by M. C. Beaton
That was youth out there, thought Emily. All set for flirtations and love letters and hopes and fears of marriage. And here she was, still seventeen, and already older in her manner than Lady Bailey.
The door opened and a small boy was pushed in. He could not have been more than twelve. He had a round, red, scrubbed face and hair that stuck up all over his head like a porcupine’s quills. He looked as if he had just been subjected to a scrubbing under the pump, which indeed he had.
“This here is Jimmy Jenkins, knife boy and pot scrubber to her ladyship,” the footman said. “He’s eager to look after the dog, miss.” And with that, John gave the knife boy another shove into the center of the room and then made his escape.
Jimmy stood with his hands behind his back, looking at the pattern of twisting dragons on the oriental rug. Emily looked at the lad.
“How old are you, Jimmy?” she asked.
“Thirteen, please, miss.”
“You look younger.”
“I’m small for me age, please, miss.”
“Well, Jimmy,” said Emily doubtfully, “I shall tell you a story about Duke. Duke is my dog. Sir Peregrine Manley died and left a fortune in diamonds to this dog. If anything should happen to the dog, then a number of greedy Manley relatives will get their hands on that fortune. Now, I cannot be with Duke every minute of the day, and I want someone to guard him at all times. You do not look very strong.” She hesitated. “It would be necessary to take you away from your kitchen duties, but… oh, I really do think a full-grown man would be better!”
“If you please, miss,” said Jimmy dismally. For one brilliant sunny moment, Jimmy’s future had seemed to stretch out golden and blissful before him. And now it was snatched away.
Emily felt a pang of pity as she looked at the boy’s bent head. In a way he was like Duke, scrubby and ill favored. Perhaps she could make him a page. It seemed such a shame to send him back to the kitchens.
Then Duke arose from his comfortable sleep beside the fire. He stretched and looked around. His close-set eyes became fixed on the boy who stood miserably in the middle of the room. Slowly Duke’s tail began to wag. To Emily’s amazement, Duke ambled across the room and reared himself up, placed his paws on Jimmy’s shoulders, and licked his face.
It was too much for Jimmy. He was genuinely fond of animals and thought the dog was trying to comfort him, and so he put his arms around Duke and buried his scrubbed red face in Duke’s rough coat and cried and cried. And Duke, sensing the distress of his new friend, threw back his head and began to howl dismally. The noise was terrible.
“Stop it, both of you!” shouted Emily with her hands to her ears. “Yes, yes, yes, Jimmy, you may have the job. Duke obviously likes you.”
Jimmy raised a tear-stained, glowing face. Duke stopped howling. Both of them stared at Emily. Both had close-set, small eyes with a wary look.
“Now, Jimmy,” said Emily severely, “I think you should start your duties right away. Send Dayton, the butler, to me. We must discuss with him the change in position.” She looked at his ragged knee breeches, which had once done service for a fully grown man and were now hitched up somewhere around Jimmy’s dirty neck cloth. “And I think you should have new clothes.”
Jimmy nodded and gulped and detached himself from Duke’s embrace.
Duke followed him as far as the door and then slumped down with his nose between his paws as if aware that his new friend would shortly return.
Jimmy’s elevation in the ranks caused no jealousy among the servants. Not one of them wanted the job of taking care of Duke, and so in no time at all, Jimmy found himself possessed of two new suits of sober black, four shirts, two new pairs of shoes, and a bed in the footmen’s dormitory at the top of the house.
Although Emily had no immediate social engagements, Jimmy was obviously eager to begin his duties, and so she allowed Jimmy to take the dog out. She watched the boy and Duke walking sedately to the end of the square in the tender blue light of an early spring evening. As soon as they reached the end of the square, Jimmy shouted something and began to run down the long cobbled hill that led away from the center of the town, with Duke barking and leaping about him.
Emily stood and watched them until they were out of sight, experiencing a pang of pure envy at their carefree freedom.
Emily found her first ball in Bath’s famous Pump Room quite a disappointment, but she would not even admit to herself that it was because she secretly hoped that a certain autocratic lord with white-gold hair and cynical gray eyes would be there.
