistake. Peel my hide, tan it. I don’t mind that, but if he blackballs me with the FHC, I will have Perdie killed and stuffed, and you, too.”
After this grim speech, he put his head back and laughed, with a light dancing in his dark eyes. “By Jove, he won’t, though. Find out, I mean. Cousin Harry went off to Newmarket to put Gretchen through her paces. He is running her in the Two Thousand Guineas. A dashed spavin-backed jade whose only qualification is that she is a three-year old. She won’t even go the mile, but Harry don’t know a mule from a mare. He left this afternoon. Stornaway will learn he has gone, and think Perdie is with him. By God, I think we will rub through after all, Moira. You will be safe at Aunt Maude’s before he gets back from Newmarket, and I’ll deny I ever heard of April Spring. How did Perdie disport herself on the stage?” was his next cheerful question.
"Shamefully."
"Wish I had seen her. She is up to anything, but she has a voice like a cat in labor. How did she convince this Daugherty fellow she was a singer?”
"He forgot to listen. Like all the other men, he was too busy looking.”
"Getting his eyes full, too, if I know anything. I must have her sing for me sometime. I’ll go up and say good night to Mama. I am off to have a few heavy wets with the fellows. Don’t wait up for me.”
“I was not planning to. I am very tired.”
"You look like death warmed over. Better get to bed, my dear. The hoyden will run you a merry chase tomorrow. Tell me, Moira, did you sing, too?"
"No, I cooked for the troupe,” I told him. He took it for an excellent jest.
I went up to Perdita, who sat smiling at herself in the mirror. “It was Mr. Brown,” she said smugly. As if I didn’t know! Was he after me?”
“Yes, he was. Poor John is in trouble with him. Of course he denied knowing a thing about us. We cannot be seen with him tomorrow after all. We won’t be able to have our drive.”
“You mean we won’t be able to drive with John, Moira. I am sure Mrs. Alton will be happy to lend us her carriage. She won’t need it, since she is ill. We shall have our drive, never fear.”
As the probability was that Lord Stornaway would be chasing off to Newmarket, I felt we might have a brief respite in a closed carriage. One can hardly incarcerate a girl like Perdita. She would only climb out a window and go straggling down Bond Street alone.
“I suppose there is no harm in that.”
Then I went to bed and prayed for rain.
* * *
Chapter 8
God was not listening to my prayers. The morning dawned fair and warm. It was all I could do to keep Perdita home till after luncheon. We did not see a sign of John all day. Despite his late carousing, he was up and gone from the house before we came downstairs. He had to crowd a whole year’s social activities into six weeks.
It was not necessary to ask Mrs. Alton for the loan of her carriage. She offered it. We had no fear of encountering Lord Stornaway poring over the gloves and stockings and fans at the Pantheon Bazaar, and that was where we spent our afternoon. Mrs. Alton had forwarded some large but unspecified sum to Perdita, every penny of which she had to spend. She bought paste buckles for slippers, kid gloves, ribbons, sugarplums, anything that fell under her eyes. I spotted Phoebe, bent on an errand similar to our own. It was feathers that occupied her interest. Jostling about the countryside was hard on her three plumes.
"Well if it ain’t Miss High-and-Mighty!” she declared in a loud, vulgar voice when she saw us. I see your new patron has come down heavy,” she went on, casting a jealous eye on our footman, whose arms were laden with our purchases. “Who is he, eh?”
“Lord Stornaway,” Perdita told her, with a spiteful little smile.
“I knew it! I can spot a lord a room away. Listen, dear, he had a friend with him the first time. You remember that dark-haired fellow, heavyset, that was dangling after me?”
“Mr. Stafford,” Perdita admitted, enjoying the game of teasing her old rival.
“Is that his handle? If you happen to bump into him, you might let him know I am at liberty. You know where I’m putting up.”
“Did the interview at the Garden not go well, Phoebe?” I asked.
Remembering her proud boast of the day before, she immediately tried to cover her gaffe. "The deal is pending,” she said grandly. “It never does no harm to have another egg in your basket. They want an ingenew, but I feel my talents lay elsewheres. When a lady reaches her mid-twenties, she wants to go on to other parts. That trollop of a Polly is casting sheep’s eyes at Mick, trying
to con him into letting her play Miranda in our new play coming up. We done it a few seasons ago. I’ll not play second lead to no female, and so I told Mick. Would yez like to stop off for a cup of tea, girls?”
