by Joan Smith
La Travalli floated down to the table and started up with her pointing and laughing again. She’d give a pony to know what the foreigner was saying. Higgins pretending not to look her way at all, of course. He fooled no one with his stiff upper lip and his lecherous eyes. At last Lady Dempster could contain her impatience no longer, and after warning Lord Eldon to see whether Higgins offered the Italian a lift to town, she was off. “Au revoir, darling. Marvelous party, but then yours always are.”
Others too began leaving, the Avondales saying they were already starting later than they had intended, but everyone had slept in after the ball.
“Goodbye, Kay. It was a wonderful party,” Belle said, kissing her cheek.
“Your best ever, cousin. You outdid yourself,” Oliver added his thanks. “And I won’t forget your books and glass.”
“Feel free to drop in any time you need a referee, or an interpreter.”
“Don’t say that. You’ll never see us,” Oliver replied.
“Oh yes she will,” Belle contradicted. “I have carte blanche to tell you everything, Ollie, and if you want to hear the sweet, you must take the bitter with it. We are bound to come to cuffs.”
“I love this walking stick you gave me, Belle,” he said, beating it against his palm and eyeing her askance. “It would make a good wife-tamer, don’t you think?”
“He pretends he is a doctor,” Belle explained the gold knob to Kay. “It is really only that he has a taste for the overly ornate and wants to be putting gold and jewels on everything he owns.”
“You won’t let him put them on you.”
“You don’t own me!” She lifted the stick from his hands and swung it carelessly as they walked to the carriage.
The others left in groups. “Wonderful party, Kay. You’ve done it again,” from Ralph Ponsonby, while Marion smiled her mute thanks.
“Thank you. So kind of you to come.”
And to go. Go on, get out. There was Travalli going off with Higgins. Good riddance, you pest. You were more than ten pounds worth of trouble, and not one pound worth of singing. Ah ha, Eldon sees what you’re up to, Mr. Higgins. You’ll hear about this stunt before you’re long in London. You can kiss your fine lady goodbye. Maybe I’ll invite the two of you and let you make it up. Then again maybe I won’t. You were small enough addition to the party.
At last she was alone. She went to the green saloon to peer about for spilled food and drinks, and saw a large stain on the petit-point chair by the grate. There’d be more wreckage upstairs. Someone would have dropped candle grease on a carpet or bedspread. Savages. She pulled the soiled chair to a sofa and used it for a footrest, laying her head back against the cushions.
It hadn’t been such a bad party, really. Poor Arnold had got beaten up, and Pierre had spoiled the main dinner. La Travalli had been a nuisance and Honey Traveller another. Lizzie Dempster was lucky to have escaped without Oliver’s sticking a knife through her and Mr. Higgins was likely in the process of ruining a promising career, but really it had been rather fun. She’d have another party soon. Drop Raffles a note and see how his flu was coming on. She did like Sir Thomas Stamford Raffles.
Copyright © 1980 by Joan Smith
Originally published by Fawcett Coventry in January, 1980
Electronically published in 2004 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads
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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.