She was a great success and danced very prettily with a number of eligible gentlemen. Soon carriages were calling at Lady Bailey’s narrow house in Somerset Square, and Emily put on such a great show of flirting and laughing with her beaux that even the sharp-eyed Lady Bailey was forced to think she had been mistaken in assuming that Miss Winters was pining for Lord Storm.
As the days grew longer and warmer and the social round increased in pace, Emily began to forget Lord Storm. Her most assiduous gallant was a young gentleman by the name of Guy Wayne-Viking. Mr. Wayne-Viking was refreshingly ordinary, from his pleasant open features to his sandy hair, modest dress, and uninteresting conversation. Soon Emily was standing up with him for at least two dances at the assemblies, and the Bath gossips whispered that Miss Winters and Mr. Wayne-Viking were shortly to make a match of it.
Duke, meanwhile, was glossy and happy and forever absent in the company of Jimmy.
The first cloud appeared on Emily’s horizon in the shape of the Misses Kipling. They had certainly not come to Bath to see Emily; they cut her as dead as they could. Then Honoria, Countess of Freham, and Lord Storm’s mother, arrived to take the waters. Emily studied her with interest as she walked in the Pump Room one morning with Lady Bailey. The countess did not look at all like her tall, handsome son. She looked small and dumpy and exceedingly bad-tempered.
Then the cloud of foreboding grew darker one evening shortly after Fanny and Betty Kipling’s arrival. Dayton, Lady Bailey’s butler, informed Miss Winters that Jimmy was talking some nonsense about a beautiful lady who had tried to poison Duke.
Jimmy was sent for and arrived with the doting Duke lolling at his heels.
“What is this I hear?” demanded Emily. “I hope my tale of vengeful relatives has not affected your imagination, Jimmy.”
“No, miss,” said Jimmy. “It was like this here….” And he began to tell his story.
It appeared that he had been teaching Duke tricks in a field on the outskirts of town. Then they had been racing and playing. A very fine carriage had drawn up alongside and a lady had called him over. No, he couldn’t quite describe her, because she was wearing a bonnet and a veil. She had asked him if he would like chocolate and said he could have one for his dog.
Now, if Jimmy had been older, perhaps he might not have taken Emily’s warning so seriously. But it all seemed so exciting to him that he, Jimmy, was in sole charge of a dog who owned a fortune, and he had been on the constant lookout for trouble, and so he had firmly refused the chocolates. At that moment, Duke had come bounding up to the carriage.
The lady had laughed and said she was sure the dog would love chocolate, and she threw one to Duke, shouting, “Catch!” “Well, miss,” said Jimmy, “Duke caught it in his mouth but I fell on ’im and shoved his jaws apart and drug it out, like. The lady slams the carriage door shut and shouts to her driver to move along. I takes out me penknife and cuts the chocolate in half and there’s this nasty gooey stuff i’ the middle.”
“Chocolates are like that, Jimmy,” said Emily, guessing that the boy had never had a chocolate in his life. “But you were very wise to be cautious.”
“But it do smell funny. See, miss, I got it here.” He dug into a capacious pocket and came out with a twist of paper, which he carefully unwrapped. Emily sniffed the chocolate. It had a strange bitter smell. A hand of fear seemed to clutch her stomach, and she stared at Jimmy wide-eyed.
“See, miss,
it do be strange, that smell,” said Jimmy importantly. “Reckon it was one of these here relatives out for to murder poor Duke.”
“It’s possible, Jimmy,” said Emily faintly. “You may go now. Leave Duke here with me. He may stay with me until I leave for the assembly this evening.”
But Duke set up a howl when it looked as if he would be parted from his beloved Jimmy. “Oh, go along with you then, you ungrateful dog,” said Emily, half amused, half irritated at the dog’s rejection of her.
Jimmy hesitated. “He can do marvelous tricks now, miss. He’s that clever, is Duke. Please, miss, would you like to see them?”
“Very well,” said Emily, glancing at the clock. Mr. Wayne-Viking was calling to escort her to the ball, but she still had a full hour to get ready.
“Right!” said Jimmy importantly. “Beg for your supper, Duke!” Duke obeyed. “Roll over and play dead.” Duke rolled over and stretched out on the carpet with his eyes closed.