A small crowd was beginning to gather around us. There was that in Phoebe—the loud voice, the sable wrap and ostrich plumes—that attracted attention, offstage or on. I was not eager to continue in her company.
“We have to leave now,” I told her.
"Lord Stornaway is so jealous if I am gone long,” Perdita added mischievously.
“You’ve ended up in the honeypot for sure,” Phoebe said wistfully. “Remember what I said about Mr. Stafford.”
“I’ll remember,” Perdita told her, then the two of us hastened off, while the footman stood behind, smiling after Phoebe’s retreating form, till we had to call him to attention.
"There's a fine figure of a woman,” he said.
Perdita examined him with some interest, but in the end shook her head, withholding the address. The great Phoebe was not ready to settle for a footman yet.
The remainder of the afternoon passed pleasantly with a drive through Hyde Park, and later admiring our shopping after we got back to Alton’s. The modiste arrived to present our gowns to us. Perdita looked every bit as overdressed as I feared she would in her heavily trimmed gown, while my own was cut lower in front than I had intended. I feared Aunt Maude would be scandalized with it, but Mrs. Alton found it “quite dashing,” while John was kind enough to inquire if I was setting up in competition with Perdie, at my age.
I sat in some trepidation of another visit from Lord Stornaway, but he did not call. After dinner, John deserted us again for the haunts of London bachelors. I was happy our adventure was coming to a close. It would be good to get to Brighton, and turn Perdita over to her aunt. Maude Cosgrove had some influence with Brodie. She would bend his ear, make him send Perdita to her. As a widow, and the girl’s maternal aunt, she had always taken a strong interest in her. She might even give her a Season in London. In my own mind, I saw a year from the present as the proper time. Eighteen was a good age to make one’s bows, and a year in the life of such a busy womanizer as Stornaway would be long enough for him to forget April Spring. Even if he discerned a resemblance to her in Perdita, he could not be sure. To have her make her bows from such an unexceptionable home as Mrs. Cosgrove’s must convince him he was mistaken.
I am so utterly philanthropic as to have forgotten myself in this rosy future. Miss Moira Greenwood, too, must have a roof over her head. I could hardly expect to be presented at St. James’s at my advanced years, a quarter of a century in my dish. How had I got so awfully old all of a sudden? It seemed I had gone to bed young one night, and awoken old in the morning. It was during my three-year interval of looking after Perdita that the thing had happened. Advancing age was not my only problem, either. The lack of a portion must always be an impediment to a female. In truth, it was this rather than my age that was the more serious blight on my chances. Gentlemen had been known to smile at maturity before now, when it was a golden maturity.
My hope was to be taken into Mrs. Cosgrove’s establishment as a part-time chaperone for Perdita, and a part-time companion for Maude. When Perdita was bounced off, which would not take a week if I knew anything, I might grow into a full-time companion for my cousin. She had asked me to her when my mother died, which was the reason for my optimism in this scheme. I would have gone, too, had it not been for Perdita requiring a governess. It had not slipped my mind that the last cousin to find a berth with Mrs. Cosgrove had won a husband. He was a widower, but we poor relations are not so romantic as to require better than a second-hand male to satisfy us. A widower would do very well for me, and as Maude was active socially, it did not seem out of the question.
“We had best turn in,” I suggested, as the hands of the clock showed a quarter of eleven. “Mrs. Alton is still recuperating, and John wants to get an early start tomorrow.”
“So you are off to Brighton, eh, girls?” Mrs. Alton confirmed. “That’s nice. You are close enough that John can visit you from time to time. You must come and spend a week with me later on, when I am back on my legs. In fact, pray consider this house your little pied-a-terre in London.”
“We shall make our adieux and tender our thanks now, Mrs. Alton, to prevent your getting up early with us in the morning,” I said.
“Let Perdita go off without saying good bye? Nothing of the sort!” she insisted.
So our adieux and our thanks were postponed indefinitely. She was not up with us in the morning. John had us called at six. Before seven, we were on the road to Brighton. Anything seems possible on a bright, spring morning. There was some delightful promise in the air, some excitement, to be hurtling along at a rapid pace, with the breeze fanning our cheeks, in the midst of heavy traffic. Even at that early hour the road was well traveled.
"Twenty-eight stagecoaches a day,” John informed us, as proud as though he drove every one of them himself. “Busiest turnpike in the country. If you can drive this road, you can drive anything. Prinney is said to have made the trip from his Pavilion to London in four and a half hours, but I for one don’t believe a word of it. Besides, he made three stops, and used three nags, harnessed random-tandem. I shan’t make but two. We can certainly go farther than Croydon with this pair of steppers I have got, though I shan’t push ‘em all the way to Horley.”