“Do a dance for the lady, Duke.” To Emily’s surprise, Duke rose up on his hind legs and began to waltz slowly around and around with a silly grin on his face.
“Why, that is marvelous, Jimmy,” said Emily, when she had finished applauding. “However did you make him do such things?”
“He knows I’m fond of him,” said Jimmy gruffly. “We’re a pair, me an’ Duke.”
And indeed they did look a pair as boy and dog gazed at each other in mutual admiration out of their close-set eyes.
Emily questioned Jimmy again about the lady with the chocolates, but apart from a vague impression that she had been young and beautiful, Jimmy could not supply any further information.
It could not be Harriet and certainly not James, thought Emily as she was dressed by her maid. But it could well be either Clarissa or Betty or Fanny.
The clatter of carriage wheels on the cobbles outside brought her to the present. Mr. Wayne-Viking had arrived.
Emily knew she was looking her best in a frock of French net over white satin, painted with a design of red roses. Her hair was piled up in glossy curls and embellished with a circlet of red silk roses. Her scarlet dancing shoes were of the finest kid. It all seemed to have cost a horrendous amount of money, but Emily comforted herself with the thought that her extravagance was not about to reach the astronomical heights achieved by the Empress Josephine, who spent, in one year, three thousand francs on rouge alone.
Mr. Wayne-Viking was dressed in his usual correct manner—neat but not gaudy. His evening suit consisted of a double-breasted dark-blue coat with large yellow double gilt buttons, a white marseilles waistcoat, light brown kerseymere breeches tied with strings at the knees, white silk stockings, and shoes with silver buckles. His stock was neatly tied, and the frill on his cambric shirt was of a modest size.
His eyes lit up when he saw Emily, and Lady Bailey smiled her approval. She thought Mr. Wayne-Viking a very good sort of young man and was looking forward to bragging to her brother about how she had secured a good match for Emily.
In the darkness of the carriage, he pressed Emily’s hand and whispered, “There is something I must ask you before this evening is out, Miss Winters.”
Emily smiled demurely. She knew he was going to ask her to marry him, and she had quite made up her mind to accept him.
He was a friendly, undramatic young man. She felt at home with him. He did not make her pulses race as the reprehensible Lord Storm had done. That was Mr. Wayne-Viking’s main attraction for Emily. He made her feel like a lady.
Emily knew that real ladies were not subject to these awful trembling, stomach-lurching fits of lust. She knew, therefore, that in some way Lord Storm brought out the side of her that must be suppressed.
As Emily alighted from the carriage under the imposing entrance to the Pump Room, she could hear the faint sweet strains of the orchestra. And then all at once, she felt Lord Storm’s warm lips caressing her own and his hard body pressed tight against hers. It was so real, so vivid, that Emily could hardly believe she had imagined the whole thing. But there was no Lord Storm, only Mr. Guy Wayne-Viking smiling at her dotingly and stretching out a hand to help her down from the carriage.
He is haunting me, thought Emily, and then, with a superstitious shiver, she thought, I hope he is not dead!
“You are quite pale, Miss Winters,” said Mr. Wayne-Viking anxiously. He pressed her hand quite fiercely to show his concern. Privately he thought Emily had probably taken a chill. Ladies wore so little these days, and certainly Emily’s whole toilette was so fine and gauzy that he was sure he could roll the whole thing up like a handkerchief and put it in his pocket.
As Emily entered the colonnaded ballroom with its great glittering chandeliers, the first person she saw was Clarissa Singleton, who did not seem to be in the slightest aware that red hair was desperately unfashionable—apart from the Scotch, and who took account of them?—or care that no one had ever liked hair that terrible color. The Duke of Wellington’s son had red hair, and his grace so loathed the color that he had taken to shaving the boy’s eyebrows! But Clarissa’s hair burned like a flame, and the gentlemen fluttered about her like so many moths willing to be burned.
Mr. Wayne-Viking led Emily across to where his mother was sitting with the dowagers. Emily did not like Mrs. Wayne-Viking. She was a fat, petulant woman, forever complaining. After exchanging a few pleasantries with her, Mr. Wayne-Viking and Emily took their places for a country dance.