Already at Croydon the team had slowed noticeably, so he changed his mind. “The Prince certainly did not have to wait half an hour for them to change his cattle,” he fumed, after we had waited perhaps five minutes for the stableboys to attend us.
At Horley, they were faster. “Wouldn’t you know when this pest of a girl stops to water herself, they would get us changed in three minutes flat,” he grouched. There was a deal more of grouching on the next lap. Not only had they dared to palm a lame jade off on him, but Perdita, accustomed to every luxury, insisted she must stop for something to eat, after having had a drink at Horley.
“Dash it, we might as well have a proper luncheon, or she will want to stop again after half a mile. I don’t see why you didn’t bring a lunch with you, if you meant to eat every step of the way.”
I must say, John ate more than the rest of us, once the stop was actually made. The beefsteak he declared to be “quite tolerable,” while the fowl were “decent.” An apple tart too was considered “worth eating.” This faint praise seemed to be the style with the fashionable bucks this year. With his eyes fairly popping out of his head, he claimed a certain female encountered at the inn door to be “passable.” He stopped to have a few words with an acquaintance as we drove back onto the road, dense with traffic now. The friend said, in no low tone, that his friend was "not unattractive,” and he would not resent being presented to her.
“Are you taking her to Grifford’s?” he went on to ask.
“Lord no! Do you take me for a Johnnie Raw, to be taking an Incomparable to Bromley Hall, when the whole purpose of the party is to nab a parti for Millie? They’d have my eyes gouged out and fed to the hounds.”
“I hear Tony Hall has popped the question. Daresay the Griffords are sorry they went to the bother of tossing the do,” the young fellow announced, with a sly smile to John.
The effect this speech had on John was remarkable. He had described Millicent Grifford as a squinter and an ugly patch, which hardly indicated an interest in her. These descriptions went beyond faint praise to downright denigration. Why then was he white around the lips, and abusing Tony Hall for a lilylivered mawworm?
On this cheery note, we rolled back on the road. Speed was impossible with the number of carriages wheeling to and fro. It was quite alarming to see the congestion. One would think every cottager along the way had set up a carriage, and taken it out for a spin.
The afternoon was half gone by the time we reached Brighton. “Where does this Maude woman live?” John demanded, his temper frayed well beyond civility.
“The Steyne. Is it a decent neighborhood?” Perdita asked.
“Yes, by Jove, very decent,” he allowed, conferring its new meaning on the word, to judge by his accent. It was much better than decent, as we saw when we reached it. All the crack, with a view even of the Prince Regent’s Pavilion glowing in the distance, lending a fairy-tale enchantment to the scene. “She ain't hiring that place at less than thirty guineas a week,” he told us. “Must be rich as a nabob.”
“She is not hiring it at all. She owns it,” Perdita told him. “And when she dies, she is leaving it to me. She told Mama so."
In my own view, it was a great pity she was not leaving it to her more needy cousin, Miss Greenwood. Would it not be marvelous to own a house in Brighton? But that is always the way; those who have, keep getting and getting and getting. But Perdita was her niece, while I was a lesser relative.
“Is she, by Jove?” John asked. “Millie Grifford don’t own any fine home in Brighton. Much I care if she wants to throw herself away on Tony Hall, dashed rattlepate. Told me she didn’t care for him above half, and he called her an antidote, too. Well she is next door to an ape-leader, if you want the truth. I have half a mind not to go to Bromley Hall at all. What did Huxley say, anyway? Did he say the Griffords had accepted Hall’s offer?”
“No, they only said he had made one,” I informed him, hoping to improve his mood.
“He’s offered for every chit with a penny in her pocket. The Griffords won’t have him. Not that I care a groat. Serve him well if he got stuck with her. Only offered to spite me.”
“You would not want to marry a squinter, John,” Perdita pointed out.
“Squinter? Who are you calling a squinter? Millicent makes you look like a dashed—well, anyway she don’t squint,” he decided, after making a mental comparison of the two ladies. I concluded Millicent was a somewhat plain girl, whom John had managed to fall in love with. “And she don’t go screeching about on public stages, either. What are you worth in shillings and pence anyway, Perdie? She need not think I mean to cry willow for two seconds, for I don’t.”