Halfway through the dance, Emily felt a hostile emanation which seemed to be directed toward her from the north side of the room. She glanced across in that direction, and her step faltered. Clarissa was surveying her, her eyes bright with malice. And from Clarissa, two little streams of gossip seemed to run around the perimeter of the room. Head bent toward head, faces registered shock, lorgnettes and quizzing glasses were raised, until it seemed to Emily as if a forest of accusing eyes were staring at her.
And then she knew: Clarissa had talked! The secret of her illegitimacy was broadcast in Bath.
“Guy! Come here this minute!”
The strident tones of Mrs. Wayne-Viking cut across the music.
“What on earth is up with Mother?” asked Mr. Wayne-Viking. “I fear she may be suffering an attack. But how can we leave the set? The dance is nearly over. Come with me, Miss Winters.”
But Emily thought she knew what the matter was with Mr. Wayne-Viking’s mama. She decided to let him find out for himself and invented a tear in her gown that must be urgently repaired.
As she made her way to an anteroom set aside for such feminine disasters, she decided not to flee the ball. Guy was in love with her. He would explain that to his mother. When she returned, he would have had time to talk to his mother, and then he would take her hand and lead her to the supper room, just as if nothing had happened. Mr. Wayne-Viking was a true gentleman, thought Emily, swallowing a lump in her throat.
Bartholomew Storm leaned against a pillar in the corner and waited for Emily to return. He had heard the whispers and was busy wondering what he could do to counteract the scandal caused by the malicious Clarissa.
He had been in Bath a few days and had heard of the impending engagement between Emily and Mr. Wayne-Viking. He glanced across the room to where Mr. Wayne-Viking was in agitated conversation with his mother. He seemed, thought Lord Storm, to be a very sensible sort of fellow—at least sensible enough not to do anything so cruel as to snub her. Meanwhile Lord Storm congratulated himself on his detached feelings for Emily. He had to admit that he had thought of her quite a lot, but he always managed to remind himself that her unfortunate birth made her thoroughly unsuitable. He also had to admit that her beauty had given him quite a jolt when he had first seen her in the ballroom. She had acquired a new poise and grace that were quite enchanting. It was as well he was a hardened bachelor, for he had also decided that since he had a young cousin who would make a suitable heir, there was no need to spoil his bachelor life by getting married just for the sake of a son.
&nb
sp; And then Emily returned.
There was a slight flush on her face and her large eyes were glinting with unshed tears, but she held her head high and walked toward Mr. Wayne-Viking. How quiet the room seemed. How every eye seemed to be avidly fixed on her.
The dancers were promenading the room, waiting for the first chords of the waltz.
Emily said something to Mr. Wayne-Viking, a little smile pinned bravely on her mouth.
Mr. Wayne-Viking turned his back on her. It was the cut direct.
Emily’s face flamed. She turned on her heel, her eyes wild. Lord Storm knew she was about to run from the ballroom.
He walked smartly across the ballroom floor and clipped an arm around her waist as the first chord struck.
“My waltz, I think, Miss Winters,” he said firmly. “No!” he added in a savage undertone. “You will not run away. You will laugh and flirt with me and we shall confound Clarissa before this evening is out.”
Emily stumbled against him. He swept her into the steps of the waltz. “Dance, Miss Winters,” he urged. “Only see how jealous and furious Mrs. Singleton is!”
And Emily danced, held rather more tightly than the conventions allowed. The room swirled around her, and suddenly she knew that as long as he did not let go of her, she could bear anything.
“You are the most beautiful woman in the room, Miss Winters,” he said. “Smile at me!”
But Emily stared at his top waistcoat button, frightened to lift her eyes in case she saw cruelty and mockery in his.
“If you do not smile, Miss Winters, I shall kiss you in the middle of the Pump Room, and then you really will be ruined.”
At that she raised her eyes. His own gray ones were looking down at her intently. “Pretend I am Duke and look as if you love me,” he said. “How is that dreadful mongrel, by the way? Has anyone killed him yet?”
“No,” whispered Emily. “I—I think someone tried. At least Jimmy said they did.”
“Jimmy? Who is Jimmy?”
